‘Look lady, you need to pay me now.’
‘Well I simply can’t. Meringues and marmalade! I don’t have a penny on me.’
What have meringues got to do with it, wondered Clemmy. Mrs Mac always said strange things when she was nervous or upset. And the strange things were always about food. It was probably because Mrs Mac loved food so much. Daddy once said Mrs Mac was so fond of eating that if they were not careful, Mrs Mac would eat Clemmy.
The driver was getting really mad. ‘Then you shouldn’t have hailed the cab,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know I was without funds when I got in, did I? That would be a stupid thing to do.’ Mrs Mac was scribbling out her name and address for the driver using a microscopic silver pen found in the depths of her tiny, shiny, black bag.
Clemmy looked down and saw that Mrs Mac was giving an address in Peckham. Peckham was nowhere near Mrs Mac’s house. Clemmy knew this because her Aunty Jo lived in a flat off Peckham High Street, and it was a long way away in a car.
‘There!’ Mrs Mac handed over the piece of paper. ‘You can come and get me if I don’t pay you.’
Without further ado, they leapt out of the car. When Clemmy looked back, she saw the driver still sitting there, scratching his head and staring at the scrappy bit of paper.
‘Will you pay him back?’ asked Clemmy, as they walked down the street.
Mrs Mac shrugged. ‘Of course. But I need to buy some stamps first. And possibly an envelope. And then I need to find my cheque book. Cheesecake and chestnuts, it all seems like a lot of trouble for a few pounds, don’t you think?’
Clemmy didn’t reply because she thought it was stealing. After all, driving people around was that man’s job, wasn’t it? If everyone behaved as Mrs Mac, he wouldn’t have money to feed his family. Sometimes Mrs Mac didn’t set a very good example for children!
They walked up to a squat, square terrace with a flat roof. It had dirty white-framed windows that looked as if they had never been opened. Spider webs crisscrossed each other over the porch sheltering the front door, and next to the letterbox were piles of leaflets advertising takeaway pizza, cheap TVs, new gutters and house cleaners.
This was one house that desperately needed a house cleaner, decided Clemmy.
There was also an overflowing garbage bin in the front garden, with odd looking bottles poking out of the top. Beer and wine bottles! Number 10 was definitely the yuckiest place in the street. The houses on either side were pretty cream buildings with loads of flowers, polished gold numbers and glistening front doors. This place looked derelict.
Mrs Mac noticed the look on Clemmy’s face. ‘Anything wrong, dear?’
‘Well, er, um, it looks a bit scary in there, don’t you think?’
‘Nonsense, it’s just a bit esoteric.’
Clemmy didn’t know what esoteric meant, but judging by the odd house in front of her, it must be another word for garbage dump.
‘Now, come along, I am already late.’ Mrs Mac marched up the path, stepping briskly over the junk that was blocking her way, and banged on the door.
But no one answered.
Mrs Mac tut-tutted herself. ‘Of course, the knock. The special knock.’
‘Special knock?’ asked Clemmy. ‘For a knitting club?’
Mrs Mac was too busy concentrating yo reply.
‘Now, what was that special knock again? Pancakes and butterscotch syrup! I hope I haven’t forgotten it. Was it one short knock, then four quick knocks, followed by another two long ones?’
Clearly not, because the door remained shut.
‘Or perhaps two long knocks and one quick one?’
Still no sign of life from the door.
Mrs Mac was becoming flustered. ‘Chocolate custard and cheese! What on earth was that special knock?’
Custard and cheese? Yuck! Clemmy began to wonder if Mrs Mac had suffered from some sort of mental breakdown. Were they on a wild goose chase? Or in Mrs Mac’s case, a wild doughnut chase? This house looked abandoned.
‘Let me see, one long knock and four short ones, followed by two quick ones.’ Mrs Mac nodded in satisfaction. ‘That’s it, I am sure of it.’
At the final knock, the door opened immediately.
Clemmy held her breath.
What kind of person could possibly live in a strange house like this?
Chapter Two
Natasha’s plan revealed
YOU’RE LATE,’ SAID A VOICE ACCUSINGLY. Clemmy was standing behind Mrs Mac and couldn’t see the owner of the voice, but she shivered at the harsh tone.
