Can you spot it?
As far as Tom was concerned, the mail got delivered to his house at eleven every morning. But according to the miserable twerp in the post office, deliveries were half an hour later every third Saturday.
And one of those Saturdays was May seventeenth. One of the three dates on which the package could/should have arrived at Tom’s house. So . . . if the package had arrived at Tom’s on May seventeenth, it would have arrived half an hour after Tom expected it. He could easily have thought there was no mail that day, if he was waiting for eleven o’clock!
This new information didn’t go anywhere near solving the problem of what had actually happened to the package, but it did open up some new possibilities.
I decided to head for Tom’s house. I wanted to take a look at the scene of the crime. Assuming that the package had turned up there. Or assuming that the postwoman hadn’t lied and had — Aargh! Brain itch again!
I was still three streets away from Tom’s when I first noticed the smell. By the time I got to his front door, the smell was rather more than noticeable. In fact, it was battering at my nose like a rotting fish being stuffed up both nostrils.
Pinching my nose, I also noticed that half the street was covered in road digger’s barriers and piles of earth.
‘You habbig the drains dub here,’ I said, blocking my nose with as many fingers as would fit up there.
‘We’re getting used to the pong,’ said Tom sadly. ‘You’ve just missed the workmen, they’ve finished for today. They’ve been at this for weeks. Weeks! They’re digging up all the drains, all the sewerage systems, the lot. Half the houses are having their plumbing done at the same time. Including this one. It’s not good enough! How can I learn my lines for the end-of-term musical when there’s drilling and whopping great diggers all over the place? Disgraceful!’
‘Can’t they be hurried up?’ I said. The whiff was starting to make my eyes water.
‘That’s precisely what I’ve asked my dad. Several dozen times a day. He takes no notice! I think he likes it.’
‘Huh?’
‘He works for the council,’ said Tom, sneering with embarrassment. ‘He’s in charge of drainage. All the workmen are his crew. I think he’s enjoying having them around to keep an eye on.’
I turned to survey the street. It was a complete mess. Enormous sections of pipe were stacked up on one side, and equally enormous drums of cable were stacked up on the other.
‘Have these workmen been in this house a lot?’ I said.
‘All over the place!’ moaned Tom. ‘For weeks! Every time I try to rehearse a scene there’s some deafening noise or other: boots tramping up and down, plumbers whacking holes in the walls. I’m fed up of it!’
I had a lightbulb-above-my-head moment.
Are you thinking what I was thinking?
If there were workmen in and out of the house all the time, the mystery of the missing delivery postcard now had plenty of suspects. Like the clue I’d picked up at the post office, this new information still didn’t tell me how or why the postcard had come to be stolen, but it was another step forward.
‘Do you think one of these workmen could have got hold of your parcel?’ I said.
‘I don’t see why,’ said Tom. ‘They still wouldn’t know what was in it, would they? And those two parents in the newspaper picture weren’t anyone who works on this crew, I know that for a fact.’
Even so, this was a lead I couldn’t afford to ignore. I asked Tom to write down an exact timetable of what was going on in the house on the mornings of the three crucial dates: May 15th, 16th and 17th.
‘Ask whoever was around for details,’ I said.
‘If you insist,’ said Tom.
‘And as your dad’s in charge of the work going on, can you get hold of a list of the people who were working here on those dates?’
‘Easily,’ said Tom.
I headed for home. This was partly because I was eager to find out what news there might be from Izzy but mostly because I wanted to get away from that awful pong.
I called Izzy from the bus. I was certain she’d have come up with something.
‘How’s it going?’ I said. ‘Have you circulated the photo?’
‘Yes, I’ve sent it to every contact in my phone’s address book. And half my cousins have sent it to their contacts too. It’s been seen by loads of people.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ I cried. Several passengers on the bus were giving me funny looks. I think the smell might have been clinging to me. ‘But someone must know that kid.’
‘Nobody around here, that’s for sure,’ said Izzy.
Hmm. So. No clues there, then.
‘What about the radio show?’ I said.
