If the texter is one of the good guys, then fine. But if they’re one of the bad guys . . . ? Could I end up working for the wrong side? Will I even be able to know WHICH side I’m working for, unless I identify this texter?
I must be CAREFUL!
CHAPTER
THREE
AFTER A LOT OF THOUGHT, and a lack of sleep, I decided that the best course of action was to proceed as planned and, er, hope for the best!
One result of all that thinking was a brilliant idea for how to carry out my investigations without raising suspicion. After all, you don’t see all that many schoolboy detectives wandering around the average hotel, now, do you? I’d thought of the perfect way in – Susan Lillington.
Susan, who was in the other class in my year group at St Egbert’s School, had not just one parent who worked at the Regal, but two. I remembered her talking about it, ages ago, to my great friend Isobel ‘Izzy’ Moustique, that Rani of all Research and official Chief Brainbox of St
Egbert’s. (Readers of my earlier case files will know that some of Izzy’s enormous family were also in the hotel trade.)
As I arrived at school the next morning, I hurried over to Susan. Maybe, I thought, she was the mystery texter?
‘Hi Saxby,’ she said, ‘what’s up?’
‘Um, well, that’s just what I was going to ask you,’ I said.
She gave me a blank look. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ve not come across any crimes?’ I asked. ‘You’ve not, oooh, I dunno, sent any texts recently?’
She gave me a look as blank as a fresh sheet of A4. ‘What are you talking about?’
The texter really wasn’t her, then!
‘Oh, nothing! I’ve got a favour to ask you.’
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I’m investigating a case at the moment, and on Saturday evening I need to be at the hotel your parents work at, the Regal. Do you think you could arrange some sort of cover story? I’m there doing work experience for a school project, that sort of thing?’
She grinned. ‘No need! I’m going to be there on Saturday anyway with some friends. You can come along with us, if you like.’
‘Great!’ I said. ‘Couldn’t be better!’
Her eyes darted around. ‘What’s the case about,
Saxby?’ she whispered. ‘Is it dangerous?’
‘I hope not!’ I cried, going slightly pale. ‘I need to keep an eye on some diamond smugglers.’
‘Smugglers!’ she squealed. ‘Diamonds! Hey, that’s really exciting!’
‘It’s not a game,’ I said, in a serious tone of voice.
She cleared her throat and sloped her fingers into a couple of nice-and-calm gestures. ‘Yes, right.’ She fought back a giggle.
‘See you later,’ I tutted.
I just had time before lessons to have a word with my other great friend, George ‘Muddy’ Whitehouse, that Maharajah of Mechanics and official Top Gadgethead of St Egbert’s. Half his breakfast was littered down the front of his school uniform.
‘Just the bacon and beans this morning, was it?’ I said. ‘Your mum out of eggs?’
‘Yeah,’ he gasped, shaking his head in amazement. ‘You really are the greatest detective.’
I gave him my phone. ‘Could you take a look at this for me? I got some anonymous texts last night, from a number I didn’t recognise, and I need to find out more about the sender.’
Muddy turned the phone over a couple of times in his bike-oil-stained hands. ‘Hmm, not going to be easy.’
‘Because the sender would have covered their tracks?’
‘No, because your phone’s such a piece of junk. Something more up to date might capture more metadata, but a basic model like this . . .’ He wrinkled his nose and sniffed. ‘Nah, you’d have to hack too far into the SIM card. I keep telling you, I can upgrade this for you!’
‘No thanks.’
‘Bigger battery pack, better electronics, touch screen. You’ve seen the Whitehouse Connect-U-Fast III, my latest invention? Thingummy over in Mrs Whatsit’s class has got one and he swears by it.’
‘He swears at it,’ I said. ‘It hardly fits in his pocket.’
‘Yeah, but it’s a good phone,’ said Muddy. ‘Goes six weeks between charges.’
‘Who needs six weeks’ talk time?’ I said. ‘Unless you’re trekking up the Amazon. And then you wouldn’t get a signal.’
‘You never know!’ protested Muddy. ‘You might need it for whatever investigation you’re on right now! What investigation are you on right now?’
I gave him a brief summary of events so far. I missed out the bit about the security forces. Telling Muddy that spies were involved would be like letting a toddler eat its own weight in sugar.
