Dawn Undercover

by Anna Dale

  ‘Of course! Granny always calls me “John”.’

  ‘And why would she do that?’

  ‘Because I asked her to! When I was four I wouldn’t wear anything except a pirate costume and I insisted on being called Long John Silver. I was quite a precocious child.’

  ‘That’s hard to believe,’ muttered Red.

  ‘My family were boring stick-in-the-muds apart from Granny. She was the only one who called me by my pirate name. She still does it now – only she’s shortened it to “John”.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So that’s how I knew she hadn’t written it,’ said Felix, waving the postcard under Red’s nose. ‘Anyway, I didn’t believe that she’d shoot off to Barbados without saying goodbye so I went round to her house, but nobody was in, and then her next door neighbour, Mrs Mudge, told me that she’d last seen Granny going into a house with a black front door a couple of weeks before. Mrs Mudge had been on a number fourteen bus at the time, but she couldn’t remember which street she’d been in, so Haltwhistle and I walked the bus route until he finally picked up Granny’s scent …’

  ‘You sure he wasn’t just chasing our cat?’ said Red dubiously.

  Felix looked down his nose. He was obviously far too disgusted to respond to Red’s remark. ‘So, you see,’ said Felix, ‘between us – we solved the mystery. You have to admit that I’d make a cracking spy.’

  ‘You’ve got brains,’ admitted Red, ‘but to be a spy you’d need an awful lot more than that: stealth, discretion … the ability to shut up for five minutes–’

  ‘My granny’s a spy,’ said Felix stubbornly. ‘It stands to reason that I’d be good at it, too.’

  Red considered this for a moment. ‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘that spying talent can sometimes run in the family … but not in your case, unfortunately.’

  Felix pouted. On the other side of the door, Dawn grinned and hugged herself. For a heart-stopping moment, she had thought that Felix might have persuaded Red to change his mind. She was overjoyed that the Head of P.S.S.T. had stuck to his guns and still wanted to send Dawn on the mission.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a disapproving voice. Dawn felt somebody tap her on the shoulder. Instantly she withdrew from the keyhole, straightened up and turned round.

  ‘Practising, were we?’ said Trudy, raising an eyebrow. She offered Dawn a slim cardboard folder. ‘Took me a few minutes to find it,’ she said, ‘because it had been put back in the wrong place.’ She heaved a melodramatic sigh. ‘Goodness knows what sort of state my files will be in when I get back.’ Trudy pushed the folder into Dawn’s hands. ‘Take it, then! It’s what you asked for – all the information we have on Murdo Meek.’

  PERSONAL DETAILS

  Assumed name: Murdo Meek

  Real Name: Unknown

  Age: Somewhere between twenty-five and

  seventy (or thereabouts)

  Appearance: ??? (No photograph exists)

  Character: Slippery!

  Nationality: Might be English (then

  again – might not)

  Crimes: Too numerous to mention here

  (see pages 2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 & 11)

  Last Known Whereabouts: Bottom of the

  River Thames

  Dawn did not find the first page terribly informative. She set it aside and began to read the other sheets of paper in the file. It did not take her more than half an hour: she was a fast reader and, being alone in the Top Secret Missions room, she did not have to suffer any interruptions.

  Having finished studying the entire file, she cupped her chin in her hands and reflected upon what she had just learnt.

  It was obvious that Meek was a spy of formidable cunning. Described as ‘the scourge of S.H.H.’, he was an expert at finding out secrets and selling them to the highest bidder. He had been responsible for the disclosure of all kinds of confidential pieces of information. Dawn glanced at the nearest sheet of paper:

  Sold the blueprints of a top-secret

  fighter jet to a foreign power.

  Ruined the career of the Minister for

  Education with the revelation that he

  had cheated in all his school exams.

  Discovered the mystery ingredient in a

  world-famous brand of marmalade.

  Got his hands on the last chapter of

  the most eagerly awaited book of the

  decade and spoiled the ending for millions of readers.

  Found out the secret location of

  P.S.S.T., forcing the department to

  move its premises.