‘Ah!’ said Izzy. ‘Vibe FM does podcasts of almost all its programmes . . .’
‘Excellent!’
‘The only thing is, they’re not very good at updating their website. The most recent edition of Theatre Review they’ve got available is dated from the last week in March. I tried calling the station, but there’s no way I can get a copy of a more recent show. The only way to hear it would be to find someone who just happened to have recorded it.’
Hmm. So. No clues there, then, either.
This was turning out to be a day full of unexpected results!
A Page From My Notebook
I am: confused, puzzled, perplexed, baffled, mystified, bemused, and several other words I’ve just looked up in my school thesaurus!
If that kid isn’t from anywhere near here, then where IS he from? And if he’s NOT local, how did he get that postcard? IS there a connection with Tom’s workmen? The timetable I’ve asked Tom to write down is now VITAL. I’m relying on it to give me a clear indication of how and why the card went missing. If it doesn’t, this investigation is scuppered, finished, in dire straits, up the creek, etc, etc!
CHAPTER
FOUR
TOM’S TIMETABLE, WHICH HE’D COMPLETED that same evening, ran as follows:
WHAT HAPPENED AT MY HOUSE, MAY 15/16/17
by Tom Bland
Thursday 15th:
7:30 a.m. – Wake up, bathroom, dressed. Parents: downstairs – Mum preparing my packed lunch for school, Dad examining map of drainage system.
7:50 a.m. – Breakfast, all three of us in kitchen. Tell parents about my superb performance at last night’s rehearsal with amateur dramatics club. Parents smile weakly, say, ‘That’s nice, dear’. They are cultural savages.
8:15 a.m. – Workmen arrive outside. Digging begins. I run to gather up homework.
8:20 a.m. – Noise outside sounds like war zone. I leave for school, quickly.
8:30 a.m. (info from Mum) – Workmen stop for tea break. Three of them use our loo (allowed by Dad to save money on hiring building site portaloos!). They eat four packets of our biscuits (‘Ooo, digestives, thanks Mrs B!’). 9:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. (info from Mum) – Workmen dig trench across next door’s drive.
10:15 a.m. (info from Dad) – ‘Lateral out-pipes re-threaded, level with drain screen flow regulators’. Thanks, Dad – means nothing!
10:30 a.m. (info from Mum) – Workmen stop for tea break. Five of them use our loo. They eat six packets of biscuits (‘Ooo, Rich Tea, lovely Mrs B!’).
10:55 a.m. (info from Dad) – Mum goes to buy biscuits and tea.
11:00 a.m. (info from Dad) – Dad sees postwoman at other end of street.
11:35 a.m. (info from Mum) – Mum returns home. No post today. 12:00 p.m. (info from Mum) – Workmen stop for lunch.
Friday 16th:
7:30 a.m. – Wake up, bathroom, dressed. Parents: downstairs – Mum preparing my packed lunch for school, Dad examining map of plumbing pipework for bathroom.
7:50 a.m. – Breakfast, all three of us in kitchen. Remind parents to order DVD for my birthday (Acting in Shakespeare: A Masterclass by Sir Gilbert Smudge). Parents sigh wearily, say, ‘Yes, dear’. They are artistic knu
ckleheads.
8:15 a.m. – Workmen arrive outside. Digging begins. I run to gather up school bag.
8:20 a.m. – Noise outside sounds like interplanetary battle.
I leave for school, even more quickly than yesterday.
8:30 a.m. (info from Mum) – Workmen stop for tea break.
Seven of them use our loo. They eat nine packets of biscuits
(‘Ooo, custard creams, great Mrs B!’).
9:00 a.m. (info from Mum) – Man next door backs car out of driveway, rear wheels fall into trench. Man next door comes to complain about trench.
10:00 a.m. (info from Dad) – ‘Discuss position of re-flow end-stops with workmen, to minimise split greasing of overhead drainage tanks’. Thanks again, Dad.
10:30 a.m. (info from Mum) – Workmen stop for tea break.
Nine of them use our loo. They eat eleven packets of biscuits
(‘Ooo, bourbons, yummy Mrs B!’).
