‘We believe she’s stealing to order,’ the Commissioner explained, ‘for money.’
‘Whose order?’ Inspector Cheddar asked.
The Commissioner regarded Inspector Cheddar sourly. Inspector Cheddar’s hair was still bright green and he hadn’t had time to order a new uniform since he fell in the pickling tank at Butteredsconi’s pickle factory. It was dazzling white, as were his shoes and police cap. ‘The same man who’s responsible for their escape from the megalodon.’ The Commissioner paused. ‘An art collector by the name of Ricardo Butteredsconi. I gather you already know him.’
Butteredsconi! Atticus nearly fell off the desk.
‘Butteredsconi!’ Inspector Cheddar actually did fall off his chair. He picked himself up. ‘You mean the fat pickle fiend with the pig?’
The Commissioner nodded. ‘Interpol has learnt that Butteredsconi paid a crew of trawler-men to catch the biggest shark in the ocean so that he could pickle it for his art collection. A few weeks ago the trawler-men caught the megalodon.’
‘It makes sense, Dad, if you think about it,’ Callie said quietly. ‘Butteredsconi was talking about catching sharks specially for his collection when we visited the factory.’ Tears rose to her eyes. ‘It’s so unfair!’ she burst out. ‘The megalodon wasn’t doing any harm!’
Michael tried to put his arm round her but Callie twisted away. ‘You said it was cool,’ she accused him.
‘I’m sorry, Callie,’ Michael said. ‘I didn’t think about the megalodon.’ He held out his hand. Callie took it this time.
Atticus didn’t often feel angry but he did now. Poor megalodon. It was just swimming about in the sea swallowing the occasional villain. Why couldn’t Ricardo Butteredsconi leave it alone? He thought back to their day at the pickle factory, to the creepy conversation about pickled animals. Callie was right: Butteredsconi had talked about art collectors catching sharks specially to be pickled. Atticus should have realised Butteredsconi was talking about himself!
‘Are you sure Klob was still inside the megalodon when it was caught?’ Mrs Tucker asked.
‘There’s no doubt, I’m afraid. Here’s a list of the megalodon’s stomach contents.’ The Commissioner handed over a piece of paper.
‘Captain Squib radioed Butteredsconi and asked what he should do with them,’ the Commissioner went on. ‘Butteredsconi told him to deliver the megalodon and its stomach contents to Fort Sconi. Approximately ten days ago that’s exactly what he did. The trawler dropped the whole lot off at the fort.’
‘You mean they were there when we were?’ Michael gasped.
‘I think so,’ the Commissioner said.
‘That was probably part of the reason why he wouldn’t show us round the fort,’ Callie said. ‘He didn’t want anyone to see the megalodon.’
‘Or the villains,’ added Michael.
Atticus could hardly believe it. Biscuit and the magpies had been at the fort? He kicked himself for not realising. He should have known there was something fishy about Butteredsconi.
‘So what are we waiting for?’ Inspector Cheddar cried. ‘Let’s arrest them!’
It was a surprisingly sensible idea, Atticus thought, coming from Inspector Cheddar. He got ready to jump off the desk and spring to cat-tion.
‘We can’t,’ the Commissioner said heavily. ‘We don’t have any proof that either Butteredsconi or any of Klob’s mob are involved.’
Atticus’s ears drooped. He settled back down again. Catching a criminal was like catching a mouse: you had to be patient.
‘You mean we need to catch them red-handed?’ Mrs Tucker said.
‘Precisely,’ the Commissioner agreed, ‘now here’s the plan. The villains have already hit galleries in some of the world’s biggest art capitals – New York, Barcelona, Rome and Paris. We think London is next and top of their hit list is likely to be Tate Modern. Your job is to intercept them at the gallery and get them to confess Butteredsconi’s part in the plan. Then you go to Fort Sconi, arrest Butteredsconi and his pig and recover all the stolen art. Do you think you can manage that?’
‘We can try,’ said Mrs Cheddar, ‘can’t we, team?’
‘Okay,’ the kids agreed.
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Mrs Tucker. She picked up her basket.
Atticus wasn’t so sure. Klob was a criminal mistress of disguise. Intercepting her at the gallery might not be that straightforward. Still, it was the only plan they had.
