Dawn Undercover

by Anna Dale

  ‘This is all of you, is it?’ said Dawn, trying not to appear too disappointed. She was still having trouble accepting that P.S.S.T. was only just large enough to form a netball team. How, she wondered, could such a tiny band of people possibly deal with every scheming spy and traitor in the country?

  ‘Not quite,’ said Red, from his seat at the head of the table. ‘We have a few absentees. Nathan Slipper, for one.’

  For the briefest moment, Dawn thought she saw Edith wince slightly at the mention of the young man’s name.

  ‘Nathan’s just graduated from Clandestine College,’ said Red brightly.

  ‘With mediocre grades,’ chipped in Edith, her face impassive.

  ‘And I’ve hired him as Edith’s second-in-command,’ said Red, examining a pile of folders on the desk in front of him, ‘on a temporary basis, of course.’

  ‘He’s got three months to prove he’s up to the job … or he’s out,’ said Edith severely.

  Red selected a turquoise folder from the pile. ‘If I decide to make Nathan’s position permanent, he’ll be allowed to roam about on the second floor like the rest of us but, until then, this level is strictly out of bounds to the lad. Now,’ he said, sorting through the sheets of paper in the folder, ‘I think we’d better get this meeting under way.’

  ‘What about the others?’ said Socrates in a surly voice. ‘There are three more missing from P.S.S.T., don’t forget. It’s about time you told the kiddie about Miles and Bob and Angela.’

  At the mention of these three names, the room fell silent.

  Red frowned. ‘I was just coming to that,’ he said.

  ‘How are the boys?’ asked Izzie, lacing her fingers together. ‘I do hope they’re on the mend.’

  ‘Miles’s legs are still in plaster, but his condition is stable,’ answered Red. His expression grew more serious. ‘Bob hasn’t recovered yet, unfortunately. The doctors say it could take months.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Bob?’ whispered Dawn in Izzie’s ear.

  ‘The poor lamb’s been struck dumb,’ muttered Izzie. ‘Lies in his hospital bed and just stares at the ceiling. Won’t speak a word. It’s a dreadful shame.’

  ‘I won’t beat around the bush,’ said Red, getting to his feet. He walked over to a wall with a large map pinned to it. ‘One of our spies is missing and the other two are lucky to be alive. I’m inclined to think that we’re dealing with a formidable foe, here – and we shouldn’t rule out the possibility that the villain we’re looking for is Murdo Meek –’

  ‘Codswallop!’ said Socrates with a scowl. ‘Meek’s been dead for ten years. I was there when he jumped to his doom! You were there, too, Red – or has that suddenly slipped your mind?’

  ‘Of course it hasn’t!’ said Red crossly. ‘But I can’t ignore what Angela said just before she disappeared. I know it sounds preposterous, but we should at least entertain the idea that Meek might still be at large.’

  Socrates made an impolite noise. ‘You’re off your trolley,’ he mumbled.

  Choosing to disregard the old man’s comment, Red drew everyone’s attention to the large-scale map of a village which was on the wall behind him.

  ‘Cherry Bentley,’ he said darkly. ‘That is where we will find the answers – and now I’ll explain precisely how I propose to root them out.’

  The meeting seemed to go on for hours, and Dawn spent most of it with her legs tightly crossed because she was desperate to go to the loo. It had been a mistake to polish off the cup of tea, she decided in retrospect. Every five minutes or so she put up her hand to ask permission to leave the room, but no one interrupted the meeting to ask her what she wanted.

  Red remained on his feet for the entire time, a stick of chalk in one hand and a sheaf of paper from the turquoise folder in the other. Every now and then he scribbled some words on a freestanding blackboard. For Dawn’s benefit, he started by explaining the events leading up to the mysterious disappearance of the spy called Angela and the accidents which befell her colleagues, Miles and Bob, a few days later.

  Angela Bradshaw had spent almost forty years in the espionage business and, of the three spies employed by P.S.S.T., she was by far the most experienced. According to Red she had completed more successful missions than Dawn had had hot dinners. Despite her impressive record, however, it seemed that someone had finally got the better of her because, twenty-four days previously, on the first of July, Angela had vanished without a trace.

