by R. A. Spratt
‘The seventeenth tee is just up and around those bushes,’ said Stephan.
They climbed around the bend and were surprised to discover someone sitting on a rock. It was Epstein. He was furiously scribbling in a notebook.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Friday.
Epstein looked up and slammed the notebook shut. He looked guilty, as if he’d been caught out. ‘Nothing.’
‘That’s a lie,’ said Melanie.
‘I can see that,’ said Friday. ‘Clearly he’s writing in a notebook. What I meant was, why is he writing in a notebook out here?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ said Epstein.
Friday sighed. ‘Fine, have your secrets. I’ll just assume you’re meeting someone here.’
‘There could be another reason,’ said Melanie. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want anyone to find out what he’s writing.’
‘Notes for a criminal plot?’ asked Friday.
‘I was thinking love poetry,’ said Melanie. ‘But it could be a criminal plot to impress his one true love.’
‘You’ve been reading romance novels again, haven’t you?’ said Friday.
‘Yes,’ agreed Melanie.
‘Good,’ said Friday. ‘It’s important to read.’
Epstein stood up. ‘If I can’t have some peace and quiet, I’m going back.’ He stalked off, back towards the school.
‘But what about your rendezvous?’ Melanie called after him. ‘If we come across any nice girls out here, we’ll know they’re clues.’
With Epstein gone, they all stepped up onto the seventeenth tee and looked out down the fairway.
‘What a pretty view,’ remarked Melanie.
Friday had not considered it in that light. She was too busy focusing on how, even with the sunglasses, the sunlight was burning holes in her retinas, or how the frogs croaking in the nearby creak were unnaturally loud. But now that she looked out at the golf course she realised Melanie was right. It was very pretty.
From the tee the fairway swept down into a gully, then up again, bending along the creek towards the elevated green. Oak trees lined either side and a picturesque, although undoubtedly trouble some to a golfer, duck pond sat bathed in sunlight off to the right.
‘So this is the starting point?’ asked Friday. She knew nothing about golf, except that it involved small white balls and men wearing silly trousers.
‘Yes, this is the tee,’ said Tom. ‘It’s where you hit off from.’
‘I hit a straight drive right up the middle of the fairway,’ said Stephan. ‘It flew 150 metres before the first bounce and then rolled another twenty metres up the hill. It was a beautiful shot.’
‘And you?’ asked Friday, turning to Tom.
Tom frowned. ‘I shanked it.’
‘What does that mean?’ Friday turned to Melanie.
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Melanie.
‘He sliced it,’ said Stephan, then sensing Friday’s withering glare he explained further. ‘He hit the ball wrong, so that instead of going straight it arced away into the trees.’
‘It hit the trunk of an oak and bounced into the rough,’ continued Tom. ‘It could only have ended up forty metres from the tee.’
‘Oh,’ said Melanie. ‘And that’s bad because you were trying to hit the ball all the way up there to that flaggy thing?’ She pointed at the flag four hundred metres away on the distant green.
‘That’s right,’ said Tom.
‘So how are you saying he cheated?’ asked Friday. ‘Are you accusing him of setting up a rubber oak tree, or tampering with your ball, or distracting you during your swing?’
‘I don’t know how he did it!’ exclaimed Stephan. ‘But he did. We spent ten minutes searching for his ball in the trees but we couldn’t find it anywhere.’
‘So the ball was lost,’ said Friday.
‘No,’ said Stephan. ‘We found the ball, all right. When we got up to the green it was sitting slap bang in the middle – just a few centimetres from the hole.’
‘I got lucky,’ said Tom with a shrug. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘There is no way luck or anything other than an extreme, miniaturised tornado could have made your ball travel all the way up there,’ said Stephan.
‘It does seem to defy the laws of physics,’ said Friday as she winced into the distance, gauging the distance to the hole. ‘It must be four hundred metres. Can you hit a ball four hundred metres?’
‘Not usually,’ admitted Tom.
