As we approached the room where the parents’ evening was being held, I began to get jittery. Why had Dad been so eager to come with us? Did he have some secret purpose of his own? Because I didn’t know what was going on in his head, I couldn’t predict how he’d behave, and that made me nervous. And I didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he came face to face with Mr Bull.
There were a lot of people in the room, but even so it was obvious that Mr Bull wasn’t one of them. He’s too large and too loud to disappear in a crowd, and there was no sign of him. Sighing with relief, we joined the queue waiting to speak to Mr Cohen. I wondered if he would mention Eye Spy to Dad. Even worse, would he mention our mother? I went cold just at the thought of how Dad would react to that. By the time we reached the head of the queue, I was getting more nervous by the minute.
Mr Cohen was as friendly as ever. “Mr Macintyre? Pleased to meet you at last.” He nodded at us. “Hello, you two. Alex, there’s no need to look so worried, you’re doing very well in English. The only thing you need to improve on is your concentration in class.” I breathed a sigh of relief as he congratulated Dad on encouraging us to be well-read and literate. Dad looked pleased with himself, but I wanted to tell Mr Cohen it was nothing to do with Dad. I’d spent the last couple of years working my way through Granddad’s large collection of detective stories. I’d read all the Sherlock Holmes tales and now I’d moved on to Raymond Chandler’s Phillip Marlowe books. I didn’t need any encouragement, because I loved detective stories.
By the time we’d seen the Maths, History and French teachers, I’d begun to relax a little. So far, Dad was behaving just like all the other parents: looking pleased when a teacher said something nice about us and promising to encourage us to try harder when the teacher was critical. In fact, although he was getting a little restless, everything was going really well. We were waiting in line to see Mr Owen, our Science teacher, when I heard Mr Bull’s voice in the distance, accompanied by the sound of footsteps approaching along the corridor. Donna had heard him too. She grabbed Dad’s arm and began to steer him towards a screened-off area in the corner of the room. “Look, Dad,” she said. “There’s no queue for IT. Let’s go there next.”
Dad brightened up. “Sounds good to me. I never could stand queues.” As we nipped behind the screen, I could hear Mr Bull greeting parents. We’d just made it in time.
Suddenly I remembered that Miss Wren, like Mr Cohen, knew things about our mother, and might be curious about Eye Spy. She looked at us expectantly. I introduced Dad and they shook hands. “No problems with these two, I hope?” said Dad. She shook her head. “Not so far, Mr Macintyre. Do they have their own computers at home?”
“Oh yes. As a matter of fact I built their computers myself from old models I’d salvaged.” He tried to sound modest but didn’t quite manage it. Miss Wren looked impressed and started to ask him questions about how he’d done it. While they chatted, Donna stuck her head out from behind the screen and peered round the room.
“Mr Bull’s still in the far corner,” she whispered to me. “I hope he stays there! Oh, look, there’s Em!”
She darted off and reappeared with Em, who was talking excitedly. “The drama group’s rehearsing Romeo and Juliet in the main hall,” she was saying. “Let’s go and have a look.”
I glanced at Dad, who was discussing the finer points of writing computer programs with Miss Wren. “What about Dad?” I whispered.
“With any luck he won’t even notice we’ve gone. He’s as safe here as anywhere.”
I wasn’t convinced she was right, but I wanted to see the play, so I agreed, and the three of us slipped out of the room and hurried along the corridor to the Assembly Hall, where the rehearsal was going on.
The members of the cast were lolling about on chairs watching as two boys wearing cloaks pretended to fight each other. Mr Oliver, the Drama teacher, kept making them do it again, while the audience laughed and jeered when they fell over or dropped their swords. After a while one of the boys, who had the sort of bulging arm muscles you get when you spend hours in the gym each week, threw his sword down. “If you don’t like the way I do it, sir, find someone else!” he said as he stalked off the stage.
Mr Oliver shook his head in frustration. “OK, Aidan,” he said. “I’m going to show you that anyone can fake a fight if they just follow instructions, even a complete beginner.” He looked round the room, ignoring several boys and a girl who were shouting, “Pick me, sir, pick me!” Then he saw me standing near the doorway. “Ah! What’s your name, boy?”
