The Littlest Detective in London

by Suzy Brownlee

  THE LITTLEST DETECTIVE IN LONDON

  BOOK ONE

  IN THE LITTLEST DETECTIVE SERIES

  Published by Prospera Publishing

  Copyright 2009 Suzy Brownlee

  E-edition © 2010 Suzy Brownlee

  First published in the UK in 2009 by Prospera Publishing Ltd.

  The right of Suzy Brownlee to be identified as the

  Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover design Prospera Publishing Inhouse. Cover design Fiona@Sleepish.com

  All rights reserved in all media throughout the world.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Brownlee, Suzy

  The Littlest Detective in London

  E-ISBN 978-1-907504-09-9

  www.prosperapublishing.co.uk

  Prologue

  One Year Earlier...

  THERE IT WAS AGAIN, A TINY SCRATCHING SOUND. ‘Who’s there?’ she called loudly. Perhaps it was her daughter Clemmy, or her husband Horatio? They often forgot things. But there was no answer and the sounds continued.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Oh no! Now she could make out definite heavy footsteps down the long corridor. A trickle of fear raced down her spine.

  Backing towards the bedrooms, she wondered if there was anywhere she could hide.

  But it was too late for such thoughts. A huge, bald man with scruffy tufts of dark hair and large wet pits under the arms of a tight-fitting shirt appeared from the hallway. In his hand he held a small black pistol.

  It was aimed at her.

  He considered her dressing gown and slippers. ‘Get dressed,’ he ordered. There was a flash of gold from his mouth as he spoke. Those teeth. Why did they look familiar?

  ‘Please, can we talk about this?’

  ‘Get dressed,’ he said again, turning his back. His tone was more threatening and she shivered.

  Think, she told herself sternly as she pulled on a pair of jeans and shirt.

  There must be a way out of this.

  She quickly ran through possible escape routes. But this was a basement flat and she was surrounded by buildings and gardens, not to mention the bars she had put on the windows to protect her family.

  Thank goodness Clemmy was already on her way to school with Horatio. If she had been here... it didn’t bear thinking about.

  His hand grabbed her shoulder. ‘Time’s up. Come on.’ He shoved her into the hall.

  ‘How can he do this to me?’ She didn’t know why she was bothering to ask this man such a question. After all, he was only an employee – a henchman.

  The bald man grinned, once again exposing the two glistening teeth that sat crookedly behind his thin top lip. ‘He said you agreed to this, you cannot back out now.’

  Pulling away, she pleaded with him. ‘But I have a child, a husband!’

  He shrugged. ‘Boss says that’s too bad. Boss says you should have thought of that before you agreed to the deal.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No buts.’

  He pointed at the door with his gun. ‘Move.’

  This couldn’t be the end. It just couldn’t.

  She had to leave her family a clue, a way to find her.

  ‘Wait, give me a minute,’ she pleaded.

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Just one minute, so I can leave my daughter a message.’

  Rolling his eyes, the man dropped the gun. She suspected that if the choice were his, he would just as soon shoot her.

  ‘60 seconds. Exactly.’ He tapped at his watch, and then rubbed it clean against his shirt.

  Despite her panic, she noticed the watch was one of those plastic ones you sometimes got free with breakfast cereal. Like the gold teeth, she was sure she had seen that watch before.

  Grabbing a pen, she searched the bookshelf for the book. Where was it? There, behind the atlas on the top shelf. Tales of Forever.

  She pulled it down and quickly opened it to a well-worn page.

  Her daughter’s favourite poem, ‘Quella.’ The words blurred as tears formed in her eyes.

  ‘30 seconds’, called the sweaty man.

  Forcing herself to ignore him and concentrate, she circled, crossed and added – in the hope that one day someone would be able to decipher the markings.

  And come and save her.

  Chapter One

  A very mysterious meeting

  BUT WHY NOT?’ CLEMENTINE CORDELIA Bird put on her most miserable face and gazed forlornly up at her father.