‘He cheated because he knows I’m naturally more talented,’ said Stephan.
‘No way!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘You choke when you putt.’
‘Only because you’re always humming when I’m trying to hit the ball!’ yelled Stephan. The two boys grabbed each other’s collars and looked ready to resume fighting again.
‘Excuse me, would you mind if I play through?’
Friday turned to see Ian standing right behind her. He had a golf bag on his shoulder and a driver in his hand, all ready to tee off.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Friday.
‘Playing golf,’ said Ian. ‘It is why most people come out here to the golf course.’
‘I thought you were banned for getting too many detentions,’ said Friday.
‘I was excluded from the weekly tournament,’ said Ian. ‘I’m still allowed to practise. Speaking of which, do you mind? If you four are going to stand around fighting, I’d like to play through.’
Friday looked at the ball in Ian’s hand. ‘Please do,’ she said. ‘I need to perform an experiment, and if you hit a ball out there onto the fairway it will save me from having to learn golf and hit one out there myself.’
Ian scoffed. ‘You’d have to have a total body and brain transplant to play. This is a sport. It requires balance and coordination.’
‘Yes, but it isn’t a very sporty sport,’ said Melanie. ‘You don’t have to slam into anyone, or run, or get sweaty, or out of breath. So, if you think about it, Friday is more likely to be good at this than any other physical exercise.’
‘Really?’ said Ian. ‘By all means. Have a go.’ He held out the driver to Friday.
‘No,’ said Friday. ‘There is nothing to be gained for this investigation by me humiliating myself. But seeing you hit the ball out there would be a very beneficial experiment, so please go ahead.’
Ian turned, pressed a tee into the ground and balanced his ball on top. He looked up at the fairway, planning his shot, then took his stance.
Tom grabbed Friday by the elbow and pulled her back several paces.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Friday.
‘If you stand there, you’ll get hit in the head by his backswing,’ said Tom. ‘And if you’re going to clear me of cheating, I don’t want you getting another head injury.’
Ian flexed his wrists a couple of times. Suddenly, without taking a practice swing, he swept his club back, twisting it behind his own head (he would have hit Friday right between the eyes if she hadn’t moved). Then he whipped the club through, smacking it into the ball with a crisp crack.
The ball shot into the sky with the speed of a bullet. They all shaded their eyes to follow its trajectory. It flew on and on, eventually dropping down about 220 metres away in the middle of the fairway. There was backspin on the ball, so it only bounced twice in the same spot before coming to rest.
Tom sighed. ‘I’ll never be that good.’
‘How do you hit it so hard without looking like you’re trying to hit it hard?’ asked Stephan.
‘The secret is talent, boys,’ said Ian. ‘I can’t explain how I have so much of it.’
‘Please don’t try,’ said Friday. ‘I’m nauseous enough as it is.’
Ian smirked as he bent over to pick up his golf bag. ‘I’ll be on my way, then.’ He turned to walk out to his ball, when suddenly something moved out of the tree line.
‘What was that?!’ exclaimed Tom.
Friday shaded her eyes and peered into t
he distance. ‘Corvus corone,’ she said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Stephan.
‘It’s a crow,’ said Friday.
The big black bird flapped a few times, then glided out over the rolling grass of the fairway before landing neatly alongside Ian’s ball. It picked up the ball in its beak.
‘Do you see that?’ exclaimed Tom.
‘It’s stealing my ball!’ cried Ian.
Chapter 11
Binoculars
The crow stood on the fairway with the golf ball in its mouth for a moment.
‘It must be a really hungry bird,’ said Melanie.
‘It must think it’s an egg,’ said Friday. ‘Large birds often eat the eggs of other birds.’
Suddenly the crow leapt up into the air and flew off, taking the golf ball with it.
‘Look at that!’ said Friday. ‘I bet that’s what happened when you were playing the other day. The bird picked up your ball and dropped it closer to the hole. It’s fascinating to observe.’
