The Eye of the Serpent

by Simon Cheshire

  ‘So, that’s him,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘And you’re sure he doesn’t know about your connection with Pat the Hat?’

  ‘When my mother realised Henry Westwick was interested in criminology, she made doubly sure she kept her mouth shut when he was around. I tell you, if he knew, he’d never stop pestering her with questions.’

  I wasn’t convinced. I was sure that our Pat the Hat imitator must have discovered the connection. Otherwise, there were simply too many loose threads left dangling!

  ‘Have the Westwicks lived here long?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, as long as I can remember,’ said Jennifer. ‘In fact, Mr Santos moving in five years ago was the only change there’s been in this street for ten years.’

  Suddenly, I realised why Mr Santos’s handshake had felt odd. I turned to Jennifer.

  ‘Has he got half his fingers missing?’

  ‘Er, yes, well one, I think,’ said Jennifer, surprised at the question. ‘And half his right foot, so he says. And a kneecap. And there are metal plates in his legs. He was caught up in some civil war in Africa about forty years ago, apparently. He was an engineer, he used to build apartment blocks all over the world.’

  Jennifer’s mum appeared at their front door. I’d seen her once or twice at school events and she always struck me as the type of person who could get overlooked in an otherwise empty room. She had an open, kindly face, the sort you’d look at and think: I know you from somewhere, but I can’t remember your name.

  ‘Do you two want something to eat?’ she chirped.

  ‘Oooh, yes please,’ I said. ‘Got anything chocolatey?’

  A couple of minutes later, Jennifer’s mum was in the kitchen, and Jennifer and I were hovering by the bay window in the living room, watching the street, keeping an eye on Henry Westwick’s house. Mrs Westwick and her daughters reappeared and walked out of sight.

  ‘What’s the next move?’ asked Jennifer.

  ‘Hmm. Not sure,’ I said, gazing out of the window. ‘If we were the police, we could mount a twenty-four-hour surveillance operation and keep watch on him. But we aren’t. So we can’t.’

  Suddenly, Jennifer and I both spun around at the sound of her mum’s voice. ‘This is a matter for the police,’ she said. ‘Let them handle it.’

  ‘How long have you been there?’ cried Jennifer.

  I tried to hide the fact that I’d nearly jumped with fright. ‘I didn’t realise you knew what we were up to,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Jennifer’s mum. ‘But I know my daughter. And I’ve been having suspicions about Henry Westwick myself. But you can’t start —’

  ‘Yes, we can, Mother!’ cried Jennifer. ‘This should be down to us. It’s for us to sort out!’

  ‘No! It isn’t!’ insisted her mum. ‘You know how upsetting this business has been, for you as well as me. I don’t want you getting involved!’

  I let them carry on, not quite knowing what to say. As they argued, my phone bleeped. Izzy had sent me a link to a third nespaper article. Normally, I’d have put it away and read it later, but at that moment, I was grateful for the distraction.

  The article was dated 18th August, eleven years ago. It said:

  KNIGHTSBRIDGE VAN GANG CAUGHT Four Charged with Theft – Fifth Member Eludes Police

  . . . All but one of the robbers responsible for last week’s theft of two million pounds in cash from a London security van are now in police custody. The crooks – named as Bob Butcher, Joanne ‘Knuckles’ Wilson, Fred Edwards and Harry ‘Stinks’ Milan – were arrested as a result of police detective work. None of the money has yet been recovered. Police suspect that there was a fifth member of the gang, who has double-crossed the others and escaped with the stolen cash. However, the only name given to the police by the gang has turned out to be a fake ID, and the whereabouts of the fifth gang member remains a mystery.

  As soon as I’d read it, an unexpected truth smacked me between the eyes. I was astonished.

  There were certain details of Pat the Hat’s story that were different from the version I’d heard so far. I could now name the person who’d made that phone call to the police, the call which gave the police his real name.

  Look back through the newspaper articles and think about what Jennifer had told me. Can you name the caller?

  ‘Mother, you’ve got to give Saxby a chance,’ cried Jennifer. ‘Please, just until news of the robbery hits the headlines. Saxby’s brilliant at this sort of thing.’

  Her mum stared blankly at me.