  ‘Because I say so, Clem.’

  ‘Everyone at school has one.’

  Daddy shook his head as he wrestled with both her scooter and the heavy iron gate that led to the street. The gate was winning, refusing to budge. ‘Come on, Pumpkin, I am sure that’s not true.’

  Clemmy bobbed her head up and down ferociously. ‘Yes it is! Absolutely everyone has a mobile phone. Except for me.’

  Placing the scooter on the steps, Horatio Ignatious Bird sighed. ‘I know for a fact that Rodney Shot doesn’t have one. His mother told me.’

  Rodney Shot was the naughtiest boy in her school and he didn’t need a phone. He simply thumped other kids until they gave up their phones if he needed to make a call. Clemmy didn’t bother telling Daddy that, though. He’d only say mobile phones were corrupting poor Rodney!

  She tried another tack.

  ‘What if someone were to kidnap me, Daddy? A mobile phone would come in very handy then.’

  Daddy finally managed to open the gate. ‘Why on earth would anyone kidnap you?’

  Offended, she retorted that she was in fact, eminently kidnappable.

  ‘I certainly hope not,’ Daddy replied, putting her scooter down on the footpath. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Will you at least think about the phone?’ begged Clemmy. A future promise was far better than a straight out “no.”

  ‘Not until you are at least twelve.’

  Twelve! That was years away. Clemmy’s bottom lip fell.

  ‘Nice day, don’t you think?’ said Daddy, trying to change the subject.

  Clemmy wasn’t in the mood to be agreeable. ‘Far too hot for a coat,’ she said, turning to her father. She squidged about in her green tweed for emphasis. ‘Can’t I leave it at home?’

  ‘Come on Clem,’ said Daddy wearily, rubbing his hand across his forehead. ‘We’re late. You can take the coat off when you get to Mrs Mackleberry’s.’

  Casting her blue-green eyes upwards, Clemmy noticed he looked very tired. Ordinarily a handsome man, the huge, puffy bags under his eyes made him look as if he hadn’t slept in a year. Or two. Or two hundred.

  Ever since her mother had disappeared suddenly last year, Daddy had looked totally exhausted. The weird thing was, he wasn’t tired from trying to find Mummy. He wasn’t looking for her at all.

  Clemmy decided she didn’t want to make things worse for him by being difficult.

  ‘Okay Daddy, let’s go.’ She patted his hand, picked up her scooter and together they headed towards the bus stop on the corner of Queen’s Gate.

  Three years wasn’t that long to wait for a mobile phone, reasoned Clemmy, as she scootered along. That is, if phones weren’t obsolete by t
hen!

  … Meanwhile, in another part of London ...

  A beautiful fourteen-year-old girl was staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, and she was most displeased by what she saw.

  ‘Zis is not good. I need to look highly unattractive. Like an English person!’ Natasha Commonov spoke out loud, her words perfect but her accent betraying the fact that she was from somewhere far east of the little islands of Britain.

  ‘A disguise. Perhaps I need a disguise?’

  She considered her reflection. Long brown hair, delicate almond-like eyes, heart-shaped face. Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to make herself look different, she thought. Perhaps a hat and some sunglasses? An ugly cheap dress from one of those sad little chain stores on Oxford Street?

  Moving back into the bedroom she walked to the window of her luxury hotel and observed a group of young girls in the street below.

  Perhaps she could dress like one of them? The larger of the group was wearing a hideous tight tracksuit, accessorised with giant hoop earrings and tightly-pulled-back hair. Natasha noticed the unmistakable logo of a popular fast food place on the brown paper bag she was carrying. Yuck! What a sight. Peasants in her native Slakistan had more class – and they wore flip flops with socks!

