The Black Cat Detectives

by Wendy Meddour

  Mr Stalk folded his arms. “Where are they, son?” he asked.

  “I forgot, Baba. Just like Mr Wamadan told me to.”

  Dad laughed, pointing at Iqbal. “He’s right! I did! I told him to ‘forget about the things of this world’!” Dad patted Iqbal on the head. “You have another Stalk genius in the making!”

  While the others were searching for the keys, Shaima worked it out. It was simple. Iqbal’s fingers were sticky. He’d been eating grapes before prayers. They must be in the fruit bowl. She sauntered into the kitchen, dug about beneath the bananas and passed them to Mr Stalk.

  “Excellent, Shaima. Well done,” he said, waving the keys at Dad. Shaima smiled and they all bundled into the car.

  The front door slammed shut. Silence.

  Mum sighed. “Just listen to that... not a sound. Shall we have a cup of tea before they get back? I’ve got lemongrass, chamomile, mint...”

  “PG Tips – strong with three sugars,” said Nanna Stalk.

  Mrs Stalk touched her arm. “Ammi, remember your sugar levels.”

  “And some condensed milk, please,” added Nanna Stalk.

  Mum laughed. “I think you’re in luck,” she said, digging about in the cupboard. “Now, tell me, what were those men talking about? For a moment I thought I heard the words: online marriage services.”

  Rasheed Khan Passes GO

  It was Friday afternoon and the Stalks’ house was spotless. A faint smell of vinegar lingered in the air.

  “HE’S COMING!” yelled Shaima from the upstairs window.

  Mrs Stalk sprayed some rosewater in the hall, Shaima grabbed her notebook and Nanna Stalk made dua in the lounge.

  DRRRRRIIINNG went the doorbell.

  When Mr Stalk opened the door, all he saw was a huge bunch of flowers.

  “Assalemu aleikum,” said a deep sugary voice.

  “Wa’aleikum assalem,” replied Mr Stalk. He tried to peer over the top. “You must be...”

  “That’s right,” said the flowers. “Rasheed Khan, at your service, sir.” A hand shot out through the leaves.

  Mr Stalk shook the hand and stared at the bright blue petals. It didn’t feel right, inviting a bunch of flowers into the house.

  “Let him in, let him in,” ordered Nanna Stalk, pushing Mr Stalk aside. “What beautiful orchids – such an unusual colour – I’ll put them in a vase.” As she grabbed the bouquet, a gasp escaped her lips. “Masha’Allah!” she said. “You’re not what we were expecting.”

  For Rasheed Khan looked like a Bollywood film star! With swept-back hair, a white cotton suit and deep brown eyes, he flashed his perfect smile. “Sorry,” he said. “My profile picture wasn’t very good. But it’s great to meet you. You must be Urooj’s big sister?”

  Nanna Stalk tightened her chocolate-brown headscarf. “I’m her mother, of course,” she blushed.

  Mr Stalk made a strange noise – a sort of half-laugh, half-sniff. “Apologies, it’s the orchids,” he sniggered.

  “Take no notice of my son,” said Nanna Stalk. “He’s always been prone to allergies. Ever since he was a baby. Comes out in a terrible rash.”

  “Ammi!” Mr Stalk was embarrassed. “He doesn’t want to know about that.”

  Rasheed flashed another smile. Then he slipped off his white suede shoes and followed Nanna Stalk down the hall.

  ***

  Aunty Urooj was waiting in the lounge. “This is a complete nightmare,” she whispered to Shaima. “What were you and Ramzi thinking?”

  “We were just trying to help,” grinned Shaima sheepishly.

  “Well, I wish you wouldn’t. And why on earth do we have to play Monopoly?”

  “Well, recent research...” began Shaima.

  “Forget I asked,” hissed Aunty Urooj.

  Rasheed swept into the room and gave his salaams. Urooj looked at the floor and prayed it would swallow her up.

  “Couldn’t your parents join us?” asked Mr Stalk. “It’s not really customary to come alone.”

  “I’m afraid they’re no longer with us,” sighed Rasheed, glancing upwards.

  “Why is your mummy upstairs?” asked Iqbal.

  “Quiet, Iqbal,” said Mr Stalk. “May Allah take care of them.”

  Nanna Stalk passed Rasheed a box of tissues. His deep brown eyes were glistening with tears. “It’s not easy... being an orphan,” he sniffed.