Inspector Cheddar nodded vigorously. His green hair flopped about. What with his red face and white uniform he looked like a demented puppet. ‘Of course we can manage it, sir.’
‘Very well,’ the Commissioner said. ‘There’s a police car waiting downstairs. It will take you straight to Tate Modern. You’ll be met by one of the curators …’ He glanced at his file. ‘His name is Zeberdee Cronk. He’ll show you round. Brief the guards and check everyone’s doing their job properly. Then wait. The thieves may strike tonight. If they do, we’ll be ready for them. Good luck!’ The Commissioner dismissed them.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Inspector Cheddar assured him as they left the Commissioner’s office. ‘I’ll take charge. You can rely on me.’ He practised a few karate chops.
Atticus exchanged glances with Mrs Tucker. Usually when Inspector Cheddar said anything like that something dreadful happened to him – like getting cursed by pirates or attacked by snakes. It was just as well the rest of them would be there to make sure nothing went wrong this time!
Tate Modern was a vast, gloomy-looking brick building beside the river Thames with a tall chimney sticking up in the middle and an oblong glass roof.
The police car dropped them on the other side of the river. Mrs Tucker put Atticus in her basket for safety so that he didn’t get lost or trampled on. Then she led them across the pedestrian bridge, through the crowds, and made her way down some steps to the gallery forecourt.
‘I’ll go and see if I can find Cronk.’ Inspector Cheddar hurried off.
The rest of them waited. Atticus peered out of the basket, taking in his surroundings. He didn’t know this part of London and he might need to find his way round if Klob and her gang did strike the gallery that night.
Behind him lay the bridge, and the river with a walkway all along its bank. Ahead of him the brick chimney of the gallery stretched up into the sky. The forecourt itself was enormous. Hundreds of people milled about. They all seemed to be looking at something.
Outside the entrance to Tate Modern stood a giant dustbin overflowing with plastic bags. It towered above them, the plastic bags whipping about in the wind.
Atticus regarded it curiously. Honestly, he thought, some people were so careless with litter; stuffing plastic bags into a giant dustbin and leaving them to fly anywhere. They should get told off.
‘It’s not a real dustbin, Atticus.’ Mrs Tucker caught him staring at it. ‘It’s one of the art exhibits.’
Atticus’s good ear drooped. He should have realised that by now, he supposed. If a pickled animal could be art, so could a giant dustbin! And this was Tate Modern, after all, which meant it was bound to be full of all sorts of interesting types of art, not just paintings like the one he’d done for the pickle-painting competition.
‘Can we have a closer look?’ asked Callie.
‘I should think so.’ Mrs Tucker advanced to the front of the crowd. The dustbin was encased in wire mesh to stop the bags actually flying out of it. At the base of the dustbin was a huge pile of dead fish, strewn higgledy-piggledy on a concrete slab. Atticus contemplated it for a few moments in confusion.
‘It’s called Plastic Ocean.’ A tall man with a goatee beard, thick curly hair and round spectacles came and stood next to them. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt which said ‘Kool Kitty’ on the front, with a thick wool jacket slung over his shoulders.
‘I’m not sure I understand it,’ Mrs Cheddar said to him.
‘Me neither,’ said Michael.
Inspector Cheddar pushed in beside them. �
�That’s because it’s a load of rubbish!’ he declared.
‘Well, yes,’ the man with the goatee beard said, ‘and … er … no. Actually it’s pretty clever, if you think about it.’
‘Clever?’ Inspector Cheddar snorted. ‘How?’
Atticus listened with interest. So did the children and Mrs Cheddar.
‘It’s about pollution,’ the man explained. ‘The point the artist is making is that the more rubbish we dump in the sea the more we destroy our environment. Get it?’
Atticus thought he did. Humans were really messy compared to cats when it came to rubbish. Everything came in packets and tins and bottles and bags. Michael and Callie knew about recycling, of course, and so did Mrs Cheddar. They always put bottles and cardboard in a special blue bag so they could be re-used. Mrs Cheddar had a compost heap in the garden for vegetable peelings and the three of them used the same shopping bags over and over again. But not everyone did. Atticus had seen a programme about pollution on TV. Lots of people just threw stuff – like plastic bags – away and it ended up in the sea, killing fish.
‘Oh yes!’ said Michael.
