The Eye of the Serpent

by Simon Cheshire

  It occurred to me that there were really only two possibilities that I needed to consider here. That is, two possibilities about who was responsible for the robbery a few days ago.

  They amounted to a simple logical choice. Have you spotted them?

  Possibility No 1: Could Pat the Hat be alive?

  ‘Have, umm,’ I began, not quite knowing how to put the question without, you know, touching a bit of a raw nerve, or, maybe, you know, asking something that . . . Oh, just ask the bloomin’ question!

  ‘Have you considered the possibility that your dad is still alive?’ I said. ‘Could he have escaped from that crash?’

  ‘We’ve been considering it non-stop,’ said Jennifer. ‘The thought has been upsetting my mother terribly. All this has brought back a lot of horrible memories for her. That’s the reason we moved out of London years ago and came here. To escape the past. She still misses him a lot and she says she still loves him.’

  ‘I take it, then, that it’s a possibility you’ve dismissed?’ I said.

  ‘When his car went off that cliff,’ said Jennifer, ‘it dropped almost fifty metres. It hit rock at over a hundred miles an hour and exploded so hard that all that was left were scraps of metal. The police found DNA traces in the wreckage. They even found the two tiny diamonds he’d had specially embedded into his gold wedding ring. My mother said those diamonds were supposed to symbolise the two of them, him and her. No, he’s definitely dead. DNA evidence can’t be faked.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ I said.

  So . . .

  Possibility No 2: Someone is imitating Pat the Hat’s crimes.

  ‘It’s the only explanation,’ I said.

  ‘Right,’ said Jennifer. ‘And it’s why I’ve come to see you.’

  I frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  Jennifer leaned forward on the Thinking Chair. The gardening stuff beneath the chair creaked and shifted. ‘I think I know who did it,’ she said. ‘The robbery.’

  ‘You do?’ I cried.

  ‘That’s what I need your help on. I need you to help me catch him.’

  ‘So, who is it?’ I asked.

  ‘One of my next-door neighbours,’ said Jennifer. ‘A guy called Henry Westwick. I’ve noticed that —’

  ‘Waitwaitwait,’ I interrupted. ‘Your neighbour?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jennifer. ‘Another startling coincidence, right?’

  ‘You’re telling me!’ I cried. ‘Has he got any reason to dislike you or your mum?’

  ‘No, we get on fine.’

  ‘But, he knows about the connection between you and Pat the Hat, yes?’

  ‘No,’ said Jennifer. ‘It’s not a secret, but neither Mum nor I ever talk about it.’

  (I frowned. This coincidence stuff was zooming past ‘startling’ and heading straight for ‘incredible’! I decided to put the matter to the back of my mind, and give it some more thought later.)

  ‘If the police are doing this all-out investigation,’ I said, ‘shouldn’t you go to them with this? I mean, obviously, having a brilliant schoolboy detective like me on the case will get things sorted out much quicker, but even so . . . Surely they need to know first?’

  Jennifer shook her head abruptly. She’d obviously thought hard about this, and she’d come to a firm decision. ‘No. This is personal. My mother’s upset, I’m upset; it’s as if this guy is laughing in our faces, as if he doesn’t care who he’s hurting by copying Pat the Hat. I want to sort him out myself. I want to be able to hand the man responsible over to the police personally. I want to give them proof.’

  ‘So, you can’t actually prove that this Henry Westwick is guilty?’ I said.

  ‘Not yet. That’s where you come in,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘What makes you so sure he did it?’ I said.

  ‘Henry Westwick works at the college in town. He’s a teacher. He lectures in psychology, the human mind, human behaviour, that sort of thing. He’s an absolute nut about crime and criminals. He’s even worse than you!’

  ‘Er, thanks,’ I muttered.