‘I have to work, you know. I couldn’t leave until the child arrived.’
The screechy voice sounded choked. ‘What child? You’ve brought a child?’
Mrs Mac dragged Clemmy around in front of her. ‘Just a little one. Licorice and limes! Look at her, she is teeny. Much too young and silly to be a problem, I assure you.’
A thin, pasty face peered at Clemmy. A fairish lady with a very long nose and a helmet of stiff-looking hair. She seemed to be the same age as Mrs Mac, but much, much slimmer. Too slim, in fact. She was clutching something furry in her hand. Clemmy looked more closely. The furry thing was rather ragged and was fidgeting angrily.
Clemmy hoped it wasn’t a rat.
The blonde woman glanced down at the little girl and her nose crinkled up as if she could smell stinky feet. ‘I suppose she looks simple enough,’ she stood aside. ‘As long as she can’t identify this house.’
10 Rothman Street, said Clemmy to herself, because she didn’t dare say it out loud. Sure, she was a little scared, but the whole situation was also terribly interesting. Exactly what kind of knitting club was this?
Inside Clemmy saw two other people, sitting in a stuffy, rectangular lounge room off the dark hallway. One really withered old woman, who was snoring loudly in an armchair by the window, and one peculiar, angular oldish man, whose eyes were darting from Clemmy to Mrs Mac and back again.
Well, well, well. Even more interesting – a man who was a member of a knitting club!
‘Hello all,’ said Mrs Mac cheerfully, immediately surveying the room for food.
‘What are you so cheery about?’ asked the sour man. He had a pointed white beard, crazy white hair and wore a woolly red vest with black jeans.
His beady eyes locked onto Mrs Mac. ‘Don’t you know, then?’
Clemmy decided the man kind of looked like Santa. A grumpy, mad Santa more likely to give you a smack than a present.
‘Know what, Ludwig?’ said Mrs Mac.
‘The Commonovs are back in business. Well, not all of them, precisely. In fact, on further analysis, they are not so much back in business as in a new form of business. Well, not a new form, exactly...’
‘Herrings and hotdogs, Ludwig, do you have to be so pedantic?’ Mrs Mac grumbled. ‘Now, did someone mention cake?’
Who were the Commonovs? Clemmy wondered. Maybe they sold knitting needles?
‘You don’t understand, Doris. The Commonovs are back, and they are after us!’
Mrs Mac’s eyes widened. ‘Nooooo! Crumpets and curly fries! That can’t be possible. Vladimir is locked up. We made sure of that.’
Locked up? For knitting? Clemmy began to suspect this knitting club didn’t do much knitting. Was Mrs Mac really a bank robber? Daddy probably wouldn’t be too surprised if she were.
The pokey-nosed blonde lady nodded her head so violently that her heavily-lacquered hair actually moved. The furry thing in her arms (Clemmy could now see that it was actually a cat with a half ear and long, scrawny tail), objected by trying to scratch one of its owner’s eyes out.
‘It is, I’m afraid, Doris.’
‘Vladimir Commonov is in jail. I saw him taken by the French police with my own eyes.’
Ludwig pointed his finger accusingly at the women. ‘Who is responsible for research? One of you should have discovered this earlier. Lucinda, was it your turn to research our old enemies, paying particular attention to the ones
who have no compunction to use force, in addition to...?’
Lucinda, the lady with the Ratcat, interrupted. ‘Yes, and I did, you old coot. Why do you think we are all here? The Commonov family is back in business. Apparently someone new has taken over.’
Mrs Mac was edging towards the tea trolley, where there was a huge cake under a silky napkin. Clemmy hoped Mrs Mac would remember her before she scoffed it all.
‘Ludwig,’ said Mrs Mac, casually sinking into a chair by the trolley, ‘the only Commonov left is Vladimir, so we have nothing to fear.’
Ludwig shrugged. ‘That was ten years ago. Well, ten years, one month and eighteen days, to be precise. Things change.’
‘Eclairs and eggs, will you stop speaking in riddles!’
