The Plot Thickens

by R. A. Spratt

  ‘Sir, there’s no need to take that tone with me,’ said the tow-truck driver. ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘But it’s not my fault,’ said Mr Maclean. ‘You should take this up with the seller.’

  ‘No,’ said the tow-truck driver. ‘It’s my job to reclaim the car because it hasn’t been paid for. The fact that you are in possession of the car is irrelevant. You don’t own it, because the person you bought it from didn’t own it. Their bank did. And the bank wants it back.’

  ‘But what about my money?’ cried Mr Maclean.

  You could understand his concern. Teaching is not the most lucrative profession.

  ‘That’s between you and the person you gave the money to,’ said the tow-truck driver as he jumped into his cab and started to slowly drive away, the beautiful red sports car in tow.

  ‘But I need that car!’ wailed Mr Maclean. ‘I’m taking Miss Priddock on a date tomorrow night.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to be romantically involved with a member of the support staff?’ said Friday.

  Mr Maclean spun on his heel and glared at Friday.

  ‘I’m going to help her study for her first-aid course,’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘You see yourself as a CPR dummy, do you?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I’m reporting you to the Headmaster!’ yelled Mr Maclean.

  ‘Really?’ said Friday. ‘Are you going to tell him about the sports car you bought with cash and the date with Miss Priddock, as well?’

  ‘I’ve been swindled,’ said Mr Maclean. ‘You’re the detective. I’m going to hire you to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Whoa, there,’ said Friday. ‘I’m not agreeing to take the case.’

  ‘I paid $10,000 for that car,’ said Mr Maclean. ‘If you can recover the money, I’ll give you ten per cent.’

  ‘I’m not good at mathematics,’ said Melanie, ‘but even I can work out that’s $1000.’

  ‘It is?’ said Mr Maclean. ‘Gosh, I meant to say $100.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Friday, turning to go to her next class.

  ‘All right, $1000,’ said Mr Maclean. ‘You can have a thousand if you get my money back.’

  ‘Who did you buy the car from?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Mr Brecht,’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Melanie. ‘He’s probably spent it all on cheese by now.’

  ‘Let’s go and see him,’ said Friday.

  Friday, Melanie and Mr Maclean trudged down to the art classroom. They found Mr Brecht hunched over a linocut.

  ‘I’m busy,’ said Mr Brecht, without even looking up.

  ‘Good, we’re busy too,’ said Friday. ‘So let’s not delay this process any further. Mr Maclean would like you to give him his $10,000 back, because the car you sold him has just been repossessed.’

  ‘What? But I don’t have the money anymore!’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘Cheese?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I gave it to Mrs Cannon,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘That dreadful woman!’ exclaimed Mr Maclean.

  ‘Yes, she is dreadful, isn’t she?’ said Mr Brecht with a grin. ‘That’s what I like about her. And she gave me some excellent advice.’

  ‘About teaching?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Some of it was,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘Why did you give her all that money?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I bought her station wagon,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘I wanted a car with more storage space.’

  ‘And that cost $10,000?’ asked Friday.

  ‘That’s the going rate for a five-year-old station wagon with low mileage,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘Give me the car!’ yelled Mr Maclean. ‘You bought it with my money!’

  ‘I will not,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘I’ve got a date with Miss Priddock tonight.’

  ‘But I’ve got a date with her tomorrow night,’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she cancels after a night out with me,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘Women are more attracted to great artists than they are to geology teachers.’

  ‘Geography!’ yelled Mr Maclean. ‘I teach geography!’

  ‘Is there a difference?’ asked Mr Brecht.

  ‘Yes,’ said Friday.

  ‘Although not much,’ said Melanie. ‘They can both be equally boring.’

  ‘I’m going to report you to the police!’ said Mr Maclean. ‘You sold me a car with money still owed on it.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘I bought it with cash myself.’

  ‘Where from?’ asked Friday.

  ‘The side of the road,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘It had a sign in the window saying, “Car for Sale”. So I called the number and bought the car.’

  ‘Didn’t you check with the motor registry database to see if it was really owned by the seller?’ asked Friday.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘The fellow seemed honest enough.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t!’ yelled Mr Maclean.

  ‘I’m sorry for your trouble, Maclean,’ said Mr Brecht, ‘but it’s not my problem. There’s nothing I can do to help.’

  ‘You could stop lying for a start,’ said Friday.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘You knew exactly what you were doing when you sold Mr Maclean your car,’ said Friday. ‘The only reason it didn’t turn up when he ran the number plate through the database was because you, an expert painter, had carefully changed the number plate.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘The number plate on the car being towed away outside reads DAB 071,’ said Friday. ‘It would be so easy to change an “L” to a “D”. Especially for an accomplished artist such as yourself.’

  ‘You can’t prove it,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said Friday, ‘because the letters on a number plate aren’t just painted on – they’re embossed into the metal. The metal is also moulded into the shape of each letter. You did a lovely job on ageing and battering the number plate so that it was hard to notice, but that in itself was suspicious. Why have an immaculate antique car and a beaten-up number plate, unless you’re trying to hide something? So I took a rubbing of the plate. And only the raised embossing showed up.’