‘That’s good!’ Callie grinned. ‘Isn’t it, Mum?’
‘It’s a brilliant idea!’ Mrs Cheddar agreed.
‘No it isn’t. I could have thought of that!’ Inspector Cheddar grumbled.
‘Yeah, but you didn’t think of it, right?’ the man said. ‘The artist did.’ He grinned at Atticus and the kids.
Atticus liked the look of the stranger. He seemed like a cat sort of person.
‘I’m Zeberdee Cronk.’ The stranger reached out a hand and shook the Inspector’s. ‘You must be Inspector Cheddar. I recognised you by your green hair,’ he explained, ‘and your police cat. The Commissioner says he’s an excellent detective.’
Atticus purred importantly.
Inspector Cheddar ground his teeth.
‘His name’s Atticus,’ Mrs Tucker told him. ‘And I’m Agent Whelk.’ She pumped Zeberdee’s hand up and down. ‘This is Callie and Michael, and their mum, Mrs Cheddar.’
‘Cool,’ declared Zeberdee. ‘Want me to show you round the gallery before it closes?’
‘Yes, please!’ the children cried.
‘Not now, thank you,’ Inspector Cheddar said stiffly. ‘We’re on official police business. We don’t have time for any more modern art nonsense. Frankly I can’t think why anyone would want to steal something like this!’
The kids looked disappointed. Atticus was disappointed too. He would have loved Zeberdee to show him round the gallery, especially if everything in there was as interesting as Plastic Ocean. He slipped a paw through the mesh and tried to hook a prawn.
Zeberdee Cronk ignored the Inspector. ‘What about you, Atticus?’ he said. ‘Do you want to see some art? I hear you’re not bad at it yourself.’
Atticus meowed loudly to show that he did.
‘Well, I do,’ Mrs Tucker said firmly. ‘I think we should definitely let Zeberdee show us round, Inspector Cheddar. We need to get the lie of the land in case Klob strikes tonight.’
Ha! Got it! Atticus leaned out of the basket, manoeuvred the prawn through the mesh and gulped it down.
‘Fine!’ Inspector Cheddar bridled. ‘I’ll go on ahead and brief the guards without you.’ He stormed off.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Mrs Cheddar.
‘What are your most valuable pieces of art?’ Mrs Tucker asked Zeberdee.
‘Well, there’s The Toenail Tree,’ Zeberdee said thoughtfully. ‘It took the artist years to collect enough clippings. Or Mount Underwear is very popular at the moment. You get to throw your own pants on the pile so you can contribute to the exhibit.’ He ran through a list. ‘And there’s The Camp Bed, of course.’
A toenail tree, a pile of pants and a camp bed? Atticus listened fascinated. All of this was art? It made his pickle painting seem a bit pathetic. He’d have to think of something better next time he entered an art competition. He couldn’t wait to talk to Mimi about it when he next saw her.
‘Okay,’ Mrs Tucker agreed. ‘You’d better show us.’
‘This is the Turbine Hall.’ Zeberdee Cronk took them inside the gallery.
The Turbine Hall was very big. It made Atticus feel very small. The gallery was closing up for the night. There was hardly anyone left inside, which made the space feel even vaster and emptier.
‘The building used to be a power station,’ Zeberdee Cronk explained. ‘This is where they kept the machinery.’ He glanced around the massive space, a grin on his face. ‘It’s fantastic, isn’t it? Thirty-five metres high and a hundred and fifty-two metres long. Imagine being asked to fill that space with a piece of art! Think you could do it, Atticus?’
Atticus wasn’t sure. Maybe he could fill it with sardines? Or a huge comfy sofa piled high with cushions? He wondered if Callie and Michael would help him.
‘We could fill it with sweets!’ Michael cried.
‘Or chocolate!’ Callie exclaimed.
‘Or toothbrushes,’ said Mrs Tucker sternly.
Zeberdee laughed.
‘Why is there nothing in here at the moment?’ Mrs Cheddar asked, looking round the vast empty hall.
‘There is,’ Zeberdee Cronk’s eyes twinkled. ‘Look down.’
Atticus followed his instruction. Zigzagging along the length of the floor – all one hundred and fifty-two metres of it – was an enormous crack. So that was art too! Atticus could hardly believe his eyes. The crack was surprisingly interesting to look at. And it was fun to jump across! He sprung out of Mrs Tucker’s basket and over to the other side and back again, purring loudly.