  ‘No, honestly, I am,’ I assured her. ‘I’ve worked out that it was you who called the police all those years ago, and told them who the Mad Hatter really was. You haven’t quite told Jennifer the truth, have you?’

  The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. Something changed in the room, some unseen, unheard, untouchable something. I’d just trodden all over their memories and emotions in a horribly clumsy way. I hadn’t meant to, honestly. I felt terrible.

  Now it was Jennifer’s turn to stare blankly at me. ‘What?’ she said at last. ‘What?’ She turned to her mum. ‘Is this true? Mum?’

  ‘I see what you mean about him, Jennifer,’ said her mum sadly. ‘Perhaps I was hasty. Perhaps I should give him a chance after all.’

  ‘Is this true?’ cried Jennifer. ‘Did you turn him over to the police? Did you?’

  Her mum’s silence gave Jennifer her answer. With a shriek of horror, Jennifer ran out of the room. Her footsteps thudded up the stairs. A door slammed.

  (Article three was dated before the phone call. The gang was already under lock and key when the call was made, and anyway, from this third clipping it was clear that they didn’t know Pat the Hat’s real name after all. There was only one person – other than Pat the Hat himself – who knew who he was, at 11:33 p.m., on August the twenty-second.)

  ‘I was just so shocked,’ said her mum quietly. ‘He’d lied so much. And when he died, I felt it was all my fault. I’ve never stopped feeling guilty. I soon wished I’d never made that call. I couldn’t tell Jennifer the truth. I just couldn’t.’

  ‘I’m . . . really really sorry,’ I stammered. I’d never been so embarrassed and ashamed of myself in my entire life.

  I turned back to the window. Mr Clarke at number seven had finished his lawn and was dumping the cuttings into a green recycling bin. Over at number one, Henry Westwick was hurrying out of his house, carrying . . .

  Hang on. What was that he was carrying? A large, thin, floppy sort of case-thing. What was it? It was one of those zip-up bags you put clothes in, to stop them getting dirty. Hmm, I thought, he’s probably off to the dry cleaner’s.

  He opened the boot of his car and laid the bag flat inside. Then he fetched a hold-all and put that in the boot as well, tucking something inside it as he did so. What was that he put in the hold-all? I couldn’t quite see. An electronic device of some kind?

  Suddenly, a wave of hot-cold-hot-cold flooded across me. On top of the embarrassment I was already feeling, it was a pretty unpleasant sensation!

  From what I knew about Pat the Hat, and about what Henry Westwick had already done, I came to an alarming conclusion. I had to act fast!

  Can you work out what I was thinking?

  ‘That stuff he’s got with him!’ I cried. ‘That could well be a disguise! And that’s probably his toolkit in the hold-all! The rest of the family are out. Now he’s on his way to his next robbery!’

  I saw him slam the boot of his car shut.

  ‘We’ve got to go after him!’ I cried.

  Jennifer’s mum shook her head. ‘Sorry the car’s in for repair. And besides, I need to have a long talk with Jennifer, don’t you think?’

  ‘Er, umm, er, umm . . .’

  I was hopping about like a frog on hot coals. Without thinking, I raced out into the street. Westwick’s car was backing out of his driveway.

  With panic gripping me like a giant octopus, I ran towards the main road.
The car accelerated, indicated right, and sped away.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  I SAID SEVERAL THINGS I CANT repeat here.

  Then I had a bit of luck. As Henry Westwick’s car drove off, I spotted a bus pulling in at the bus stop.

  If you’ve read the first volume of my case files, you’ll know that my dad (the one whose library of crime novels I’m always looting) is a bus driver. Which means that the local bus drivers know me, especially since the time I solved The Mystery of the Sunken Bus Depot. (Long story, no time to tell it now!)

  I ran across to the bus and leaped on board. I was already out of breath. I am so unfit!

  ‘Oh, hello Saxby,’ said the driver.

  ‘Hi Frank,’ I gasped. ‘Follow that car!’

  ‘What? I can’t do that! I’ve got a route to follow!’

  ‘This is an emergency!’ I cried. ‘A major crime is about to be committed!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ grumbled Frank, ‘I’ve got my passengers to think of.’