  Friday held up her rubbing. It read LAB 071.

  ‘It was a personalised plate, wasn’t it?’ said Friday. ‘LAB are your initials. Was 1971 the year you were born?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘But it’s still not my problem. It’s Mr Maclean’s problem, because when you’re buying a second-hand it’s buyer beware.’

  ‘What?’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you that $10,000 was incredibly cheap for an antique sports car?’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘Well, yes, but I thought it was a bargain,’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘You thought I was an idiot,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘Well, you are an art teacher,’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘You got to drive the car for ten days,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘Think of that as a $1000 a day rental fee.’

  ‘I’d never pay that much just to rent a car,’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘Which is why gorgeous women like Miss Priddock will never find you attractive,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘Now get out of my classroom. If you want to contact the police, please do. You’ll never get any money out of me because you paid in cash, and you never asked me to sign a receipt or any paperwork.’

  ‘You’re taking advantage of my good nature,’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ agreed Mr Brecht. ‘So, in addition to ten days rental of a lovely sports car, I’ve also given you a priceless lesson on not trusting strangers.’

  ‘I’ll tell the Headmaster,’ said Mr Maclean.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘But Miss Priddock has shown me some of the love poetry you’ve sent her, and apart from being grossly inappropriate they could be used as evidence of your mental instability. So, on the whole, I suggest the wisest course of action would be to keep you
r mouth shut.’

  Mr Maclean looked like he wanted to cry. He stalked off, slamming the door as he went.

  ‘Did you want something, girls?’ Mr Brecht asked, turning to Friday and Melanie.

  ‘You swindled Mr Maclean,’ said Friday. It was an accusation, but a very polite accusation. As though she couldn’t believe the specimen she was observing under a microscope.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been swindled by agents, galleries and lawyers. This is a dog-eat-dog world. I make no claim to be a good person. I’m an artist. We’re notorious for being dreadful.’

  Mr Brecht went back to working on his lino cut. He clearly felt that the conversation was over.

  ‘That was interesting,’ said Friday as she and Melanie wandered back to their next class.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Melanie, ‘I like Mr Brecht. But I can’t help feeling I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Friday. ‘Who knows what else he’s capable of.’

  Chapter 13

  Fitness Tracking

  It was a well-established fact that PE was Friday’s least favourite subject. (The only person who disliked it more was Melanie.) Friday could intellectually see that it would be beneficial to be good at throwing, catching and running around. She was simply terrible at them, having no natural ability for anything that required coordination.

  Melanie, on the other hand, may well have been capable of some athletic endeavour. She was tall, long-legged and slim, and her brothers had all done well at rugby and rowing. But no one would ever know, because the only thing that Melanie was adamantly determined about in life was that she would never engage in any athletic pursuit.

  As you can imagine, this did not endear the two girls to their PE teacher. It was hard enough teaching sport and exercise at a school where all the students were so wealthy and privileged they thought they were above having to do anything. And if any of them were talented at a sport they had expert tuition at home and felt the school’s teachers had nothing to offer them. On the whole, the students at Highcrest Academy preferred sports like polo, because a horse carried you around, or golf, because a caddy carried your bag around. Anything that involved the students not having to carry things was just fine.

  Their total lack of discipline infuriated Mr Fontana, the new PE teacher. Friday had wondered if he would one day snap and try using a student as a javelin, but when he did snap it was in an entirely different way.

  The students in Friday’s class were all sitting on the floor of the gymnasium outside the PE staff room, waiting for their lesson to begin, when Mr Fontana emerged from his office carrying a large cardboard box. He walked onto the court, put down the box and addressed the group.

  As per usual, the students didn’t bother to stop talking amongst themselves. They rarely showed respect for the teachers they actually respected, so they were unlikely to show respect to a PE teacher. Mr Fontana sighed, walked over to the light switch on the wall and flicked it on and off several times with the back of his knuckles.

  ‘Is-anybody-list-en-ing-to-me?’ asked Mr Fontana, in syncopation with his flicking.

  The students finally fell silent.

  ‘Why would you flick the light switch on and off like that?’ asked Friday.

  ‘If any of us were epileptic, we might have a fit,’ said Melanie.

  ‘None of you are epileptic,’ asked Mr Fontana. ‘If you were, it would have been on your admission forms and I would have been told about it.’

  ‘I’m more curious why you would flick the lights on and off with the back of your knuckle, instead of your finger,’ said Friday.

  ‘Would you all just be quiet? I’d like to start the lesson at some stage today,’ said Mr Fontana.

  The group hushed.

  ‘As you know,’ continued Mr Fontana, ‘I think you are all shamefully lazy. It sickens me to look at your blank apathetic faces, let alone watch you list-lessly perform any one of the proud sports I have tried to teach you.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve mentioned these things several times,’ agreed Melanie. ‘If you don’t enjoy your career in teaching, you should seriously consider getting a job in de-motivational speaking. You have quite the talent for it.’

