by Kevin Brooks
It didn’t take long to get to Evie’s flat.
As she thanked Grandad for the lift and got out of the car, I opened the back door and got out too.
‘I’ll walk you back to your flat,’ I said to her.
‘You don’t have to,’ she told me.
‘I want to.’
‘My flat’s just there,’ she said, grinning as she pointed at the building right in front of us. ‘I mean, if you really want to walk me the two metres to my door . . .’
‘Well, I suppose not . . .’ I muttered, feeling kind of stupid.
She surprised me then by putting her arms round me and giving me a hug, and then she surprised me even more by giving me a kiss on the cheek.
‘Thanks for a great night out, Trav,’ she said.
I smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘Give me a call sometime, OK?’
‘Yeah . . .’ I mumbled, watching her walk away. ‘Yeah, OK . . .’
‘She’s a nice girl,’ Grandad said as we drove away from the Slade.
‘Yeah.’
He waited a few seconds, then said, ‘How old is she? Fifteen, sixteen?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Does it matter?’
He glanced at me. ‘I was only asking. There’s no need to get funny about it.’
‘I wasn’t getting funny about anything.’
‘Well, that’s all right then.’
‘Yeah.’
We went quiet again then. It was a slightly awkward silence, but somehow it felt kind of OK. There was nothing too uncomfortable about it.
After a few minutes had passed, I said, ‘You weren’t fooled by the pillows under the duvet then?’
‘I might not be as sharp as I used to be,’ Grandad said wryly, ‘but I haven’t lost all my marbles yet.’
‘How did you know I’d gone to the warehouse?’
‘It wasn’t hard to guess. I mean, where else would you go?’ He glanced at me. ‘You didn’t clear the browsing history on your laptop either.’
‘So you knew I’d been checking out Sowton Lane on Google Earth.’
He nodded. ‘I saw all the other stuff you’d been looking at too – the newspaper reports about the crash.’
‘I had to find out, Grandad. If the newspapers didn’t say anything about Mum’s car spinning off the road, how did Winston know?’
‘He could have found out from the police report. It wouldn’t be that hard for him to get hold of a copy.’
‘Does the police report say the car spun off the road?’
‘I can’t remember. I’ll look at my copy when we get back.’
‘But even if Winston was telling the truth about that—’
‘I know,’ Grandad said. ‘It doesn’t mean he wasn’t there when the car went off the road.’
‘Do you think he was?’
‘I think . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I think it’s quite possible, yes.’
‘Really?’
He glanced at me. ‘I was wrong, Travis. You were right. What we have to do now is start working together to prove that you were right.’
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘We’re going to work together?’
He gave me a stern look. ‘As long as you realise that working together means no more climbing out of bathroom windows and running off on your own.’
‘I’m sorry, Grandad,’ I muttered. ‘But I just couldn’t—’
‘And if I do decide to keep the agency open,’ he continued, ‘and if your nan says it’s all right for you to help me out—’
‘You’re going to keep the agency open?’ I said excitedly.
His face softened slightly. ‘Well, I haven’t made a final decision yet. I had a quick word with Courtney about it earlier on, and she’s really keen to give it a go, but I still need to talk it over with Nan and Granny Nora. Even if they’re OK with it, there’s still a lot to consider. Our financial situation, my health, what kind of work we’d take on, whether we’d specialise or not . . .’
As Grandad carried on talking, it was perfectly clear to me that his mind was already made up. He was going to re-open Delaney & Co. We were going to keep Mum and Dad’s business alive. And that meant so much to me that as I leaned my head back against the car seat, everything that had been driving me on over the last few weeks – the intensity, the blind determination, the desperate need to know . . . it all seemed to float out of me, and for the first time since my mum and dad died, I felt like I wanted to sleep.
As I closed my eyes and let myself drift away, I wondered how it was possible to feel so sad and so happy at the same time.
Look out for Book Two in the
series
Publishing in September 2014
Read the opening chapters here . . .
1
It was just gone three thirty on a cold and wet Friday afternoon when Kendal Price came up to me and said he’d like a quiet word. I’d just finished a double period of PE – half an hour’s fitness training, another half-hour of football practice, followed by two twenty-minute seven-a-side games. I was covered in mud, tired out, and although I was still dripping with sweat, the icy wind blowing around the playing fields was beginning to bite into my bones. So all I wanted to do just then was get into the changing rooms, get out of my muddy football gear, and have a quick shower. And that’s exactly what I told Kendal when he caught up with me just outside the changing rooms and said he wanted to talk to me about something.
‘Just let me get changed first, OK?’ I told him, rubbing my arms. ‘It’s freezing out here.’
‘Now would be better,’ he said.
‘I’ll only be ten minutes. Can’t it wait?’
‘No,’ he said simply, ‘it can’t.’