  The first of July had been a Saturday and Dawn remembered it well. She had spent the morning making an obstacle course for a family of ants in her back garden. In the afternoon, she had gone to a jumble sale with her father. He had bought an old wristwatch and she had come away with a red plastic saddle for Clop – which, disappointingly, he had refused to wear.

  While Dawn had been busy assembling tunnels made from hair curlers, ladders made from drinking straws, and various other ant-sized obstacles, it seemed that Angela had been returning from a mission in Essex. She had been on her way back from Colchester after trailing a member of Her Majesty’s government who had been acting extremely suspiciously for some time. It turned out that there was a perfectly innocent explanation for his furtive behaviour. He had been organising a surprise party for his wife’s fortieth birthday. An extravagant affair, it was to take place in Colchester Castle with all the guests dressed up in medieval costume.

  Once Angela had discovered what the cabinet minister was up to, she had jumped into her car (a Volkswagen Beetle) and begun to drive south towards London. Unfortunately, she had only covered a few miles when the Beetle’s engine started to splutter. After stopping at the side of the road, raising its bonnet and tinkering about with the engine, she had decided that with any luck her car would just about make it to the nearest settlement, where there was bound to be a garage of some description. She turned off the dual carriageway at the very next junction and headed for the village of Cherry Bentley.

  She’d had to push her car for the last half mile, but eventually Angela had found a garage and a sympathetic mechanic called Gert, who had taken one look at the conked-out Beetle and announced that it would take the best part of the afternoon to fix. Gert had suggested to Angela that perhaps she might like to while away a few hours exploring Cherry Bentley, being sure to visit the Garden and Allotment Show which was currently taking place in several marquees on the village green.

  Red had received a chatty phone call from Angela at five minutes past twelve explaining that, owing to engine trouble, she was going to spend the rest of the day mooching about in Cherry Bentley. ‘It’s about time I had an afternoon off,’ she’d said.

  The next telephone call that Red received from Angela had been quite different.

  It had come an hour and a half later. Her voice had been breathless and panicky and she had only managed to utter a few words. As a matter of course, every telephone call that Red made or received at P.S.S.T. was recorded on tape. Then the conversation was typed up by Trudy and filed away, and the tape was erased. As it was such a brief and puzzling call, Red had kept the recording of Angela’s voice. Taking it from his pocket, Red proceeded to play the tape on a little Dictaphone for everyone to hear:

  ‘Murdo Meek. I’ve just heard his voice – plain as day – he said, “Mrs Arbuthnot’s cucumber has won first prize again, I see.” He’s not dead. He’s here in the vegetable tent. MURDO MEEK!”

  Angela had not phoned again. Nor had she turned up at P.S.S.T. The rest of the staff had received a postcard from her a few days later – but after careful examination Jagdish had declared it to be a forgery.

  Red removed the postcard from the turquoise folder and allowed Dawn to read it. Written in blue biro, it said:

  My dear colleagues,

  I may have misled you into thinking that I had heard the voice of an old adversary of ours. Of course, I did not hear anything of the sort. I am worried that I am going gaga and feel that it is about time I jacked in my job and retired to Barbados.
I am not one for goodbyes so I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t wish each of you farewell in person.

  Respectfully yours,

  Angela

  Red had consulted the Chief of S.H.H. immediately and she had agreed with the rest of P.S.S.T. that Angela could not possibly have bumped into Murdo Meek, as he had died a decade earlier. However, when the Chief heard about the bogus postcard she did admit that it might be sensible to send another spy to Cherry Bentley to see if any trace of Angela could be found.

  Miles Evergreen was given a false identity (Jimmy James) and a spurious occupation (window cleaner). He was despatched to the village forthwith and instructed to leave no stone unturned in his search for Angela. Unfortunately, after only two days, his window-cleaning career came to an end, as did his mission, when he fell off his ladder and broke both legs.

  Bob Chalk was the next spy to be sent to the village. He posed as an artist called Hugo Toogood and spent his first day strolling around Cherry Bentley, making sketches of various buildings and snooping about. However, the very same evening, he was discovered slumped on the floor of a telephone box in an hysterical state, and ever since then he had been incapable of uttering one intelligible word.