  ‘I’ve been doing some detective work of my own. He’s been missing classes. I know because my friend’s sister’s boyfriend is on the course he teaches. I asked around. One of those missed classes coincides exactly with the time of the robbery. Plus, he’s been lying to his family about where he’s been going during these absences —’

  ‘How —’

  ‘I’ll explain later. Plus, he has a grudge against that building society he robbed, the Head of Accounting in particular. He hates that man! And there are other people in my street I think he might target —’

  ‘How —’

  ‘I’ll explain later. He had the motive, the opportunity, and the method. Those are the things you’re always talking about in terms of suspects, aren’t they? The only problem is, I don’t have the proof. I need you!’

  ‘Saxby Smart is on the case!’ I grinned. ‘Go home, keep a close eye on our suspect, and I’ll come over to see you later on. If you’re right, we haven’t a moment to lose. Pat the Hat struck when least expected, so we can assume his imitator will do the same. He might be planning another crime right now.’

  My mind was still reeling from the sheer oddity of it all, but I quickly reminded myself that my job was to find answers. As soon as Jennifer had gone, I got on the phone to my great friend Isobel ‘Izzy’ Moustique, that Mistress of All Data. I asked her to dig around for anything she could find on the Mad Hatter. If this Henry Westwick was setting himself up as Pat the Hat Mark 2, it was vital that I know as much about the original as possible.

  The hunt was on!

  A Page From My Notebook

  Here’s a newspaper cutting Izzy found, dated 22nd August, eleven years ago:

  END OF THE ROAD FOR MAD HATTER

  . . . Detectives from Scotland Yard, in co-operation with the French police force, pursued the Mad Hatter as he fled south of the town of Avignon along the River Rhone. The thief, who is now said to be the mysterious fifth gang member in the recent Knightsbridge security van robbery, lost control of his car. It fell into a narrow rock gully along the river valley and was completely destroyed when the petrol tank exploded. Forensic experts are still at the scene, but unofficial sources have confirmed that DNA traces from the Mad Hatter have been recovered from the crash, along with small fragments of bone and a wedding ring which could not be removed from Bell’s finger, as the knuckle above it had become too large . . .’

  And here’s another, from a different newspaper, published on the same date:

  HATTER’S ESCAPE ENDS IN DEATH

  . . .The Mad Hatter’s identity – now known to have been Patrick William Bell – was supplied to police in a phone call made at 11:33 p.m. five days ago, 17 August. A team of officers immediately moved in on Bell’s address, but he evaded them at the last minute, abandoning his wife and young daughter. In disguise, he crossed the Channel to Calais by ferry, but was spotted – while swapping fake identities – by an English tourist who had seen pictures of Bell on the TV news on the morning of 18 August. . .

  Oddity 1: How to account for all the startling coincidences? SURELY the appearance of a Pat the Hat imitator RIGHT HERE is linked to the fact that Jennifer and her mum live RIGHT HERE? Has SOMEONE discovered the truth about them? And if so, WHY would that inspire a Pat the Hat imitator?

  Oddity 2: As Jennifer said, this Henry Westwick ticks all the boxes in terms of motive, opportunity and method. But WHY would someone like that turn to crime? Sure, he’s INTERESTED in the subject, and yes, he apparently has a grudge against that building society, but . . . Why would that lead him to such an EXTREME? After all, reading ghost stories doesn’t turn you INTO a ghost! So WHY turn to crime? There’s something I’m missing here.

  Sudden thought – Henry studies crime, so he’ll already know about Pat the Hat. Could it be that HE’S found out the truth about Jennifer and her mum, through his studies?

  Oddity 3 (this one’s an oddity from the past): P
at the Hat’s robberies were planned down to the last detail. So that was a strange mistake for him to make: allowing the gang to know his real name. When he double-crossed them, they could put the cops on his tail at once! Or . . .? Could it be that he didn’t INTEND to double-cross them? Is there more to the story than I think? There’s something ELSE I’m missing here!

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  MAPLE GROVE HAD NOT ONE single trace of a maple tree in it, so why it was called Maple Grove I have no idea. (There’s also a Hill Street in town which is about as level as you can get, and a Farmer’s Walk which is about as far away from the countryside as you can get. Just one of those things, I suppose.)