‘It’s not fascinating – that bird is going to ruin my score!’ said Ian. ‘Come back with my ball!’ He started running down the fairway towards the bird, but he couldn’t run as fast as the bird could fly.
Friday took off running as well. But she headed for the trees. She was running towards the point where the bird had first appeared above the tree line. Melanie followed after her, but at an amble that could barely be considered a jog. Tom and Stephan chased after Ian, because he was their golf idol, and they were more interested in helping him than assisting their own private detective.
When Friday ran into the trees, she was soon slowed down by the longer grass and undergrowth. She almost ran face-first into a statue of Hercules, which she noted was strangely enough wearing a nose ring. But then Friday saw a flash of movement up ahead and she ploughed through the undergrowth in that direction. She heard the squawk of the bird. It must have dropped the ball if it was squawking. Friday hurried faster. She could see now. There was a boy in the trees frantically trying to get the bird into a cage.
‘Get in there,’ the boy muttered at the bird. Then the bird must have pecked him because he recoiled. ‘Ow!’
Friday ran full tilt at him, leaping forward and grabbing him in a crash tackle. The boy staggered for a couple of steps then steadied himself with Friday still wrapped around his waist. He was taller than her and a lot stockier, so she hadn’t had enough force to knock him off his feet.
‘Get off!’ he cried.
‘No, release that bird,’ demanded Friday.
‘It’s my bird,’ protested the boy.
‘Then release the golf ball,’ insisted Friday.
‘Fine. It’s just one golf ball,’ said the boy. He took the ball out of his pocket and tossed it on the ground.
Friday realised she actually had no interest in the golf ball, so she wasn’t going to let go of him to pick it up. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked.
‘None of your business, let me go!’ cried the boy.
At that moment both of them were knocked off their feet. Ian had flung himself through the bushes and crash-tackled them. So Friday found herself at the bottom of a sort-of-violent, very scratchy group hug as she lay in the scrub beneath the two struggling boys.
‘The ball is over there,’ yelled the boy. ‘Just take it!’
But Ian had him by the scruff of his collar. ‘What are you doing? Did my father send you? Is this some sort of plot?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said the boy.
‘Let him go,’ said Friday to Ian. ‘This has nothing to do with you.’
Ian looked at Friday. He could see she meant it, so he released the boy’s collar.
‘Thank you,’ said the boy.
But at that moment Tom and Stephan came bursting through the undergrowth and crash-tackled the boy themselves.
‘What is it with you nutty private school kids?’ said the boy. ‘Just get off me!’
‘How much did he pay you to rig our game?’ Stephan demanded.
‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ said the boy.
‘Tell him I’ve never seen you before in my life,’ insisted Tom.
‘Let him go!’ demanded Friday. ‘He didn’t fix your game.’
‘Then what is he doing with that crazy ball-stealing bird?’ demanded Ian.
‘Look,’ said Friday, pointing to the boy’s equipment. There was a large bird cage and a canvas bag sitting on the ground. The canvas bag was full of golf balls.
‘What is he doing with all those balls?’ asked Stephan. ‘Is it some sort of weird extreme sport that you play with a crow?’
‘This boy is stealing golf balls for the sake of stealing golf balls,’ said Friday.
‘Why would anybody do that?’ asked Tom.
Friday rolled her eyes. ‘The reason why most people steal things – for the money, of course.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Tom. ‘How much could you possibly get for a golf ball? A dollar a piece?’
‘Exactly,’ said Friday. ‘He’s got about sixty balls in that bag. That’s $60.’
Tom and Stephan still looked confused.
‘To normal kids,’ said Friday, ‘that is a lot of money.’
‘Ooooh,’ said Tom and Stephan, the penny finally beginning to drop.
‘So you were stealing balls to get money to buy some sort of illicit contraband that poor people like?’ asked Tom.
‘I’m saving up to buy a bicycle,’ said the boy.
‘You have to buy your own? How extraordinary,’ said Stephan.
‘And you trained a crow?’ asked Ian.