  Aunty Urooj looked up. Rasheed flashed his glistening smile.

  “Do sit down,” said Mr Stalk, pointing to the armchair on the far side of the room. But Rasheed ignored him and sat down right opposite Aunty Urooj. Mr Stalk rubbed his beard. Things were not going as planned.

  “My wife is making us some tea,” he said, staring at his sister. “Why don’t you go and help her.”

  “OK,” said Aunty Urooj, taking the hint. She stood up and left the room. Mr Stalk breathed a sigh of relief until he noticed Rasheed following her with his eyes. There was an awkward silence.

  “I understand that Urooj is a doctor?” said Rasheed.

  Mr Stalk looked puzzled. How did he know?

  “I put it on her profile,” said Shaima, guessing her father’s thoughts.

  “What else did you put?” asked Mr Stalk.

  “Oh, nothing much,” said Shaima. She bit her lip. There was another awkward silence.

  “Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?” suggested Nanna Stalk.

  “It would be a pleasure,” smiled Rasheed, beginning to talk.

  No one noticed as Shaima began to scribble things down:

  But Nanna Stalk seemed impressed. “So even though you’re an orphan, you manage to give regularly to charity, go to the mosque every Friday, and always help the elderly?”

  “Of course,” smiled Rasheed. “I try to do as many good deeds as I can.”

  Shaima closed her notebook SHUT.

  “What’s that?” asked Rasheed.

  “Oh. Nothing,” said Shaima.

  “No, really, what is it?” asked Rasheed. “Show me.” He reached for the book.

  “No!” said Shaima, stuffing it behind her back. “It’s just stuff, you wouldn’t be interested.”

  Rasheed narrowed his eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” smiled Mr Stalk. “My daughter writes everything down. She doesn’t like to miss a thing.”

  Suddenly Rasheed felt very warm. In fact, if it hadn’t been summer, he’d have sworn the radiators were on. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe he should have stayed at home. He looked towards the door.

  “Right,” said Nanna Stalk, pulling the Monopoly board from under the coffee table. “I think it’s time we played a little game.”

  “But...” began Rasheed.

  “Great idea, Nanna,” grinned Shaima, rolling the dice. “Double six to start!”

  ***

  Half an hour passed and something didn’t add up. No. Really. Something didn’t add up. Shaima was the Banker and there was no way that Rasheed Khan could have bought Mayfair, Pall Mall, eight hotels, all the utilities and still have £1,800. It was impossible. She went through the game in her head again – counting the number of times he’d passed go, collected rent, and purchased properties. No. There was only one explanation. Rasheed – the ‘enterprising entrepreneur’ – had been stealing from the Monopoly bank! Shaima stared at him fiercely.

  “Shaima – are you ill?” asked Mrs Stalk.

  Shaima shook her head and threw the dice again. But she threw too hard. They bounced on to the carpet and under the chair. Everybody looked to see where they’d gone. Everyone apart from Rasheed, that is. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his spidery fingers grab a fistful of notes and stuff them up his sleeve! Shaima gasped.

  “Is it indigestion?” asked Mrs Stalk. “I knew I’d put too much chilli in...”

  “No, Ammi, it’s not that,” said Shaima.

  “Perhaps she’s not used to losing?” said Rasheed. “It must be hard for a girl like her.”

  Shaima scowl
ed at him until her glasses slipped down her nose.

  “Well, I suppose Shaima does usually win,” said Nanna Stalk. “But I’m sure she’s happy for you to be the new champion. You don’t mind, do you Shaima?”

  Shaima couldn’t hold it in any longer. “As a matter of fact, I do!”

  “Shaima! Watch your tongue!” said Mrs Stalk.

  “But I saw him. He was cheating. He stole from the Monopoly Bank!”

  “Cheating?” exclaimed Rasheed, horrified.

  “Shaima, how could you be so rude to our guest?” said Mrs Stalk.

  “But it’s true. He just stuffed loads of money up his sleeve. And according to a recent psychological study of board games, that means...”

  “I can assure you, Mr Stalk. I have never cheated in my life,” protested Rasheed.

  “Roll up your sleeves,” said Shaima. “Prove it!”

  “Please. You don’t have to,” said Mr Stalk.