  I looked round. The only passenger, sitting right at the back, was a tiny little old lady with a dome of white hair. She was tucking in to a giant bag of Thai Ultra-Hot-Flavoured Crisps.

  ‘Are we at the shops yet?’ she piped up.

  ‘Not yet, Mrs Hillard,’ called Frank, checking her in his rear-view mirror.

  ‘Pleeease,’ I begged. ‘The car’s getting away! The man driving it is about to be involved in a robbery!’

  Frank snapped his gaze to and fro between me, the rapidly disappearing car and the old lady. He sighed. ‘OK, but I’m not going far off my route!’

  ‘Brilliant! Thank you! Fast as you can, pleeeeease!’

  The bus moved off with a hiss of hydraulics. It gathered speed, its engines rumbling sluggishly. Westwick’s car was still in sight – just – at the far end of the road.

  The old lady had moved on to a big pack of cheese-and-pickle sandwiches. I sat at the front of the bus, hands clenched tightly on the metal rail in front of me.

  The car was heading into the centre of town. Westwick obviously didn’t realise he was being followed, so he wasn’t making any attempt to hurry. Beneath my feet, I could feel the vibrations of the bus as it shifted up a gear.

  ‘Are we at the shops yet?’ called the old lady.

  ‘Not yet, Mrs Hillard,’ called Frank.

  Even though Westwick wasn’t hurrying, that car was a much quicker vehicle than the bus. Several times, the car vanished from view around a corner. My heart pounded with nerves until Frank could turn the bus’s huge steering wheel and the back of the car became visible again.

  ‘Doesn’t this thing go any faster?’ I cried, a flash of despair zipping through my stomach.

  ‘D’you realise how many rules I’m already breaking here?’ said Frank.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my sleeves. Westwick’s car was pulling into a smaller road that branched off the town’s main shopping street. What was his target? A bank? A safe full of valuables?

  ‘Haven’t we just passed the shops?’ called the old lady. She’d finished the sandwiches and was now stuffing down a bag of jam doughnuts. For a moment I was distracted. I couldn’t help thinking: Where’s she putting it all? Has she got hollow legs or something?

  The bus lurched sharply to the left. The tyres gave a screech. Up ahead, the car was making its way between the tall buildings of Hanover Street. Then it turned left, on to a gravelly path, and under a gate-like barrier.

  ‘I can’t go any further,’ said Frank.

  ‘Pleeeeeeease,’ I cried.

  ‘No, I really can’t. The bus is too tall, I’ll hit that barrier!’

  ‘Oh. Right,’ I said.

  The bus rolled up a little way short of the gravelly path, and hissed to a bouncing halt.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said, leaping through the doors the second they flapped open. ‘See ya!’

  ‘Are we at the shops now?’ called the old lady, downing a litre of lemonade.

  ‘Not yet, Mrs Hillard,’ yelled Frank.

  Once the bus had gone, I sneaked as quietly as I could along the path. Loose chippings crunched underfoot, no matter how carefully I moved. At each step, I winced.

  As I reached the corner of a long, low building, I saw that the path widened out into a car park. Westwick’s car was parked in the middle of a long line of vehicles.

  I crouched down. I watched him unload his luggage from the boot, slinging it over his arm. The car beeped at him as he locked it and walked away.

  He entered the building. The place looked dark and silent. With my nerves slowly slicing themselves to pieces, I followed him.

  Inside a set of swing doors was a long, dim corridor. I could hear Westwick’s footsteps echoing. The place had a vague smell to it, like old leather. Up ahead, suddenly, there was a bump. A broad rectangle of bright light lit up the corridor and I could hear an excited gaggle of voices.

  I tiptoed over to where an immense curtain had been drawn back. A wide gap in the wall opened up into an enormous ballroom. People were milling about, chatting, laughing, practising dance moves. The whole place was awash with brightly coloured decorations.

  ‘Henry, have you brought the music?’ called a voice.

  ‘I have!’ called Mr Westwick. There was a ripple of relief across the room. He crossed to a table, and out of his hold-all pulled a portable hi-fi. That electronic device I’d seen in his hand was the thing’s remote control.