10:55 a.m. (info from Dad) – Mum goes to buy biscuits, tea and loo unblocker. Man from next door comes back to complain about trench some more.
11:35 a.m. (info from Mum) – Mum returns home. Finds that three bills, two items of junk mail and a catalogue have arrived in the post today.
12:00 p.m. (info from Mum) – Workmen stop for lunch.
Saturday 17th:
8:30 a.m. – I want a lie-in. Wake up screaming due to deafening screech of drill in bathroom.
8:45 a.m. – Workmen realise they are late for tea break.
There is an undignified rush for the loo. Loo broken – workmen go next door. Man from next door comes to complain about workmen using loo.
9:00 a.m. – I eat breakfast watching workmen and man from next door arguing on front lawn.
10:00 a.m. – Attempt to learn lines for end-of-term musical. Noise levels not too bad – workmen are filling in trench across next door’s driveway.
10:30 a.m. – Workmen stop for tea break. Dad diverts six of them from outside work to fix our loo. Not easy – already four in bathroom doing water pipes.
11:00 a.m. – I wait at front door for post. None! Am outraged! Storm off.
11:15 a.m. – Water pipes workmen have finished! No more drilling! Loo fixers continue.
11:20 a.m. – Am upstairs, speaking to Mum. Radio station’s parcel ought to be here by today at the latest, I tell her! Not good enough! Where is my first prize? Have to yell, due to noise outside. Meanwhile, loo fixers taking extra tea break, due to extreme difficulty of loo repairs.
11:30 a.m. – Loo fixers send one workman to buy spare part from DIY store. Noise outside now sounds like small galaxy exploding.
11:45 a.m. – Man next door backs car out of driveway, hits pile of earth where trench used to be. Workman returns with spare part.
12:00 p.m. – Workmen stop for lunch. Man next door heard weeping. Loo now fixed!
As soon as I’d read it, I could confirm something I’d already suspected. Which led me to focus on one of the three dates. Which led me to spot a clear suspect. There was one person who was in the right place at the right time to intercept that delivery postcard.
Can you see where all this was leading me?
Tom’s timetable confirmed that he had been mistaken about the time of the postwoman’s arrival on the Saturday, 17th. He thought it would arrive at 11 a.m., but I knew from my visit to the post office that it would have arrived at 11:30 a.m.
And at 11:30 a.m. on the Saturday, there was one person who was in just the right spot to see that delivery postcard dropping through the door: the workman who’d been sent to get a spare part for the broken loo!
It was now lunch break. I found Tom in the school dining hall, flipping through the script for the end-of-term musical.
‘This timetable,’ I said, slightly breathless from running. (I have got to get more exercise!) ‘You mention a workman who was sent to get a spare part. What was his name?’
‘No idea,’ said Tom. ‘They all look the same to me. Overalls, muddy boots, hair that needs a good comb . . .’
‘Can you find out his name? No, no, we can’t ask that, it would alert him that we’re on his trail. Can you get your dad to send you a list of the six workmen who were fixing the loo? But tell him not to speak to any of those workmen about it!’
‘No problem. I’ll call him now.’
‘And before the end of school today, I need you to write something else down for me. I’ve just had a brilliant idea for tracking down that mysterious kid.’
‘What?’ groaned Tom. ‘You’re getting worse than Mrs Penzler for dishing out homework!’
‘Do you want this mystery solved or don’t you?’
‘What do you want?’ he said grumpily. ‘We’ve got half an hour before lessons.’
‘Something that’s right up your street. A short script! We’re going to perform it at your house, after school today.’
‘Script? What sort of script?’ said Tom. ‘How’s that going to track down the kid in the photo?’
I grinned. I explained my brilliant idea, and then he grinned too.
When the end-of-school bell sounded, Tom and I were first out of the school gates. He had a bundle of handwritten pages in his blazer pocket, and we went through them as we scurried along.
‘I said a short script, not a ten-part TV drama!’ I protested.
‘You have to establish the scene,’ said Tom, ‘and the characters! It must be properly played out!’