  “No, it’s fine,” smiled Rasheed. Very slowly, he rolled up his shirt sleeves one by one. But there was nothing! Not a note! Shaima couldn’t understand it. Where had the money gone?

  “I... I... don’t...” she stammered.

  “I am so sorry for my daughter’s behaviour,” said Mr Stalk, shaking his head. “She is normally such a good girl.”

  “But Baba...”

  “That’s enough, Shaima. Go to your room. Now.”

  Shaima felt awful. Mr Stalk hardly ever told her off. And when he did, it felt like there was a hole in the universe and she was tumbling through.

  She could feel Rasheed’s eyes staring at her as she walked past him. Too embarrassed to look up, she kept her head down and squeezed round the table. Past his pile of money. All £2,300 of it. She left the room and walked upstairs.

  Hang on a minute.

  £2,300?

  But he’d only got £1,800!

  So he had been cheating. She knew it. She was never wrong. She paused on the stairs. No. There was no point turning back. They wouldn’t believe her. She went into her bedroom and slammed the door.

  ***

  It was another twelve minutes and forty-two seconds before Rasheed Khan left the house. Shaima timed him on her stopwatch. Her bedroom window was wide open so she heard him walk away. He was talking on his iphone. At least, she thought she heard him:

  “Stop ringing me, Mum. I told you, I’m working late,” the voice said.

  Shaima crept across her bedroom and peered out of the window to check. Cotton suit. White suede shoes. Flicked-back hair. She ducked back inside. Yes. It was definitely Rasheed Khan. But didn’t he just say ‘Mum’?

  “I knew it,” said Shaima, gritting her teeth and grabbing her notebook. She peered back over the window ledge and watched him walk down Cinnamon Grove. Benjamin Butley’s cat was just outside Ramzi’s house. It padded over to Rasheed and curled its tail around his leg. Rasheed stopped. Then he shook his leg hard and sent the cat flying across the pavement!

  “MEEEEOW,” squealed the cat, darting into a hedge.

  Shaima gasped and wrote it all down.

  Rasheed swept back his hair, put on his shades and disappeared round the corner.

  With her notebook as ‘evidence’, Shaima raced downstairs.

  “Aunty Urooj, Nanna, Ammi, I’ve just seen Rasheed Khan kicking Benjamin Butley’s cat. And he was on the phone to his mum.”

  “Shaima, what is the matter with you?” asked Nanna Stalk.

  “It’s the pressure,” said Mrs Stalk. “Perhaps Shaima’s not ready for the entrance exam.”

  “Of course I’m ready!” said Shaima.

  “Then try to be nice,” said Nanna Stalk. “Rasheed Khan is a good Muslim boy. He gives his money to charity, he’s kind to old people and he takes care of his family in Pakistan. You did very well to find him.”

  Shaima felt a bit sick. “But...”

  “Your Nanna’s right,” nodded Mrs Stalk. “And remember, as Muslims, it’s our duty to look after the orphans.”

  “But he’s not an orphan,” said Shaima. “I just told you, I heard him talking to his mum.”

  Nanna Stalk and Mrs Stalk shook their heads and sighed.

  Mr Stalk and Aunty Urooj came in from the lounge.

  “Baba...” she said, “tell them. Please.”

  Mr Stalk frowned. “Shaima – for the first time in my life, I was not proud of you today.”

  Shaima’s heart sank. “Sorry, Baba,” she said.

  At that moment, Shaima Stalk knew she had to do something she’d never done before. She had to prove that she was right. But she couldn’t do it alone. She needed her best friend, Ramzi Ramadan.

  The Black Cat Detectives

  The following morning, Shaima and Ramzi were huddled on the doorstep of Number Twelve – talking in hushed whispers.

  “But what if you’re wrong about him?” asked Ramzi.

  “Me? Wrong?” said Shaima.

  Ramzi shrugged. She was right. She was never wrong.

  “It’s like he’s cast a spell on them all,” sighed Shaima. “First he lied about being an orphan. Then he stole from the Monopoly Bank. And then he kicked Benjamin’s Butley’s cat. I’m telling you, Ramzi, he’s totally bad news.” Her glasses started to mist up.

  “OK, all right, all right. I believe you,” said Ramzi.

  “Good,” huffed Shaima. “But they don’t believe me. Aunty Urooj is all gooey-eyed, Nanna’s sighing over wedding saris, and Mum thinks I’m ‘stressed’ about the exam. It’s so annoying.”