If it had been anyone else, I probably would have stood my ground. ‘If you want to talk to me,’ I would have said, ‘you’ll just have to wait.’ But this wasn’t anyone else, this was Kendal Price.
Kendal is the kind of kid that every school has – the all-round superstar who’s naturally brilliant at everything. Captain of the school football and cricket teams, a straight-A student, sophisticated, popular, attractive. The teachers all love him, and constantly hold him up as a ‘shining example’ to the rest of us. The girls all love him because he’s tall, blond, and handsome. And the boys all love him (or envy him, at least) because he’s not only really good at football and cricket, but he’s tough and courageous too, both on and off the field. So even though he’s a straight-A student who’s loved by all the teachers – which normally might make him a prime target for bullying – no one ever messes with Kendal Price. Not if they know what’s good for them anyway. In fact, Kendal’s such an all-round superhero that even the genuinely hard kids – the ones who claim to hate his guts – go weak at the knees in his presence.
Personally I’ve never really had any strong feelings about him either way. I don’t worship the ground he walks on, but I don’t despise him or envy him either. He is what he is, and he does what he does, and as long as that doesn’t affect me, I’m really not that bothered. Mind you, having said that, I’m pretty sure that if Kendal had come up to me last term and asked if he could have a quiet word with me, I probably would have been just a tiny bit thrilled.
But a lot can change in a few short months, and so much had happened to me during the summer holidays that I was a completely different person now. My world had been turned upside down, my outlook on life changed for ever, and I’d found out the hard way that most of the stuff we spend our time worrying about doesn’t actually mean anything at all.
So when Kendal approached me that afternoon, I wasn’t thrilled or overawed or flattered. I didn’t care that merely by talking to me he was boosting my reputation and making me look cool. I couldn’t have cared less about ‘looking cool’. That kind of stuff just didn’t mean anything to me any more.
So why didn’t I tell Kendal that if he wanted to talk to me he’d just have to wait?
Because I was curious, that’s
why. And curiosity was one of the things that still meant something to me.
Questions: Why on earth did the almighty Kendal Price want to talk to me? What could he possibly want? And why was he so insistent on talking to me before I went into the changing rooms?
Questions had kept me going through my recent summer of hell, and I wasn’t going to stop asking them now.
2
‘I’m sorry about your mum and dad,’ Kendal said. ‘It must have been really hard for you.’
It had been four months since my parents had died in a car crash, and I’d got so used to condolences now that my response had become automatic – a nod of acknowledgement, and a look that said, ‘Thanks, I appreciate your kindness.’
Kendal’s initial reaction was the same as most people’s – a sombre nod, followed by an awkward silence. I let the silence hang in the air and gazed out over the playing fields. We were sitting on a bench at the edge of the little car park in front of the changing rooms, and I could see all the way across to the girls’ changing rooms on the other side of the school grounds. There were three full-size football pitches, another area marked out for five- and seven-a-side games, and a running track that wouldn’t be used now until next year. A fine November rain was drifting across the fields, and a few kids in wet and muddy football gear were hurrying back to the changing rooms, desperate to get out of the cold.
Kendal was still wearing his football kit too – he’d just finished playing for the Under 15s in a match against a visiting French school – but although he was just as sodden and caked in mud as everyone else, it didn’t seem to bother him at all. Or if it did, he was really good at hiding it.
‘Your parents were private investigators, weren’t they?’ he asked casually.
I looked at him, slightly surprised that he hadn’t changed the subject. Most people, once they’ve offered their condolences, quickly start talking about something else. But, as I’ve already said, Kendal wasn’t like most people.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘My mum and dad ran a private investigation business called Delaney & Co.’
‘What’s happened to the business now?’
‘My grandad’s taken it over.’
‘Right,’ Kendal said thoughtfully. ‘So you’re still involved in the investigation business yourself ?’
‘Yeah,’ I said cautiously, ‘I’m still involved.’ I looked at him. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about, Kendal? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m getting really cold out here.’
‘Before I tell you anything,’ he replied, ‘I need you to promise me that you’ll keep it to yourself. It’s really important that none of this goes any further.’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t promise anything.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know what you’re going to tell me, do I? I mean, for all I know, you might want to confess to a murder or something.’
Kendal smiled. ‘That’s not very likely, is it?’
‘Even superstars are capable of murder,’ I said, grinning at him.
I thought he might take offence at that – he probably wasn’t used to being mocked about his status – but, to his credit, he took it pretty well. I don’t think he liked it very much, but he didn’t make a big deal of it or anything. He just gave me one of those condescending looks that adults use when they think you’re being childish. Which might sound a bit odd, given that Kendal wasn’t an adult. But although we were both the same age – fourteen years old – there was no doubt that in lots of ways Kendal was years ahead of me. He was much taller than me, for a start – at least five feet ten – and he was also a lot hairier. Hairy legs, hairy arms, hairy upper lip, sideburns. His voice was deep, his face rugged and knowing, and he had an air of self-confidence about him that I could only dream about.