  Slowly, I turned my head and read the poster that was taped to the wall beside me: Advanced Salsa Course – Final Exam – 7:30 p.m. – Candidates must arrive by 7 o’clock.

  Henry Westwick unzipped his clothes case, revealing a frilly, red and yellow costume. ‘I’ll just go and change,’ he called to someone at the other end of the ballroom.

  ‘Don’t be nervous, Henry,’ called the someone. ‘You’ll sail through it!’

  Huh?

  Huh?

  Henry Westwick had not been on his way to commit a major crime. Henry Westwick had been on his way to a dance class.

  I sneaked away.

  Not only had I been an insensitive fat-head towards Jennifer and her mum, I’d also been totally and utterly wrong about this entire case!

  I sneaked home, sneaked into my shed and sneaked on to my Thinking Chair. If all Henry Westwick had been doing was taking secret dance lessons, then . . . ?

  Everything was buzzing around my head like a swarm of hopping-mad bees. I couldn’t decide which was worse: knowing I’d caused a terrible row at Jennifer’s house, or knowing my investigation of the robbery had got precisely nowhere.

  And it was while I was weighing up these two awful alternatives that the big picture finally came into focus. The bees buzzed off. With a jolt of logic which almost knocked me off my chair, I suddenly spotted the truth. The real truth.

  I could barely believe it. How could I have been so blind as not to see it straightaway? All I had to do was think back to that morning, to when Jennifer and I sat there on her driveway pretending to mend her bike. The clues had been right in front of me. Right in front of me!

  How much of the truth have you pieced together?

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, IT WAS all over the news:

  COPYCAT THIEF TARGETS BUILDING SOCIETY

  ROBBER RAIDS STEADFAST & PERMANENT

  I called Jennifer, partly to see if she was OK and partly to ask if I could go over and talk to her and her mum. She said it would be fine. I didn’t let on that I was going to shock her all over again.

  Before I could see Jennifer, I needed to get two things done.

  First Thing: I phoned Izzy and asked her to check one more thing for me. I needed to know what had happened to the four original members of the gang Pat the Hat had double-crossed. A few minutes later, she phoned back.

  ‘Bob Butcher and Joanne “Knuckles” Wilson were released two years ago,’ she said. ‘They were flattened wh
en they tried to break into an office building and used too much explosive. It fell on top of them. Fred Edwards died in prison, didn’t even finish his sentence. And Harry “Stinks” Milan is also dead.’

  ‘Recently am I right?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Less than a month ago. He picked a fight while he was on holiday abroad, and lost.’

  ‘Thought so,’ I said. ‘That confirms my suspicions. Thanks, I’ll tell you all about it later.’

  Second Thing: as I arrived back at Maple Grove, I popped in to see Henry Westwick.

  A short while later, I approached Jennifer’s house. I could see Mr Santos, over at number six, standing in his front window. He gave me a cheery wave and I waved back. Then, I had a second thought. I took a step back and beckoned to Mr Santos. A few moments later, he emerged from his house and tottered over to me.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Shelby isn’t it?’

  ‘Saxby yes,’ I smiled. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I’m about to call on Jennifer and her mum. Could you come with me? I need, umm, a witness.’

  ‘Witness?’ said Mr Santos. ‘To what?’

  ‘You’ll see in a few minutes,’ I said.

  Soon, the four of us were sitting on the sofas in Jennifer’s living room – me, Jennifer, Jennifer’s mum, and Mr Santos. Jennifer’s mum had made a pot of tea. Mr Santos sat there sipping nervously. From the way he was looking around, it suddenly occurred to me that he’d never actually been in this room before.

  Everything felt a bit awkward, as if a couple of teachers had just gate-crashed your birthday party. Jennifer’s mum was looking as if she’d rather be in a slime-covered cellar with a man-eating tiger than perched on her own sofa. Jennifer was giving me a look which said, ‘You’d better have something important to say, ’cos you’re not in my good books right now, matey.’

  ‘Well, Saxby?’ said Jennifer’s mum. ‘You said you’d got it all worked out?’

  I wasn’t at all sure how to begin. I cleared my throat.

  ‘I’m very sorry I shocked you yesterday,’ I said, eventually. ‘But I’m afraid I’m about to shock you again.’