‘There aren’t any characters, you dollop, it’s you and me talking! We just need to know what we’re going to say!’
Eventually, we cut down Tom’s twenty-minute stage spectacular to a sensible length. In the end, it went like this:
T Bland: Great news, O schoolmate! I hear there are secret auditions tomorrow for a new movie!
S Smart: Movie? The glamour of Hollywood comes to our town?
T Bland: Indeed! The director is none other than Sir Gilbert Smudge, noted Shakespearean player! He seeks young persons to do all the parts, and all the backstage stuff too.
S Smart: But why?
T Bland: He is a genius. One does not question a genius. Tomorrow, five o’clock, in the park. By the crazy golf. He’s keeping it secret so that flocks of useless nobodies don’t turn up, like on TV talent shows. Only those with contacts in the professional theatre are getting to hear about it.
S Smart: Then why tell me?
T Bland: I don’t know. Keep your mouth shut, you fool!
I wasn’t at all sure that these lines were quite right, somehow. However, Tom assured me that he knew a lot more about these things that I did, and that I shouldn’t question a genius.
‘I called my dad,’ he said, as we approached his house and the smell of the drains started to make our teeth sweat. ‘Out of the workmen who were assigned to the loo that Saturday, all but one are here today. But they go home in half an hour.’
‘Then we haven’t a second to lose,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope the missing workman isn’t the one we’re after! Do you know your lines?’
‘Of course I do!’ said Tom. He showed me the list of names his dad had sent him. Each had a small photo attached, taken from the workmen’s ID badges.
‘There’s one of them, over by those pipes,’ I said.
Casually, making it look as if we just happened to be passing by, we walked past the first of our suspects, playing out our little scene. I thought we did pretty well. I was almost convinced myself!
With only twenty-five minutes left, we sneaked as quickly as we could up and down the street and in and out of Tom’s house, locating the workmen in question. Luckily, we only had to play our scene four times, as two of our suspects were having a tea break. We sauntered past the kitchen, chatting as if we weren’t aware that anyone was nearby, but knowing that both of them could hear us loud and clear.
If you were reading the script for the school’s end-of-term musical, and not one of my case files, you’d now come to a bit which said: New scene – the park, 5 p.m. next day. S
axby and Tom are waiting close to the crazy golf. People are passing by. Saxby and Tom are keeping a close eye on them.
‘It hasn’t worked,’ muttered Tom.
I glared at him. ‘My brilliant ideas always work! Well, nine times out of ten. Well, seven times out of ten. Well . . . anyway, it’s only just five o’clock. There’s still time.’
‘I knew this was a long shot,’ said Tom. ‘We’ll never find that kid now. It’s hopeless. Hopeless!’
I nudged him in the ribs, and gave a slight nod in the direction of the crazy golf course. Approaching along the tree-shaded path, looking around as if they were expecting to see a crowd, were a boy and a woman.
The same boy and the same woman who were in the newspaper photo.
CHAPTER
FIVE
I STEPPED FORWARD. ‘HELLO. YOU wouldn’t be looking for the film auditions, would you?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, delighted. Her voice was like a squeaky toy. ‘Yes, we are, that’s lucky, isn’t it, Tony! We were wondering where everyone was.’
‘Follow me,’ I said. ‘By the way, I’m Saxby, and this is Tom. Everything will be clear once we get to Tom’s house, it’s only on the other side of the field.’
The woman stopped looking so pleased once we got to Tom’s street. That may just have been because of the awful pong. But personally, I think it had more to do with the fact that she suspected she was rumbled, and that the game was up.
‘What’s going on!’ she said crossly. ‘What are we here for? My Tony doesn’t like being messed about, do you, Tony?’
‘No, Mum,’ said Tony, wearily, as if he was used to merely tagging along and doing exactly what he was told.
‘My Tony’s going to be a big star one day, aren’t you Tony?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
We arrived at Tom’s house, just as a tall workman with a face like an unhappy turtle emerged after his tea break. He was one of those on Tom’s list, and his name was Kev. When he spotted the woman and the boy, he did a double take.
The Eye of the Serpent Page 8