Compared to Kendal, I was just a child.
Which was the kind of thing that used to bother the hell out of me.
But not any more.
‘All right,’ Kendal said in a businesslike manner, ‘how about this – you give me your word that you’ll keep quiet about this conversation unless I tell you something that puts you in a legally compromising position. Is that acceptable?’
‘Perfectly.’
He gave me a look, making sure I was taking him seriously, and then he finally started telling me what it was all about.
3
The petty thieving from the boys’ changing rooms had started in October, Kendal explained. The first time it had happened was at an Under-14 football match between our school – Kell Cross Secondary – and Barton Grammar, our biggest rivals. Then a couple of weeks later it had happened again during an Under-15 game against Seaton College.
‘To be honest, we didn’t take it very seriously at the time,’ Kendal said. ‘Partly because the items that went missing didn’t have any great value, and partly because the kids who owned them weren’t even sure they had been stolen.’
‘What kind of stuff was going missing?’ I asked. Kendal frowned. ‘Well, that’s the weird thing. The first time it was a graphic novel, and the next time it was a hat . . . you know, like a baseball cap. That was it. No money was taken, no mobiles or watches or anything. Just a comic book and a hat. So, like I said, we didn’t really give it much thought—’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Mr Jago and me. I mean, the kids reported it to Mr Jago first, of course, and then he told me about it.’
John Jago was the senior PE teacher. As well as being in charge of all the school’s sporting activities, he personally coached the football and cricket teams from Under-14 level upwards. He was almost obsessed with the sporting reputation of the school, and he spent a lot of time working with the most gifted athletes. Kendal was one of his protégés, and he treated him like a trusted lieutenant.
‘Anyway,’ Kendal went on, ‘when the thieving started again straight after the half-term break, and it quickly became more frequent, we realised we had to do something.’
‘Was the same kind of stuff being taken?’
He nodded. ‘A book, a scarf, another hat . . . it still happens mostly when we’re playing another school, but earlier this week a kid’s belt went missing during a normal games period.’
‘Any thefts from the girls’ changing rooms?’
‘Nothing’s been reported.’
‘The changing rooms are locked when they’re not being used though, aren’t they? I mean, we can’t get in until someone’s keyed in the entry code.’
‘Yeah, and the code’s changed every day.’
‘What about the door inside that connects the home and away dressing rooms?’
‘Unless there’s a reason for it to be opened, it’s always kept locked. Mr Jago has a key, and there’s a spare one in the headmaster’s secretary’s office.’
‘Has there been any sign of forced entry?’
‘We haven’t found any.’
‘No broken windows or forced latches?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Have the police been informed?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Kendal just looked at me, as if the answer was obvious.
‘The Twin Town Cup?’ I said.
‘Exactly.’
The Twin Town Cup is a school football tournament that takes place every two years. Four teams from Barton – the town where I live – take on four teams from the two towns that Barton is twinned with: Wetzlar in Germany and Rennes in France. The venue for the tournament changes each time it’s played, and this year Kell Cross was hosting it for the first time. It was a pretty big deal for the school, with all kinds of sponsorship and press coverage and stuff.
The semi-finals were being played on Monday, and the final was on Wednesday. Kell Cross had finished top of their group and were playing the runners-up from the other group in the semi-final.
‘We don’t know who’s responsible for these thefts,’ Kendal told me. ‘It could be a pupil at Kell Cross, it cou
ld be someone from outside the school. Until we know for sure, we’d prefer to deal with it ourselves rather than calling in the police.’ He looked at me. ‘I mean, imagine how embarrassing it would be for the school if the police showed up and arrested someone in the middle of a Twin Town Cup game. We’d never live it down.’
‘Why don’t you just put a guard on the changing-room doors?’ I suggested. ‘Two teachers, or two Year 12s, one on each door at all times. Then no one can get in.’
‘That’s precisely what we’ve been doing. But it hasn’t made any difference.’
‘Stuff ’s still going missing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How the hell are they getting in?’
‘That’s what we want you to find out.’
About the Author
Kevin Brooks is the critically acclaimed, prize-winning author of eleven books for young adults. These have been translated into many different languages and published with great success around the world. He has also written thrillers for adults. The Travis Delaney series is Kevin’s first foray into fiction for younger readers. Having worked in places as diverse as a zoo and a crematorium, Kevin now writes full-time. He lives in Richmond, Yorkshire, with his wife.
First published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books
a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-4150-8
Copyright © Kevin Brooks 2014
The right of Kevin Brooks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