“Er… Alex, sir.”
“Ever performed on stage, Alex?”
“No, sir, but…”
“Great. Come up here. You’re going to show Aidan just how easy it is to fight convincingly on stage. Aidan, give him your cloak.”
I could hear Donna and Em giggling to each other as I walked towards the stage. Aidan gave me a filthy look as he handed me his cloak. I made a mental note to keep out of his way in future.
Up on the stage I faced my opponent. He was a thin, gangly Year 10 boy at least a head taller than me. He looked me up and down and shook his head. “Sir!” he said. “This is ridiculous. Do I have to?”
Mr Oliver ignored him and began to demonstrate the correct way to hold a sword. We started the fight sequence in slow motion, while Mr Oliver shouted instructions. It was easier than I thought it would be, and the audience clapped and cheered when I pretended to get the better of my opponent. I guessed he wasn’t very popular. The fight ended with him pretending to run me through with his sword and I fell to my knees.
The teacher said, “Right, Alex. You’re dying. Look convincing!”
By now I’d got into the swing of things and was quite enjoying myself. I fell over sideways, made a few gurgling noises, and then lay still.
“Excellent!” Mr Oliver said. “You see how easy it is, Aidan, when you put your mind to it? Right, I want Juliet up on stage now. Where is she?”
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to get up, so I continued to play dead. Finally, as I heard someone climbing up on stage, Mr Oliver remembered me. “You can get up now, Alex,” he said. As I clambered to my feet I found myself face to face with a girl in a long velvet skirt. It was Atlanta. She stared at me in disbelief. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded.
I could feel my cheeks burning as I tore off the cloak, threw down the sword and jumped off the stage. As I left the hall with Donna and Em, who were in fits of giggles, I heard Atlanta say, “I swear that boy’s stalking me!” A couple of the audience laughed and I imagined everyone turning round to stare at me. I was so embarrassed, I felt as if I’d gone red all over. Even my ears were burning. No Olympic athlete could have got out of that hall quicker than I did that night.
Back at the parents’ evening, the crowds were thinning out a bit and Mr Bull seemed to have disappeared. “I hope Dad hasn’t been looking for us,” said Donna, as Em re-joined her family and we made a beeline for the IT corner. There were several people still waiting to see Miss Wren, and when we stuck our heads round the screen we found out why. Dad was giving Miss Wren a lecture on the subject of artificial intelligence. I thought she looked a bit bemused, but then Dad often has that effect on people. When she saw us, she smiled at me. “Alex, you’re just in time to collect your dad. Mr Macintyre, I have enjoyed our talk, but now I really must see some of the other parents. Good luck with your project.”
Dad shook her hand enthusiastically. “Many thanks for all your help,” he called over his shoulder as we emerged from behind the screen. The next parent in the line scowled at us and muttered “At last!”
We made a hasty exit from the room and steered Dad out of the building as fast as we could without actually running. He seemed in an even better mood than he had been earlier. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said. He was striding along so fast that we had difficulty keeping up with him. “Very clever woman, that Miss Wren. She’s given me some good idea
s on how to program Hamish to make him more versatile. Something to impress the man from the Ministry.”
So that was why he’d volunteered to go to the parents’ evening. I hoped Miss Wren knew what she was talking about. I didn’t want Dad turning up at school and having a go at her if her program didn’t work.
Chapter Eleven: THE MAN FROM THE MINISTRY
The next day, I was really paranoid in school. Everywhere I went I was afraid I was going to bump into Atlanta and her gum-chewing friend, or Aidan from the Drama class. At break, Donna started having a go at me. “Atlanta’s our best lead at the moment,” she grumbled. “If you won’t go anywhere near her, how are we ever going to find out anything?”
I was fed up with Donna criticising me. “It’s all right for you! Nobody’s made fun of you in public!” I turned my back on her and went off to talk to Raji and Ryan. Ten minutes later, she was back, tapping me on the shoulder.
“You’ve got to come!” she hissed in my ear, trying to drag me towards the boiler room.