  Anyway, Jennifer lived at number four. There were only seven houses in Maple Grove, which formed a sort of sticky-out bit about halfway along the wide, twisting road that led from a cluster of shops to the park. The houses all looked different, and were arranged in a not-quite-lined-up pattern, with three on each side and one at the end, all of them surrounded by well-kept lawns and driveways.

  Number four was the middle house on the right-hand side. As I approached, Jennifer appeared through a tall wooden gate which led to the back of the house, wheeling a bicycle along and carrying a small toolbox.

  ‘Hi!’ she called, loudly. ‘Can you help me mend my bike? The brakes keep sticking!’

  She swung it upside down, to rest on its handlebars and saddle. I crouched down and peered at it.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ I muttered. ‘Now, if you go and see my friend Muddy —’

  ‘Shh!’ she hissed. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. This is cover, so I can point out the neighbours to you without them suspecting anything.’

  ‘Oh, right!’ I said. ‘Er, yeah, just what I was about to suggest. Good idea.’

  We sat ourselves down on the tarmac drive which fronted the house, one of us on each side of the bike. We pretended to get busy with spanners and a hammer.

  ‘Is this how you mend brakes?’ she whispered. ‘We ought to look like we’re doing a proper job.’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I shrugged. ‘Give me the low-down on Maple Grove, then.’

  As we talked, a breeze began to swirl around us, and someone at number seven came out and started mowing the grass on his front garden. I pulled my notebook out of my pocket and drew a sketch map to help me keep track of everything. This is what it looked like:

  ‘The Westwicks are at number one, over there on the opposite corner,’ said Jennifer. ‘Henry Westwick you know about, Mrs Westwick works for a travel company, I’m not sure where. They have two teenage daughters, but I don’t know which school they go to.’

  ‘Obviously not St Egbert’s, anyway,’ I muttered.

  ‘No. Next door to us, on the left, at number two, are the Welleses. Mr and Mrs Welles have a shop up in town, which sells really expensive laptops and top-of-the-range phones.’

  ‘A possible target for the next robbery,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jennifer. ‘Henry Westwick is more than familiar with their set up.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because of the Harrises,’ said Jennifer, nodding slightly towards number three across the road. ‘They’re the family everyone knows around here. They’re always having parties and barbecues, and they always invite the whole street along. These get-togethers are the centre of all the local gossip. That’s how I know that Henry Westwick has been lying to his family about where he’s been going recently: Mrs Westwick’s been saying how busy he is at the college, but when I’ve cross-referenced with my friend’s sister’s boyfriend, those are the precise times he’s been away from his job.’

  ‘Ah!’ I said. ‘I take it those parties are also where you found out he hates that building society’s Head of Accounting?’

  ‘Right,’ said Jennifer. ‘That Head of Accounting is Mr Clarke. He and his wife live over at the end house, number seven, with their collection of antique clocks and a yappy little mutt called Billy. Repulsive creature. And the dog’s no better.’

  ‘That’s him mowing his lawn over there, is it?’ I said, taking a good look at the guy through the spinning spokes of the bike’s front wheel.

  ‘Yup.’

  He was the shape of an orange, with tiny little spectacles which seemed to have been embedded into his face. He scuttled his mower back and forth over his front garden with quick, precise movements. He looked like the sort of person you’d expect to see in a war film, questioning prisoners in smelly underground bunkers.

  ‘I think you should talk to him,’ said Jennifer. ‘Maybe get some clues about the robbery?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Ah. You don’t think it’s necessary?’

  ‘No, all that cut grass will set off my hay fever,’ I said. ‘What did he do to annoy Henry Westwick, then?’

  ‘Mr Westwick went to the building society for a loan to buy a car. Mr Clarke there turned him down, because he’d forgotten to put the date on his application form.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Jennifer, shaking her head slowly. ‘Mr Clarke said that if Mr Westwick couldn’t fill in a form correctly then he couldn’t be trusted to make his loan repayments.’

  ‘No wonder Westwick can’t stand him,’ I chuckled. ‘I assume he was out of the way at the time of the robbery?’