  That was when things had started to look very bleak indeed. No trace of Angela had been found and there were no spies left to send. In addition to which, P.S.S.T.’s funds were getting worryingly low. Red decided to appeal to the Chief of S.H.H. to give them extra cash so that they could afford to continue their search for Angela – but Philippa Killingback had turned down his request. She had concluded that clumsiness and incompetence had caused Miles and Bob to end up in hospital and there was nothing more sinister about it than that. When Red insisted that there must have been foul play involved, Philippa had scoffed at the idea.

  Red had refused to be beaten. He decided that if he made a few cutbacks in the department, he might be able to scrape together just enough money to send one more spy on one more mission. He could not afford to hire a top-notch agent – and anyway, all the spies who worked for C.O.O.E.E. and A.H.E.M. were occupied with missions of their own – so he interviewed some recent graduates from Clandestine College, hoping to find a high flier amongst them. Disappointingly, none of them were up to scratch.

  Red had begun to despair. He knew that this would be P.S.S.T.’s final opportunity to find out what had happened to Angela in Cherry Bentley. He was becoming more and more convinced that her disappearance, Miles’s accident and Bob’s funny turn were all linked in some way. Somehow, he just had to find a spy skilled enough to get results. Then it occurred to him that Miles and Bob were both highly qualified agents and yet someone in Cherry Bentley had identified them straight away and put them both out of action; Angela had been a spy for almost forty years yet she had vanished like a puff of smoke.

  Red had come to the conclusion that it would be pointless to send another spy using the same strategy as before. He would have to think of a different angle from which to approach the problem. The new plan would have to be fresh and original. In fact, it would have to be nothing short of ingenious.

  Eventually, the idea had come to him. He would use a child spy. To his knowledge, no one had ever enlisted the services of anyone under the age of eighteen in the entire history of S.H.H. The person or persons lurking in Cherry Bentley would never suspect a child of being on the payroll of P.S.S.T. It would be simple for the child spy to infiltrate the village and find out exactly what was going on.

  At this point in the meeting Red asked if there were any questions, and half a dozen hands were immediately raised. Luckily, Dawn’s hand, which was flung into the air rather wildly, accidentally struck Red on the nose and so her request was dealt with first.

  On her way back from the toilet, Dawn heard the sound of raised voices coming from the Top Secret Missions room. When she opened the door she discovered that everyone seemed to be talking at once. Socrates was bellowing the loudest and, every now and then, he banged the table with his fist. The only person who did not appear to be taking part in the discussion was Izzie. She had picked up her knitting again and was murmuring numbers to herself.

  ‘What’s all the commotion about?’ whispered Dawn, taking her seat next to the elderly dressmaker.

  Izzie rolled her eyes. ‘They’re arguing over who should accompany you on your mission. I’m afraid I couldn’t go, dear. There’d be nobody at home to look after Gerald, Twinkle and Fluff.’

  ‘Your cats,’ guessed Dawn.

  ‘No, dear. My red-kneed tarantulas.’

  Socrates rained a few more blows on the table. ‘Stands to reason that I’m the obvious choice,’ he shouted, prodding his chest proudly. ‘I’m an old hand when it comes to working undercover. Dawn’d be as safe as houses with me. What do you lot know about going on a mission, eh? Diddly-squat – that’s what!’

  ‘He’s always loathed his desk job,’ confided Izzie, leaning closer to Dawn. ‘Had to retire from spying after his hip replacement. Couldn’t cut the mustard after that, you see. I knew he’d jump at the chance of being your chaperone. Bless him.’

  ‘I’m not one to blow my own trumpet,’ said Jagdish loudly, ‘but I’ve got bags of experience at baby-sitting. I have five grandsons – and I’m very good at wiping noses, reading stories and other such things.’

  ‘It’s a shame,’ said Izzie out of the corner of her mouth, ‘but he’s not the man for the job. Poor old Jagdish suffers terribly with hay fever. He’d be sneezing from morning to night in that little country village.’