‘I found her by the side of the road,’ said the boy. ‘She’d been hit by a car, so I looked after her until she could fly again. But she didn’t want to fly away, she stayed close. One day she flew home with a golf ball and I realised she liked collecting things that looked like eggs. I started bringing her out here to look for lost balls. The rich kids don’t bother looking for them if they go in the bushes, they just take out another ball and keep playing. But then she started grabbing balls right off the fairway.’
Ian laughed. ‘It’s not like this school to have such a simple crime as theft for theft’s sake.’
‘It’s barely theft,’ argued the boy. ‘Most of the balls we find have been long abandoned. Here, there’s your ball back.’ The boy picked up the ball and handed it back to Ian.
‘Thank you,’ said Ian.
‘So why did your crow drop his ball right by the hole?’ asked Stephan.
‘She often drops them,’ said the boy. ‘It’s not easy holding a ball in a beak, you know. It was just luck that the ball landed so close to the hole.’
‘So it was luck, after all,’ said Tom happily. ‘I won fair and square.’
‘You can’t let a bird interfere with your ball,’ protested Stephan.
‘I bet there’s nothing in the rule book about crows carrying golf balls,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘It’s just the luck of the game.’
‘Perhaps you’d better try another golf course for a while,’ suggested Friday, turning to the boy, ‘until you can train your crow to leave the balls in play alone.’
‘I will,’ said the boy. ‘This school is too nutty for me. It’s stressful. If students aren’t crash-tackling me, then there’s men with binoculars nabbing my best spot to spy on the school.’
‘What?’ said Friday. ‘You’ve seen men in these woods watching the school with binoculars?’
Chapter 12
The Red Sports Car
After several days, Friday’s headache eased. But as her thinking cleared, she was beginning to puzzle more and more about the artfully vandalised artworks that kept turning up. Just the previous day the poster of Andy Warhol’s ‘Campbell’s Soup Can’ that decorated Mrs Marigold’s kitchen had been altered. No one except Mrs Marigold and the Headmaster knew in what way the picture had changed, but the rumour was that the soup variety on the lab
el was now very rude.
Friday and Melanie were ambling towards their maths lesson when they could distinctly hear yelling.
‘Is that coming from the staff car park?’ asked Friday.
‘It sounds like it,’ said Melanie.
‘We should investigate,’ said Friday.
‘It could be someone dangerous,’ said Melanie.
‘I’d rather confront someone dangerous than listen to Miss Emerson drone on about quadratic equations,’ said Friday. ‘I like few equations more, but she still manages to make them boring.’
The girls hurried around the back of the maths classrooms towards the car park.
‘Unchain it at once!’
‘That sounds like Mr Maclean,’ said Friday.
Mr Maclean was the geography master. He was not the best teacher at Highcrest, although he was certainly the vainest.
As the girls rounded the corner they saw a tow truck lifting the rear end of a shiny red sports car.
‘You can’t take my car!’ protested Mr Maclean. ‘I paid for it in full.’
‘You should have checked to see if there was any money owing on it before you made the purchase,’ said the tow-truck driver.
‘I did!’ exclaimed Mr Maclean. ‘I ran it through the motor registry database.’
‘Then you must have entered the plate number wrong,’ said the tow-truck driver. ‘It’s definitely not yours. Checking that a car is owned in full by the seller is one of the key steps in purchasing a car. I have a leaflet explaining the details, if that would help.’
‘I did check!’ yelled Mr Maclean.
Friday went over and inspected the number plate. It would have been easy to misread. It was filthy and it looked like it had been run over. The number plate was flat when it should have been raised and lumpy around the edges. Even so, the lettering was legible. It read DAB 071. Friday fished a piece of notepaper and a pencil out of her bag.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Melanie.
‘I’m taking a rubbing of the plate,’ said Friday, ‘before it gets towed away. They’re too busy arguing. They won’t mind.’ She held the paper over the number plate, lay her pencil against the paper at an acute angle and ran it back and forth.