  Meek sounded like the greatest snitch on the planet. There were over two hundred stolen secrets listed in the file, but it was admitted that these were probably only the tip of the iceberg. Meek must have earned himself a small fortune.

  Dawn was interested to read about his traitorous crimes but she was more than a little frustrated by the lack of information about Meek himself. Despite poring over his file she still had no idea what he looked like or how old he was. She did not even know the name that he had been born with. Had P.U.F.F. failed to do enough research – or was Meek just a very elusive person?

  P.S.S.T. had almost caught him once. There were several pages dedicated to this encounter. Dawn sifted through the file until she found them. Each page contained a different version of the events which had taken place on the evening of December the ninth, ten years previously. She picked up Angela’s first.

  ***

  The Attempted Capture of Murdo Meek

  As witnessed by: Angela Bradshaw

  It was a quarter past seven in the evening and I was on my way home from work. I had stayed late and was the last to leave the premises of P.S.S.T. (located in the Magic Lantern Picturehouse in Marylebone). It was bitterly cold outside and I remembered that I had forgotten my gloves – so went back to get them.

  Retracing my steps, I saw the figure of a man standing in front of the door of the Picturehouse. As I approached he turned and saw me. He said something like, ‘Blow. I’ve missed the last showing of Mr Denning Drives North’ and walked swiftly past me. It was dark and I saw no more than a thick overcoat and a turned-up collar.

  When I let myself into the Picturehouse, I saw an envelope on the doormat which had not been there when I had left a few minutes before. It was addressed to P.S.S.T. and underneath had been written the words: Painfully Stupid Selection of Twerps. Inside was a Christmas card with two pencilled ‘M’s at the bottom. I realised that it was from Murdo Meek and that I had probably just bumped into him outside.

  I rushed after Meek and, helped by the thick snow on the ground, I was able to follow his footprints until I had the man himself in my sights. I phoned Red to let him know what was happening. Meek sensed that I was trailing him and tried to throw me off his scent, but I stayed with him until he reached an old warehouse by the river. By this time, Red and Pip had joined me. We decided that I should cover the front entrance, Pip should guard the back entrance and Red should go in and look for Meek.

  About five minutes later, I heard a gunshot and the sound of breaking glass. Pip phoned me to say that Meek had got past her and was making for the footbridge across the Thames. I left my post and ran there as fast as I could. I found Pip and Red on the middle of the footbridge, looking down at the river. Socrates was cycling towards us across the footbridge from the opposite bank. Red shone his torch on the water below. It had been so cold that little ice floes had formed in the river. We saw an overcoat and a scarf floating in the water – but no sign of Murdo Meek…

  ‘What’s that you’re reading?’

  Dawn lifted her head and saw Socrates coming towards her, holding a package. She had been so engrossed in Angela’s account that she had not heard him enter the room.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘I was just learning about Murdo Meek.’

  ‘Meek, eh?’ Socrates scowled. ‘Crafty devil, he was. Too clever by half. Of course, that’s what did for him in the end.’

  �
�What do you mean?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘Ran rings around P.S.S.T. for years, selling secrets left, right and centre. Thought he was too cunning to ever get caught. Well, one night he got a bit too cocky.’ Socrates pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Back then,’ he said. ‘P.S.S.T. was based in a poky little cinema in Barleycorn Street not far from Marble Arch. Somehow Meek found out where we were and thought he’d rub our noses in the fact that he was such a smarty-pants. Decided to hand-deliver a Christmas card …’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Dawn brightly. ‘I read about that.’

  Socrates squinted at the sheet of paper in her hands. ‘Yeah … well, you’ll know about Angela catching him in the act, then. She must have given him a bit of a shock – but being the professional that he was he fed her a line about missing some film or other. Remember, Dawn, I told you that a good spy can always supply a reason for being where he is.’

  Dawn nodded with enthusiasm.

  ‘Having said that, I don’t think Meek would’ve opened his gob if he’d realised who Angela was. Meek was very careful to protect his identity. No one in S.H.H. had a clue what he looked like, but by speaking to Angela he made it possible for her to recognise his voice.’

  ‘And ten years later, she did!’ said Dawn.