‘This was obtained six months ago by the Slakistanian Secret Police.’ In theatrical fashion, Ludwig pulled out a photo and with a stroke of his mad-Santa beard, presented it to Mrs Mac. But her hands were busy investigating the contents of the tea trolley, and the photo fell to the floor in front of Clemmy.
Dressed in a fashionable, expensive-looking outfit was a beautiful, scowling girl with long dark hair and a perfect heart-shaped face. In fact, she was so pretty that Clemmy was a little jealous.
She bent down and picked up the photo. Mrs Mac reluctantly took her hands from the cake trolley and plucked the picture from Clemmy’s hands.
She frowned. ‘This girl is far too thin.’
… Meanwhile, a few streets away …
‘Are you sure the address is correct?’ Natasha stood in the middle of the street, yelling into her diamond-encrusted mobile phone.
‘Da,’ Igor replied, ‘I had my man Knock steal the information from the British Embassy.’
‘Knock? Knock? Is he called that because someone knocked his stupid head into a wall? The imbecile! I can assure you, there are no horrid old people around here, Igor. Only mothers with babies. Mothers with babies aren’t spies, are they?’
There was silence. Igor felt that if a fourteen-year-old girl could run the largest crime family in Europe, a mother and child could definitely be spies. But telling Natasha that would get him nowhere Besides, he needed to get off the phone. His latest cup of coffee was getting cold. ‘No. But the address is definitely 10 Rothman Street.’
Natasha groaned. ‘You told me Hawthorn Street, you dolt!’
‘I am sure I said Rothman.’
‘Igor?’
‘Da, Miss Natasha?’
‘Who is the boss?’
Your father, Igor thought. But Vladimir Commonov had instructed Igor to obey Natasha, so obey her he must. ‘You are, Miss Natasha.’
‘So who is wrong?’
Igor gulped. ‘I am, Miss Natasha.’
‘Now that we have that settled, I should warn you that I am running my father’s business now, and just because I am young doesn’t mean I am afraid to punish those who betray me. Got it?’
Another gulp. ‘Da, Miss Natasha,’ said Igor.
‘Right, get back to work. I need more names, more information.’
Natasha paused for effect.
‘And this time, don’t mess it up.’
Without waiting for Igor’s snivelling reply, the beautiful young crime princess snapped her phone shut and marched off down the road, in the direction of Rothman Street.
… Back at number 10 Rothman Street …
‘This pretty girl is Natasha Anya Ilana Dolores Commonov, aged fourteen years. Well, fourteen years, three months and twenty three days, to be precise.’
Ludwig pointed at the black and white photo. ‘She’s just a child.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Mrs Mac, peering through her tiny glasses. ‘I am surprised. Crime lords aren’t usually fatherly types, are they?’
‘She was born in Slakistan and was only four when Vladimir went to jail.’
Mrs Mac looked at the photo again. ‘It’s amazing that she is a Commonov. How is that possible? Vladimir could hardly be described as handsome, and as I recall her mother Anya was a most unfortunate-looking woman. She had a mole on her face that looked like a second nose!’
Ludwig tugged at the mad-Santa beard. ‘Well, the daughter is beautiful and brilliant. According to documents obtained by our undercover friends, her IQ score is off the scale. She’s supposed to be in boarding school in Slakistan, a place called Noworkstan School for Girls. However, according to our sources, she is hellbent on revenge, so she may not stay there for long.’
Mrs Mac looked worried. ‘Revenge?’
The final member of the group, the little old lady called Marisol, had finally come to life and spoke softly from her chair by the window. Despite the moving lips, she looked more corpse than person.
‘What?’
‘Did she say something?’
‘What was that?’
No one could hear what Marisol said. Judging by the frustration on the faces of the other spies, it was a long-standing problem.
‘What was that, Marisol?’ asked Lucinda tiredly. Ratcat added a mean squawk for emphasis.
Marisol mumbled a little more loudly, and even then Clemmy could hardly make out what she was saying. Particularly as she had a very distinct stutter.
‘I s-s-s-said, she is o-o-o-o-only a child. H-h-h-how much h-h-h-harm can a child d-d-d-d-d-do?’
Lucinda passed over a newspaper article. Clemmy could only make out a couple of words. ‘Tragedy’ and ‘death’. Scary. Very scary.