  A disguise of a shiny tracksuit and tacky earrings? Natasha shivered. She knew she was on an important mission, but there was a limit – no need to stoop that low! In fact, apart from old baby photographs, no one in England could possibly know what she looked like. A horrid, demeaning disguise probably wasn’t necessary. Glasses and a hat would do.

  That settled, she turned from the window and moved into the dining area of the hotel room. On the table was a photograph of Natasha and her father, taken last year in prison. She touched the glass tenderly.

  How could they do this to her?

  Sighing, she took up her diamond-encrusted video phone – the top of the range in mobile technology – and punched in a number.

  ‘Da?’

  Natasha spoke in Slakistanian. ‘It’s me, Igor. Has anyone noticed I’m missing?’

  ‘No, Miss Natasha.’ Igor, her father’s right- hand man, was obviously in a cafe. She could hear cups twinging in the background. Picturing him guzzling coffee in his crumpled suit, his moustache wet and dripping, Natasha scowled.

  When she got back to Slakistan she would make sure lazy old Igor got what he deserved – a job cleaning toilets at a hog farm in Loservia.

  ‘Miss Natasha, did you hear me?’

  ‘I’m not deaf Igor! Just make sure no one discovers I am here. Any news of my father?’

  ‘No. He is still seriously ill. His heart.’

  ‘I must get him out of jail. He cannot die there.’

  ‘We are doing all we can, but without some proof that he is innocent…’

  Natasha banged the phone against the dining table. A tiny fleck of wood chipped off and flew across the room. ‘What do you think I am doing here? Those horrid old spies have the proof we need, and I will get it. No matter what it takes.’

  ‘Be careful, Miss Natasha. You don’t want to end up in jail like your father.’

  ‘I am fourteen, you dolt. What can they do to me?’

  Slamming down the phone, Natasha pushed her chair back and began pacing the room. In her mind, a devious plan was unfolding and it involved the group of feeble old crones who had ruined her family years before.

  The Old Spies Network of London had better watch out, because she was a whole lot meaner than any other Commonovs they were familiar with, including her father.

  And with her father taken from her, Natasha Commonov had absolutely nothing to lose.

  … In a mansion block in Bayswater …

  The large dirty door knocker fell off the door as soon as Clemmy’s Daddy touched it.

  ‘Why doesn’t she get that thing fixed?’ he grumbled, as he retrieved it from the floor.

  It had rolled into the corner near the staircase and Clemmy sneezed as her father rubbed dust from the metal.

  ‘Perhaps she likes it like that?’ suggested Clemmy in a snuffly voice, trying not to sneeze again.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Daddy was not impressed by Mrs Mac but Clemmy guessed he didn’t want to complain. With her mother gone, someone had to look after her in the holidays and after school, and there weren’t many people who charged as little as Mrs Mac, and lived so close to Daddy’s work.

  ‘A loon’, her father said critically, when he had first met her. ‘She’s a definite loon.’

  Mrs Mac wasn’t particularly old, but Clemmy had to admit she was a little odd. She was one of those people who spent hours looking for her glasses, only to find them perched on her head. Worse, she often lost Clemmy when they went out shopping, usually because she became distracted by food. Once, in Marks & Spencer on the King’s Road, Clemmy had to page her.

  “Attention shoppers. We are looking for a, um, cuddly lady in her sixties. She has bright orange hair, multi-coloured glasses and is probably eating.”

  By the time Clemmy had found Mrs Mac, the biscuit section of the foodhall was almost empty!

  Clemmy didn’t tell her father that instead of Mrs Mac looking after her, it was usually the other way around. Daddy might hire another babysitter, or worse, send her to one of those horrid holiday camps!

  Anyway, despite her foibles, Clemmy loved Mrs Mac. She was the closest thing to a gran she had.

  The door swung open. A humongous woman with wild hair and tiny pink and blue glasses that curved up at the end like cats’ eyes appeared.

  She was wearing a tight, short black shirt and equally cosy-fitting jacket.