  ‘Nooooo.’ Socrates shook his head vigorously. ‘She made a mistake. Murdo Meek is dead! Young Pip saw him jump from the bridge and all of us heard the splash as he hit the water.’ Socrates began to sort through the sheets of paper in the folder. ‘I’m sure our reports are in here somewhere …’

  ‘I’ve read them,’ said Dawn. ‘You were all on the footbridge. Pip, Red and Angela were chasing him from one end and you were cycling towards him from the other.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Socrates. ‘Nearly came off my bike at one point. The builders had left things in a right mess. The bridge was closed to the public. It was undergoing repairs, you see. Meek was trapped. He had nowhere to go …’

  ‘Except down,’ said Dawn grimly.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Socrates, ‘right down to the bottom of the Thames! He fell thirty feet into a freezing cold river and that was the end of him.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ said Dawn. ‘Couldn’t he have swum to the bank?’

  ‘He never resurfaced,’ said Socrates firmly. ‘If our torches missed him, we’d at least have heard him splashing about – and even if he’d made it to the bank he couldn’t have climbed up a sheer brick wall, could he?’

  ‘Was his body ever found?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘No, but it more than likely floated out to sea.’ Socrates frowned at her. ‘We haven’t heard a peep out of Meek for ten years. He’s as dead as mutton, you mark my words.’

  Dawn grimaced. She tried not to think about Murdo Meek’s body being sucked out to sea with the tide, like a piece of old driftwood.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Socrates, patting her hand. ‘I didn’t come in here to talk about Meek.’ He offered her the parcel which he had brought with him. ‘These are for you.’

  Dawn’s heart skipped a beat. Never one to rip open a wrapped gift, she unfolded the brown paper carefully. Inside was the shell phone. Socrates told her that he had restored it to working order. Then he showed her which splodges on its surface she should press in order to contact P.S.S.T., to speak and to end her call.

  The other items in the parcel were a silver pencil with a squat plastic bear on the end and a packet of chocolate raisins. ‘Ooh,’ said Dawn, handling the pencil and the little box of sweets. She guessed at once what they were. Socrates showed her how to prise off the plastic bear and the false pencil nib to reveal the microdot viewer. The packet of raisins opened in the same way as the matchbox had done. She put her eye to it and looked through the tiny camera lens. ‘Thanks, Socrates … they’re great!’ she said.

  Dawn’s new belongings were scattered all over her bedspread. In the centre was a sky-blue suitcase which had been given to her by Emma. She was not allowed to take her own battered red one because it had ‘Dawn Buckle’ written in felt-tip on the inside of the lid. From tomorrow, she would cease to be Dawn Buckle.

  ‘My name is Kitty Wilson,’ said Dawn, trying out her new name.

  Kitty. It wasn’t quite the flamboyant name that Dawn had been hoping for, but it wasn’t bad. She was confident that she would soon feel comfortable answering to it. The biggest problem, thought Dawn, was going to be remembering to call Trudy ‘Mum’. Trudy was almost a complete stranger to her and she didn’t seem to like children very much.

  Dawn found herself thinking about her own mother. Her eyes began to mist over and she slumped on to the bed. Suddenly, she felt terribly homesick. I’m having second thoughts, she realised in a panic. I don’t want to be a spy after all! I wonder if Red would be ever so mad if I told him I’d changed my mind!

  Miraculously, amongst all the jumble of stuff on the bed, Dawn’s fingers managed to find Clop. As she lifted him up, his stitched eyes seemed to fix her teary ones with a stern glare; and when she tried to hug him his head flopped away from her neck as if he wasn’t at all keen.

  ‘What’s the matter, Clop?’ asked Dawn. ‘Why are you cross with me? You don’t think I should quit … is that it?’

  Clop’s head fell forward in a sort of nod.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Dawn, smiling at her donkey. She felt her confidence returning. ‘OK, Clop, you win. I’ll go.’

  One by one, Dawn picked up all the items lying on the bed and placed them inside the sky-blue suitcase. Izzie must have worked extremely hard: there were all kinds of clothes, including jeans, dungarees, cotton dresses and even a Brownie uniform. Dawn marvelled at how shabby and faded everything looked. Somehow, Izzie had managed to make them appear as if they had been worn many times before, when in reality they were all brand new. Dawn put aside a blue cotton dress and a pair of sandals to wear on the journey the following day.