  ‘Yes, the police said he was tricked into thinking there was a meeting at Head Office. It’s caused him huge embarrassment.’

  ‘Which will be a big bonus, as far as Henry Westwick is concerned,’ I said. ‘So, apart from the Welleses, is there anyone else here Westwick could target?’

  ‘Well, not the Harris family,’ said Jennifer. ‘They never seem to have a penny to spare. Nice people, although the three kids are a bit bratty. They’re aged seven, six, and four. Also not St Egbert’s pupils.’

  ‘What about the people in the last two houses? Numbers five and six?’

  ‘The people in number five are a definite possibility,’ said Jennifer. ‘There’s an older lady who lives there with her two grown-up sons. I have no idea what her name is. But everyone around here is sure they’re into some dodgy buying and selling. People turn up at that house late at night, vans get loaded and unloaded from their garage. They’re into something crooked.’

  An old man came tottering around the corner from the direction of the shops. Large canvas bags overloaded with groceries hung from each hand.

  ‘Has anybody talked to them at the Harrises’ parties?’ I said.

  ‘They’re the only people in the street who don’t go,’ said Jennifer. ‘They’re very secretive. You get an occasional “hello” out of them, but that’s about it. They’re a weird lot. Their back garden is an absolute tip, too.’

  This was very interesting. If Jennifer was right, the people at number seven could easily be a link between Henry Westwick and the criminal underworld. And since Westwick was knowledgeable about that sort of thing, he’d have no trouble finding a way to enlist their help. If he needed it, that was!

  ‘Ah, perfect timing,’ said Jennifer, waving to the approaching old man. ‘This is Mr Santos. He lives at number six, next door.’

  She called out a greeting and he nodded back at her with a smile. He was a frail-looking guy, with thinning grey hair and heavily framed glasses. He looked as if a strong gust of wind would topple him over, but there was a rosy glow in his cheeks. The chunky grey moustache below his big nose was so expertly clipped it appeared to be standing to attention.

  ‘Hola, Jennifer,’ he said, in a cracked voice which had a thick Spanish accent. ‘Bike trouble?’ He drew level with us and stopped.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jennifer. ‘My friend Saxby here is helping me fix it.’

  Mr Santos grinned at me, casually hopped both his shopping bags into one hand and extended the other towards me. ‘Glad to meet you, Saxby.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said, smiling. As I sh
ook his hand, something felt a bit odd. I couldn’t quite work out what it was, at first.

  ‘How are you, then, Mr Santos?’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Not so bad, not so bad,’ he said. ‘You hear ’bout that terrible landslide in South America?’

  ‘Yes, it was on the news,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Mr Harris over the road told me ’bout it,’ said Mr Santos, shaking his head. ‘This week we think we have it bad, what with food prices going up and robbery in town and the discount shoe shop closing. But we’re very lucky, in some ways, eh?’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Be seeing you!’ he called cheerily. He tottered on his way.

  ‘Nice old bloke,’ whispered Jennifer, as he fished for his keys in his cardigan pocket and unlocked his front door. ‘Reserved, though. Keeps himself to himself most of the time.’

  ‘He’s from Spain?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, he moved in here about five years ago.’

  A large, dark blue car growled into the street. It glided in a wide arc and came to a stop outside number one.

  Ahhhh! Here was Henry Westwick!

  All four doors of the car swung open and out stepped Mrs Westwick, Daughter Westwick one, Daughter Westwick two, and finally Henry himself. If I was feeling generous, I’d describe Mrs Westwick as being a woman of unconventional looks. If I was feeling cruel, I’d describe her as a bit of a fright. The gene pool had not been kind to Mrs Westwick.

  Henry Westwick, on the other hand, reminded me of those marble statues you see of Roman Emperors in echoey museums. His stern, bird-like face sat on top of a wiry body which seemed to move from one elongated pose to another. There were leather patches on the elbows of his jacket and his shoes were the sort of scuffed, thick-soled footwear that looked as if it had been designed inside-out.

  His two daughters were the spitting image of their mother. The four of them trooped into the house without so much as glancing at each other.