‘Atticus likes it,’ Callie said.
‘So do I!’ Michael followed suit.
Just then there was a commotion at the other end of the hall.
The three of them hurried along beside the crack. About three-quarters of the way along they bumped into Inspector Cheddar. He was sitting beside the crack, clutching his left ankle.
‘This floor’s a disgrace!’ he snapped. ‘You could break your neck on it. I’m going to call Health and Safety. They can arrange for some builders to fill it in.’
Zeberdee Cronk suppressed a laugh.
Atticus couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit smug. Inspector Cheddar thought the crack in the floor wasn’t supposed to be there! Inspector Cheddar just didn’t get art like he and Zeberdee and the children did. He wasn’t cool.
‘What’s so funny?’ Inspector Cheddar demanded.
‘Nothing!’ Zeberdee winked at Atticus.
Inspector Cheddar glared at them. He lowered his voice to a hiss. ‘Atticus, stop sucking up to Cronk and start doing something useful,’ he ordered.
Atticus’s tail drooped. He’d really wanted to see the mountain of pants and the toenail tree! And now he was stuck with grumpy old Inspector Cheddar instead.
Mrs Tucker intervened.
‘Mrs Cheddar and I will go with Zeberdee to brief the guards,’ she suggested.
‘Atticus, you and the children find the Inspector an ice pack for his ankle,’ Mrs Tucker told him. ‘We’ll be back in a little while.’
Atticus meowed his understanding.
‘Don’t fall down anything else, will you?’ Zeberdee Cronk said to Inspector Cheddar.
‘Of course I won’t, Cronk,’ the Inspector replied huffily. ‘I’ll be perfectly fine.’
‘Let’s try this way.’ Callie started off along a wide corridor which led out of the Turbine Hall.
Michael and Atticus trotted after her.
The gallery was deserted. There was no one around to help them find the first-aid kit. All the guards had gone upstairs with Mrs Tucker and Zeberdee Cronk for their security briefing.
Atticus was feeling peeved. Upstairs in the gallery was where all the cool things were – like the toenail tree and the mountain of pants. And whatever the other thing was Zeberdee had mentioned. Inspector Cheddar was so grumpy he’d made him forget what it was now!
A little way along the co
rridor there was an opening in the wall.
‘You look in there, Atticus,’ Michael said. ‘We’ll see if there’s anything in those cupboards.’ He pointed down the corridor towards a set of double doors. Just before the doors were some cupboards.
‘Meow,’ Atticus agreed. He wandered through the opening and stopped in surprise. A put-you-up bed stood in the middle of the floor. The sheets and blankets were thrown back and the pillows were rumpled and creased. Beside the bed on the floor were a pair of pyjamas and a half-drunk cup of tea.
Atticus scratched his ear. The bed must be for the night guards, he decided. They must take it in turn to have a snooze when they got a bit sleepy. He thought that was an excellent idea (although he hoped they all brought their own pyjamas rather than sharing one pair). Atticus yawned. Never mind the night guards, he thought, he was feeling a bit sleepy. He hadn’t had a nap for hours. He wondered if anyone would mind if he had a lie-down for five minutes.
Atticus was just about to jump on to the bed when he heard Inspector Cheddar calling from the corridor.
‘Hurry up with that ice pack! My ankle’s killing me!’
Atticus turned round guiltily.
Inspector Cheddar limped into the room. He scowled at Atticus. ‘I knew I’d catch you skiving!’ he said. ‘You haven’t done a stroke of police-catting since you got friendly with Cronk. That man’s a bad influence on you.’
Atticus felt sulky. Zeberdee wasn’t a bad influence. He was interesting and he knew a lot about art. Maybe if Inspector Cheddar had bothered to let Zeberdee show him round the gallery rather than storming off he wouldn’t have sprained his ankle!
Inspector Cheddar hobbled over to the bed and sat down on it. He removed his white police cap and white shoes and placed them neatly beneath the bedframe. Then he lifted his legs up and lay back. ‘That’s better,’ he said, pulling up the blankets and relaxing on to the pillows.
Atticus Claw Learns to Draw Page 5