  ‘Pelly …’ said Mr Fontana.

  ‘Shut up?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Fontana. They had had many similar conversations before. ‘Before we get into today’s lesson on frizbee soccer …’

  The class groaned.

  ‘Frizbee soccer is a growing sport internationally, played by thousands of people every weekend because they think it’s fun!’ yelled Mr Fontana.

  The class stared at the ground. They were used to these fits of temper. They would always pass if they ignored them. Mr Fontana was not really meant to yell at students like that – he knew it and the students knew it. But they had formed a symbiotic relationship, where they would behave terribly and he would throw tantrums but no one would ever take it any further. What happened in PE, stayed in PE.

  ‘Your complete lack of respect for any formal sport aside,’ continued Mr Fontana, ‘I know that many of you are vain and narcissistic –’

  ‘What’s narcissistic?’ asked Mirabella.

  ‘Look in the mirror,’ said Ian.

  ‘And see what?’ asked Mirabella.

  ‘A classic example of narcissism,’ said Friday. ‘Narcissus was so enchanted by his own reflection in a pond that –’

  ‘Would you all just –’ began Mr Fontana.

  ‘Shut up,’ chanted the class in unison.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Mr Fontana. ‘Since you are all so concerned with your appearance, I thought one way to make you interested in your own fitness would be to show you just how lazy you are and that – if you continued in your slack, sedentary ways, consuming the amount of calories you do – you will soon become overweight, pimple-ridden, weak-boned husks of human beings.’

  ‘I can’t follow what he’s saying,’ said Mirabella. ‘He’s using too many big words.’

  ‘He’s saying you’ll get fat and ugly if you don’t exercise,’ said Friday.

  ‘How dare you!’ yelled Mirabella. ‘I’m calling Daddy, you can’t say that to me.’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘I’m going to statistically prove that I’m right –’ he picked up his large box and tipped the contents out on the floor ‘– with these.’ Thirty small boxes tumbled out.

  ‘What are they?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Fitness trackers,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘You wear them on your wrist.’ He was already wearing one, and held up his arm to show the class. ‘They measure the number of steps you take, your heart rate, the amount of sleep you get, and how many kilometres you walk.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Ian, opening up a box and trying a tracker on.

  ‘You can’t expect us to wear those!’ exclaimed Mirabella. ‘They’re so ugly!’

  ‘Tough,’ said Mr Fontana.

  ‘How exactly do they measure the number of kilometres we’ve walked?’ asked Friday.

  ‘With GPS technology,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘Your exact location is tracked by a satellite, then the information is sent back and stored in your tracker, as well as on my computer in my office.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I have to agree with Mirabella,’ said Friday. ‘You can’t expect us to wear those. It’s a complete invasion of our privacy.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Mr Fontana. ‘I’m just going to use them to prove how lazy and idle you all are.’

  ‘Yes, but by tracking our movements twenty-four hours a day,’ protested Friday.

  ‘Do you have something to hide, Friday?’ asked Ian.

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ said Friday. ‘That’s none of anybody’s business. That’s what privacy means.’

  ‘You’re a high-school student,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘You have no right to privacy.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Friday. ‘Where did all the
se trackers come from anyway? They must have been expensive.’

  ‘They were donated by an anonymous benefactor,’ said Mr Fontana.

  ‘Who?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I knew you lot would cause trouble,’ said Mr Fontana, taking a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, ‘so I had the Headmaster write a letter of authority for me.’ Mr Fontana shook out the letter and began to read:

  ‘Dear students,

  Every one of you, in every grade, will wear these wrist trackers for the duration of the one-month trial. That is an order. Directly from me, your headmaster.

  I don’t want to hear any complaints from anybody about it, especially you, Friday Barnes. The students at this school are woefully inadequate at just about every academic standard. The least you can do is the bare minimum of physical exertion so that you don’t succumb to low blood pressure or bed sores while you are still students here at Highcrest Academy.

  So put the devices on now. That is an order. Anyone caught taking off their tracker for any reason other than having a shower will be disciplined with the punishment of Mr Fontana’s choice, which I’m sure will involve a deeply unpleasant amount of a repetitive exercise.

  Yours sincerely, the Headmaster.’

  ‘What’s the deeply unpleasant exercise?’ asked Ian.

  ‘One hundred burpees,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘Anyone who takes their tracker off will have to report here each morning before breakfast and do one hundred burpees.’

  Friday stood up. Mr Fontana held out a tracker to her. She looked at the box but did not take it. ‘The reason I am standing up is so I can begin my burpees,’ said Friday.

  ‘What?’ said Mr Fontana.

  ‘I refuse to put that tracker on,’ said Friday. ‘I will not allow this school to electronically monitor my every movement like I am a package from Amazon or a prisoner on weekend detention. I will take the one-hundred-burpees option.’

  ‘But, Friday,’ said Melanie, ‘that’s one hundred burpees every day for a month!’