  Around the edges of the suitcase, Dawn tucked everything else: wellington boots, a soap bag containing, amongst other things, a toothbrush with ‘Kitty’ on it and a hairbrush with a few bristles missing, a torch, a rag doll, a writing set with the initials K.A.W. printed on the notepaper, a pencil box into which she slipped her microdot viewer, a notebook, her shell phone and her miniature camera.

  The evening was beginning to grow cool by the time the case was packed. Dawn changed into her pyjamas and sat tensely on the bed with Clop on her knee. The hotel was deathly quiet.

  The noisy boy and his equally vociferous dog had been sent home hours ago. Felix had been given strict instructions not to breathe a word of what he had learnt to anyone. To ensure that he would keep his lip buttoned, Red had told him that if anyone got to hear about Operation Question Mark, he might never see his granny again.

  Everyone at P.S.S.T. had left, too; all except Edith who was still prowling about downstairs. Dawn had hoped that Emma might help her pack her suitcase, but after they had eaten together, Emma had rushed off, muttering something about a last-minute shopping spree. Peebles was also disappointingly absent. She imagined that he was probably lying low somewhere, trying to recover from the shock of having his home invaded by a loud-mouthed dog.

  ‘It’s just you and me, Clop,’ said Dawn.

  Before she got into bed, she folded all her old clothes and put them in her red suitcase along with thirteen pairs of mushroom-coloured knee socks, Pansy the Goat Girl and the rest of her belongings. She had been forbidden to take anything of her own on the mission. As she closed the lid, she took one last look at the bits and bobs that were hers – all the things that had been prized and cherished by Dawn Buckle. It felt almost as if she was packing herself away, too. She stowed the suitcase in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  Dawn climbed into bed. Clop’s little knitted body was sprawled on the pillow as if he was fast asleep. Good idea, thought Dawn. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow. You’ll need as much rest as you can get.

  Dawn Buckle didn’t care much for rag dolls and she decided that Kitty W
ilson didn’t either. She knew it wasn’t allowed, but she didn’t care. Even if she had to smuggle him in her knickers – Clop was coming with her to Cherry Bentley.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Couple of Problems

  Dawn’s wellington boots slapped against her calves as she traipsed along the corridor after Edith. If anyone had looked closely they would have noticed that one of the boots bulged slightly halfway down. As Dawn followed Edith into Red’s office she glanced gratefully at the rain which was lashing against the windows.

  She had woken up early and spent a good twenty minutes trying to think of a way to transport Clop without anyone detecting his presence. Balancing Clop on her head and trying to conceal him under a sun hat had not worked – his feet kept popping out below the brim. Wrapping him around her middle and knotting his legs together had proved just as ineffective for, although Clop’s legs were very stretchy, they would not reach around her waist.

  Then the rain had started and the solution had presented itself.

  ‘Hurray for the British weather!’ Dawn had said, abandoning her sandals and tugging on her wellington boots. She had found that Clop fitted very snugly inside one.

  ‘Goodness, what a downpour!’ said Red, motioning for Edith and Dawn to take a seat in front of his desk. Trudy had arrived already. She was wearing a pair of jeans, a white polo shirt and a rather fed-up expression.

  ‘Have you done a baggage check?’ Red asked Edith.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, setting down Dawn’s sky-blue case beside her chair. ‘I’ve had a thorough rummage. Everything is as it should be. There’s nothing in there that belongs to Dawn.’

  ‘Goody two-shoes,’ said Trudy sourly.

  ‘No name-calling, please,’ said Red. He winked at Dawn. ‘I’m afraid that Trudy didn’t stick to the rules like you did, Dawn.’ He pointed to a small pile of contraband on his desk, consisting of a silk scarf, a pot of nail varnish, a pair of high heels and seven different lipsticks. ‘Emma found these in Trudy’s suitcase,’ said Red, shaking his head. ‘Very disappointing.’