  ‘As recruitment officer,’ said Emma, tossing her blonde plait over her shoulder, ‘I feel that the role of Dawn’s guardian should fall to me. We’ve built up a good rapport and I’d like to be the one to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘You’d have to pretend to be her mother,’ said Edith loftily, ‘and you’re far too young for that. Whereas I am. –’

  ‘Completely loopy,’ said Trudy, staring at everyone in disgust. ‘Just like the rest of you. Little girls go to ballet classes or piano practice: they do not go undercover on perilous assignments. This plan is insane! It will never work …’

  ‘Hey!’ said Red, struggling to make himself heard above the furore. ‘Could everybody calm down a moment and let me speak!’

  His words went unheeded.

  ‘QUIET!’ barked Edith, turning her laser-like eyes on each person in turn. Her stern tone of voice and unsettling stare seemed to frighten everyone into silence.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Red. He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘All this argy-bargy is a waste of time. I’ve already decided who will be going with Dawn on her mission.’

  ‘Who?’ they all demanded.

  ‘You!’ he said, pointing a finger at Trudy.

  Chapter Six

  Bedtime Reading

  When Red revealed who Dawn’s escort was going to be, there was a collective gasp of amazement and Izzie dropped a whole row of stitches.

  ‘She’s swooning! Somebody catch her!’ cried Jagdish as Trudy’s eyes rolled upwards and she started to slide off her chair.

  Reacting the quickest, Emma was the first to reach the limp-bodied secretary. She cushioned Trudy’s head in her lap and asked someone to fetch a glass of water. ‘Must’ve been the shock,’ said Emma, feeling Trudy’s pulse. ‘She fainted clean away, didn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Red. ‘I thought she might take the news a bit better than that.’

  Oh, dear, indeed, thought Dawn miserably. She found Red’s choice of chaperone very disappointing – and she wasn’t the only one.

  ‘That’s a stinker of a decision,’ said Socrates crossly, and several of the others agreed with him. ‘What, may I ask, was wrong with me?’

  Red walked over to the blackboard and underlined the name ‘MURDO MEEK’, which he had written in big, capital letters. ‘If,’ he said, ‘this man is still alive, and if he’s somewhere in Cherry Bentley, he might well recognise you. The whole mission could be compromised if you set so much as
a foot in that village.’

  Socrates looked furious. ‘Murdo Meek is dead and gone,’ he said, ‘without a shadow of a doubt. Anyway,’ he grumbled, ‘that night in December was darker than the inside of a railway tunnel. If Meek did get a look at me, it probably wasn’t a very good one.’

  ‘My mind’s made up,’ said Red firmly. ‘Trudy will be joining Dawn on the mission, and I’m also planning to enlist the help of Nathan. He’ll be very useful for delivering messages.’

  ‘Nathan?’ said Edith in a shocked voice. ‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through? The boy’s not over-burdened with brains.’

  ‘I’ve got every confidence in him,’ said Red. ‘Besides, none of you others could go so I was a bit stuck for choice.’ In response to an outburst of protests, Red spelled out why this was. ‘Edith will need to remain at her post, guarding these premises, Jagdish’s nose begins to run if he so much as looks at a blade of grass, Izzie can’t leave her spiders, both Socrates and I might be recognised by Meek, and Emma will be too busy taking over Trudy’s duties.’

  ‘What?’ said the secretary, who had just regained consciousness.

  ‘Me?’ said Emma.

  ‘Her?’ said Trudy drowsily. ‘No! I absolutely forbid it.’ She struggled into a sitting position. ‘My files will be all messed up!’

  ‘My typing leaves a lot to be desired, sir,’ said Emma, gazing imploringly at Red. ‘Couldn’t you reconsider? I’d much rather be sent to Cherry Bentley.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Red. He was getting quite over-wrought. ‘You’re too young to pass as Dawn’s mother, whereas Trudy is the perfect age.’

  ‘But we don’t look alike,’ wailed the secretary.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Red, ‘but once Izzie has worked her wonders’ …

  ‘I’m not disguising myself as some old frump,’ said Trudy flatly. With Emma’s help, she managed to get to her feet. ‘I happen to take a pride in my appearance.’

  Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing? thought Dawn, glancing at her brown cardigan and her comfortable plimsolls. She had made a special effort to look nice on her first day at P.S.S.T. and could not understand why Trudy had implied that she had not bothered to dress smartly.