  “What about your dad?” asked Ramzi.

  Shaima shrugged her shoulders. Some things are too hard to say.

  Ramzi looked thoughtful. “What you need is proof,” he said.

  “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” She looked at him and smiled.

  “Shaima,” he said, “your eyes are doing that weird sparkly thing.”

  “What weird sparkly thing?”

  “You know, when you’re having a brainwave or whatever.”

  “Well,” said Shaima, slowly. “I was just thinking that we could set up our own Detective Agency.”

  “A Detective Agency? In Cinnamon Grove?” Ramzi grinned. This was why his best friend was a girl – Benjamin Butley never had ideas like this.

  “I’ve got a secret casebook already,” said Shaima. “Aunty Zakiya gave it to me for Eid.” Checking that no one was around, she grabbed her bag from the hall. Ramzi watched as she pulled out a beautiful, red leather notebook. The padlock glinted in the sun.

  “That is soooo cool!” said Ramzi. “But what are we going to call it?”

  “What?” asked Shaima.

  “The Detective Agency, of course.”

  Shaima chewed her lip as they both looked around for inspiration.

  A postman whizzed past on his bicycle and waved at them. They waved back.

  “Post box... red letter box... the red letter... the scarlet letter...” murmured Shaima. “No... .”

  Mrs Butterworth, the cheery lollipop lady from Number Three, came jogging out of the alleyway.

  “The Sweaty Joggers... the Secret Legwarmer... the Lollipop Spies... oh, I’ve got it: The Runaway Detective Agency,” said Ramzi.

  Shaima crinkled up her nose. “I dunno. It’s not very... catchy.”

  Ramzi sighed. Shaima was not an easy girl to please.

  Just then, Benjamin Butley’s cat came shimmying past, its long black tail waving in the air. They looked at each other and grinned. “The Black Cat Detective Agency,” they both said at once.

  “And we’ll need some secret agent stuff,” said Ramzi.

  “Like what?” asked Shaima. She hadn’t thought about that.

  “Like a telescope, and some pens with invisible ink, and a magnifying glass, and some walkie talkies and...”

  “We’re going to Aunty Zakiya’s on Saturday – on the way back from the Open Day. She’s got loads of old stuff. Why don’t you come?”

  “What Open Day?” asked Ramzi.

&n
bsp; “At Greystone’s Academy for the Bright and Gifted,” said Shaima.

  “Oh,” said Ramzi, frowning. He didn’t want Shaima to go to a different school.

  “Please, Ramzi. I need your help. You’ve got to come,” said Shaima.

  “OK,” said Ramzi. “I’ll ask Mum.”

  Shaima sighed with relief. It was going to be all right after all. The Black Cat Detective Agency would save the day and no one would break Aunty Urooj’s lonely beetle-loving heart!

  Ramzi Wins a Prize

  Greystone’s Academy for the Bright and Gifted was so old it smelt of the past. According to Shaima, it was an Elizabethan mansion, but Ramzi thought it looked more like a ghost ride. It had turrets, and doorways and arches – and was surrounded by enormous, tall trees. Mrs Stalk parked the mud-splattered people-carrier on the gravel and they walked up the long, winding drive.

  “Ammi,” cried Iqbal, clutching his trousers, “I’m desperate.”

  “I told you to go before we left the house,” said Mrs Stalk.

  “I did,” said Iqbal. “But it didn’t work.”

  Mrs Stalk grabbed his arm and hurried over to the woman greeting visitors.

  “Excuse me,” asked Mrs Stalk, “could you please advise us as to where the conveniences are?”

  “Why’s your mum speaking like the Queen?” whispered Ramzi.

  “She’s not!” snapped Shaima.

  The woman led them up the steps and pointed down a corridor. “Just follow the signs to Year Eight’s horticultural display and it’s on your left.”

  “You have been too kind. Many thanks,” smiled Mrs Stalk.

  “Did your mum just curtsey then?” asked Ramzi.

  “Of course not,” growled Shaima.

  “Ammi,” cried Iqbal, twisting his legs. Mrs Stalk picked up the hem of her jilbab and raced down the corridor, Iqbal swinging along at her side.

  Nanna Stalk, Shaima and Ramzi looked at the woman. The woman fiddled with her pearls and tried to think of something to say.