  ‘Hobnobs and marmite, you’re late,’ she said accusingly, tapping a tiny gold watch that was wound tightly around her chubby wrist.

  ‘You would think she were paying us,’ mumbled her father.

  ‘Morning Mrs Mac,’ said Clemmy cheerfully, to cover up for Daddy’s grizzlyness. ‘How are the foot lumps?’

  Mrs Mac had weird lumps all over her feet that hurt her when she walked. Daddy said they came from sitting around eating sweets and watching cooking shows on TV.

  ‘Painful, little girl, painful.’

  ‘Her name is Clementine,’ said Horatio Bird, finally giving in to his annoyance, ‘not little girl.’

  Mrs Mac spun her head around and considered him as one would a squashed bug. Without saying another word Daddy kissed Clemmy and scurried down the stairs. Watching him, Clemmy had to admit there was something bug-like about her father.

  ‘Wait there,’ Mrs Mac told her, and disappeared into the apartment.

  ‘Why?’ called Clemmy.

  ‘We are going on a little adventure.’

  ‘Really?’ Clemmy wondered if adventure was code for the pub. Mrs Mac liked going to the pub.

  Mrs Mac reappeared, wearing a small shiny rain hat and carrying her teeny square black handbag. Everything she owned was small, which was very odd because Mrs Mac was much larger than the usual person.

  ‘Are you warm enough?’

  ‘Too hot, actually,’ said Clemmy.

  ‘Good. Let’s go!’

  Mrs Mac also had a strange habit of asking questions and then not listening to the answers. Clemmy sighed and wriggled around in her warm coat. Why on earth did adults worry so much about kids catching cold?

  …A few minutes later…

  ‘BUBBLE GUM AND CHOCOLATE SAUCE!’ exclaimed Mrs Mac, pointing northwards. Clemmy‘s eyes followed the plump finger to discover that they had just missed the bus.

  ‘Another will be along soon, won’t it?’

  ‘Clementine my dear, we are in a hurry. No time for lingering at bus stops.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Clemmy again.

  ‘To the secret meeting of ..., I, er, mean the monthly meeting of my knitting group.’

  Clemmy was intrigued. ‘I’ve never seen you knit, Mrs Mac.’

  Mrs Mac poked her nose in the air and set off in the direction of the high street. ‘Well, the needles do
hamper eating somewhat,’ she replied. Mrs Mac consulted her watch. ‘Oh, strawberries and apricots, look at the time! We’ll have to take a cab.’

  Clemmy suspected that Mrs Mac was up to something, but there wasn’t any point questioning her now. Mrs Mac was also one of those people who could only do one thing at a time. Walk, or talk, but not both simultaneously.

  ‘Look, there’s one!’ shouted Mrs Mac, running wildly into the road, the miniscule heels on her delicate shoes groaning under the weight of her body. ‘Driver, stop. Oh pickles and parsnips, STOP!’

  … In another cab near St Paul’s Cathedral …

  A cab driver was looking at the striking fourteen-year-old girl suspiciously. If he were familiar with high fashion, he might known her outfit was worth the best part of five thousand pounds. But having no idea, he thought she was too young to afford cabs.

  ‘Are you sure you have money?’ he asked.

  Sighing, Natasha opened her designer carryall and fished about. She threw a fifty pound note at him. ‘Just get me zere, you creepy little man.’

  The expression on the driver’s face changed. ‘Okay, kid. Okay. No need to be rude.’

  As she climbed into the back of the cab, she noticed that the driver looked a little scared.

  Natasha smiled a slow smile. He’d better be scared. After all, she was a Commonov.

  … Back in the first cab …

  They had arrived at their destination and Clemmy was pondering the fact Mrs Mac was not at all concerned about her lack of funds to pay. Her face said it all – so what? What’s a few pounds, anyway?

  The driver, however, was definitely worried about Mrs Mac’s offer to send him a cheque in the mail.