‘Baguettes and brioche! A child can’t be responsible for this,’ said Mrs Mac. ‘It says this happened to our spy friends in Rome. How would she get the material? The equipment?’
Spy friends. Mrs Mac was a spy? Clemmy was dying to read the article, but she didn’t want to actually ask for a look see. There was no use in drawing attention to herself, was there?
Maybe she could join their spy club? No, they were bound to say she was too little. Everyone thought she was too little. Even though she was in Year Four, most people thought she was in kindergarten.
‘Natasha Commonov inherited fifty million pounds from her grandfather. She stands to inherit a whole lot more from her billionaire father. It goes without saying that money buys a lot of help.’
Wow, thought Clemmy. 50 million pounds. That would buy a kooky cool mobile phone.Having given up on trying to sneak cake, Mrs Mac took off her coat. She plonked it down on a pile of newspapers and turned back to Lucinda. ‘And the authorities, do they know about her?’
‘Yes, Scotland Yard knows,’ interrupted Ludwig, ‘but the Slakistan authorities insist that she is safely in that boarding school. The school emails the Interior Police weekly with reports. Each Friday morning to be precise. According to everyone concerned the girl is behaving herself.’
Scotland Yard! This club was sounding more important by the minute, thought Clemmy.
Mrs Mac was looking at the photo again. ‘She is just fourteen, Ludwig. I am sure you are mistaken.’
All of a sudden, Clemmy heard a noise by the front door. She glanced around the room. The old people were arguing; Mrs Mac had resumed cake stealing duties. No one seemed to have heard. Clemmy quietly backed out of the room. She peered through the dirty glass in the front door.
Coming down the path, jumping the piles of rubbish just like Clemmy herself had done, was a tallish slim girl with long, gleaming hair, dressed in a sleek maroon coat. As Clemmy opened the door, the girl turned around. She had milky white skin, a perfect upturned nose, and thick eyelashes decorating amber, almond-shaped eyes.
The girl from the photo!
Nut-brown eyes flickered over her, like a bird surveying its prey, then narrowed into a glare.
Before Clemmy could even think of reacting, there was a cluttering sound. Something had fallen from the girl’s pocket and had bounced away, settling amongst the rubbish on the path.
Time seemed to stop as both girls stared down at the object. It was closer to Clemmy than the girl.
‘Clementine, where are you?’
At the sound of Mrs Mac’s voice, the girl paused momentarily, then ran from the garden and out of view, leaving Clemmy alone.
Mrs Mac appeared on the porch. ‘Didn’t you hear me call you?’ She was puffing from the short journey from the lounge room.
‘Yes, but I, um, I remembered something. I must have dropped my new toy outside. It was in my pocket. I was just getting it.’
‘Cranberries and custard! Why are you so clumsy? Go and get it then, but hurry up. Lucinda has just cut a delicious cinnamon tea cake and there will be none left.’
‘Okay, Mrs Mac.’
Clemmy stepped off the porch, ran down the path and stopped in front of the object. It was a fancy, sparkly mobile phone, with a really big screen. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket.
Kooky cool! If that girl really was Natasha Commonov, maybe Clemmy could snare club membership by offering up this phone?
Then something happened that changed everything.
Clemmy turned back to join Mrs Mac, and her eyes passed over the dusty name plate that hung crookedly over the house number. It could barely be read it was so dirty.
Reaching up Clemmy brushed some of the dust away.
‘Careful Little Elves’ said the old tin sign.
Careful Little Elves!
Clemmy sucked in her breath.
There was only one other place she had seen those words – circled on the poem Mummy had left open on her bed the day she had disappeared. Circled; four stars dotted along the bottom edge.
Why had Mummy circled them, and why were they on this dirty old club house?
… Meanwhile, around the corner …
‘How could I be so stupid?’ Natasha exclaimed aloud, kicking a nearby gate in fury.
The gate’s black latch fell off and rolled into the road.
That diamond-encrusted mobile contained special codes to an expensive remote control device. The device was part of Natasha’s master plan, and had been purchased in Rome for an exorbitant fee from a dodgy, moustached man named Gianni.
The Littlest Detective in London Page 2