I refused to move. “If you think I’m going to risk getting involved in another poker game…” I began.
“It’s not poker,” she insisted. “Atlanta and her cronies are in the boiler room having a smoke, and I’ve been eavesdropping. It’s quite safe; they can’t see us. Hurry up, or we’ll be too late.”
When we got there, instead of going into the building, she crept round the side and stopped just short of the window to the caretaker’s room. The top half of the window was open and we could hear talk and laughter from inside. Wisps of smoke drifted from the window into the playground.
Donna put her finger to her lips. “Listen…” she breathed.
A girl’s voice said, “You’re so lucky, Atlanta, working at the Starship Café.”
“You think so?” I recognised Atlanta’s lazy drawl. “You’re on the go all the time, and if you break a glass or accidentally spill some food on a customer, you have to pay for the damage.”
“I still think it’s better than stacking supermarket shelves,” said the first voice. “And anyway, it’s not your only job, is it, Atlanta? She’s got another cushy number…”
“What? Babysitting?” said a third voice. It sounded like the gum-chewing waitress. “The kid I used to babysit bawled his head off the moment his mum left the house and didn’t stop until she came back. I don’t call that cushy!”
“Oh, but little Tati is sweet!” said Atlanta. “She’s no trouble at all.”
“Tatty?” someone asked. “What sort of name for a kid is that?”
“T-A-T-I, stupid. It’s Russian. It’s short for Tatiana.” I caught Donna’s eye. At last the conversation was getting interesting.
There was a pause while they seemed to be lighting fresh cigarettes. Then Atlanta continued, “Tati’s dad nearly fired me last week. Our dog got out and was running up and down the street barking its head off. I had to leave Tati on her own whilst I got him back. Her dad wasn’t best pleased, but he agreed to give me another chance. I’m babysitting again tonight.”
I remembered the conversation outside the café. Now it made perfect sense. It seemed the dog Sergei had mentioned was Atlanta’s own pet. We’d leapt to all the wrong conclusions. I felt ashamed. As PIs go, we were rubbish.
On the way to our next class, I said to Donna, “So can we rule out Atlanta and her boyfriend as suspects?”
“Yeah, but not Sergei, even if he does have a sweet little baby daughter.”
“Yes, he’s still suspect number-one, because he’s the only person we can definitely place at the scene of the crime. If Kiki was stolen, he could have been the decoy. But I don’t think he can be keeping Kiki at his place. He wouldn’t let anyone else into his house if he had a stolen dog there. And anyway, Atlanta obviously likes dogs if she has one of her own. Wouldn’t she have mentioned Kiki if she was there?”
Donna looked glum. “We seem to be going round and round in circles. We might as well give up.”
I tried to cheer her up. “We could try Kath again. I’m sure she knows more than she’s telling.”
“OK, but that’ll have to wait. Tonight I want to go straight home and find out how Dad got on with the man from the Ministry.” She was right. Kath could wait another day; right now we had more urgent priorities.
As soon as we arrived home that afternoon, Nan pounced on us. “Don’t go near the workshop, either of you. Your father’s in there with his visitor and he doesn’t want any distractions.”
In the kitchen the table was laid with the best tea service, the one Nan only ever uses on special occasions. There was a Dundee cake, a plate of scones, butter and cream and home-made raspberry jam. Nan was doing her very best to impress the man from the Ministry.
“How long have they been in there?” Donna asked.
Nan glanced at the clock. “At least a couple of hours. I’m sure they’ll be finished soon.”
As we all stared at the door of the workshop, we became aware of raised voices. Whatever was going on in there, it didn’t sound good. Then the door opened, and a man in a pin-striped suit walked briskly down the path towards the house.
Nan opened the back door. As he stepped into the house, Pinstripe looked over his shoulder as if he was afraid Dad was going to pursue him. Nan smiled nervously at him. “Can I offer you some tea and cake?” she said.
Pinstripe looked at the tea and the scones, and the steaming kettle, and I could see he was tempted. He glanced back towards the workshop, and just at that moment the door opened and Dad came out. He looked even more dishevelled than usual and absolutely furious. “How kind… awfully sorry… a train to catch… must dash…” He was already halfway to the front door when he added, “Please thank your son for seeing me. I wish him good luck in his endeavours.”
As the door closed behind Pinstripe, Dad came into the kitchen. He was shaking with anger, but at the same time he looked stunned, as if he didn’t quite know what had hit him. Nan took his arm and steered him towards a chair. Then she poured him a cup of tea, added three sugars, and asked, “What happened, Ian?”
We got it out of him bit by bit. It had all started well. Dad was on his best behaviour, Hamish performed impeccably, and the man from the Ministry was so impressed that he handed Dad a contract to sign. Under normal circumstances, Dad would have just signed on the dotted line without reading it, because he loathes paperwork, but just then he was trying very hard to appear business-like. So he read all of it and he discovered that, once he’d handed Hamish over to Pinstripe, that was it. He’d get paid for the design, of course, but he wouldn’t be involved in the robot’s manufacture, and once Hamish replicas were rolling off the production line and being sold to eager buyers, he wouldn’t get any of the profits, either.
“I offered to act as a consultant whilst they developed the robot. I offered to sign the Official Secrets Act. I even said you’d all sign it too if necessary. But he just wasn’t having it. That was when I told him to get lost.”
Donna was looking at Dad as if he was off his head. “He offered you money and you refused?” she said incredulously. Nan glared at her, but it was too late – the words were already out.
Dad almost ground his teeth. “It was a paltry sum!” he said. “Paltry! I put two years of my life into this project; it’s got vast potential, but they won’t pay me what it’s worth! They wouldn’t even let it be known as the Macintyre robot, so that at least I got the credit for it. They’re jackals! Jackals!” He thumped his fist on the table so that all the cups and saucers rattled furiously.
Nobody said anything. There didn’t seem to be anything left to say. After a while, Dad got up and put on his coat. All the anger had gone out of him now, and he just looked old and defeated. It was as if he’d switched off his batteries and shut himself down; as if he were the robot, not Hamish. He left the room, and a moment later we heard the front door slam.
He was still out at suppertime. We didn’t talk much during the meal, and I could tell Nan was worried
about Dad. When he’s angry or depressed, he’s even more unpredictable than usual, so we didn’t know what to expect. Donna looked especially unhappy, pushing food around her plate instead of eating it. I guessed she was feeling guilty because of what she’d said to Dad about the money. Eventually she stopped pretending to eat and said, “Why does he push us away when things go wrong for him? He never lets us comfort him.”
Nan shrugged. “What can I say, lass? Ian’s never been good at handling rejection; it makes him feel a failure.”
All three of us felt like failures that evening. I hoped that day was just a low point, and that from then on things would get better. But they didn’t get better; they just went on getting worse.
Chapter Twelve: HOLTECH
At two thirty on Thursday afternoon, we were sitting in the hall with the rest of Year Eight, waiting for the Managing Director of Holtech to appear. Donna and I sat right at the back. It was only six days since the poker game, and we didn’t want to give Mr Bull any more opportunities to pick on us. So far that week we’d been quite successful at keeping a low profile, but it wasn’t worth taking any chances.
The buzz of conversation stopped suddenly as Mr Bull walked onto the stage accompanied by a man and a woman. The man was very tall with a high forehead and receding hair. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t work out where I’d seen him before. The woman, who had short, glossy blonde hair, was wearing a black trouser suit and a red top. Mr Bull ushered them onto the stage as if they were royalty, pulling out a chair at the table for the woman to sit on. You could see he was in a good mood as he stood on the platform with his hands clasped behind his back, swaying gently from foot to foot and beaming widely at us. He was doing his Father Christmas act again.
“Today, boys and girls,” he began, “we are privileged to have with us the Managing Director of Holtech Systems, Miss Diane Fairchild, and her colleague Mr Lionel Caulfield, who are going to talk about what the company produces and explain to you the fascinating careers that are open to those who work in the field of cutting-edge technology. I’m sure we’re in for a really stimulating talk. Miss Fairchild…” He sat down and gestured to the woman to start talking.
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