‘Are you free this weekend?’ I asked. ‘In case I need your help on something technical?’
‘This would be at the Regal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Saturday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Susan Lillington?’
‘Yes.’
‘No way.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with Susan Lillington?’ I asked.
‘Nothing whatsoever,’ said Muddy, ‘on a normal day. Saturday is her birthday.’
‘Oh! She didn’t tell me that,’ I repeated.
‘These friends she’s having over are all girls.’
‘Oh! She didn’t tell me that,’ I said.
‘They’re having a girlie sleepover.’
‘Oh! She didn’t . . . What? What?’
‘Izzy told me,’ said Muddy. ‘And you’ve just invited yourself along, have you? Hmm, good luck with that, then.’
He handed me back my phone. I was too shocked to move.
CHAPTER
FOUR
BY FRIDAY AFTERNOON, THE ICY swirls which had been circling the town for days finally descended into a thick covering of snow. Everything outside took on an eerie, artificial look. In the winter half-light, the streets seemed lit only by the reflections off the snowy pavements. People stepped carefully, taking care not to slip, huddled tightly into overcoats and scarves.
The Regal Hotel was a broad, three-storey building on the long, straight road which glanced off the eastern edge of the town. It had been built in the middle of the eighteenth century as a coaching inn where travellers going north and south across the country could stop and change horses.
The hotel was set out in a kind of giant U-shape, with the bottom of the ‘U’ formed by the narrow front section facing the street and the two sides forming a large central courtyard. Two hundred years ago, this paved courtyard would have been filled with wooden coaches and ladies in long skirts. And probably quite a lot of horse poo, come to think of it. That Saturday, however, it was the site of tastefully arranged pots forming an ornamental garden – a garden covered in snow.
It was dark by the time I arrived. Orange lamps on short poles shone a distinctly creepy glow over the small area marked Staff Car Park that I crossed on my way into the building, my wellies crunching against the snow. With a smile, I noticed that my footprints were the only marks at this end of the car park, except for a set of widely-spaced, striding steps which led into the hotel from a battered old purple van.
Entering through the shiny glass doors that faced the road, I felt like a caveman suddenly transported into the twenty-first century from a frozen wasteland. Inside, the place was blissfully warm, cheerfully bright and so thickly carpeted that you couldn’t hear a single footstep.
Signs on the opposite wall pointed visitors either to the left for the hotel’s restaurant, La Splendide, or to the right for the hotel’s reception. I went right.
Being the depths of winter, it was low season for the hotel and there were relatively few guests.
Susan and several other girls, including Izzy, were gathered by the reception desk. Izzy was in her normal out-of-school gear – all chunky rings, bright colours and glittery fringes. The girls and I exchanged a criss-cross of ‘hello’s and ‘hi’s.
/> ‘Saxby, is it?’ said the tall, smartly dressed woman behind the reception desk.
‘This is my mum,’ explained Susan. ‘Mel. She’s on duty at the front desk all evening.’
‘Hello, Susan’s mum,’ I said. ‘Um, I do just want to make it clear, I don’t do girlie sleepovers. I’m here in my official capacity as brilliant schoolboy detective. I’m undercover. I’m going home as soon as possible. I don’t do girlie sleepovers.’
Mel gave me the same blank look Susan had given me at school. ‘Right,’ she said slowly. ‘OK.’ Something in her expression said, ‘Yes, you’re every bit as odd as I expected’. She brightened up with a snap and said, ‘Why don’t you all wait in the administration office until the last two arrive?’
Behind the reception desk were two offices, one marked Administration and the other marked Supervisor. Into the admin office we trooped. It was a large, cluttered room with one desk against the wall close to the door and another two over by the window. Through the window’s slatted blinds, I could see the hotel’s big, snow-covered courtyard, and beyond that the other ‘arm’ of the hotel’s U-shape with an enormous window.
‘That’s the restaurant,’ said Susan. ‘We’ll be going over there to eat in a little while.’
‘Your dad works here too, doesn’t he?’ I asked, watching a fresh drifting of snow glide gently down outside.
‘Yes, he’s the restaurant’s chef,’ said Susan. ‘He’ll be cooking our dinner tonight. He used to be in the police, years ago, but Mum kept worrying that one day he’d come home with a bullet wound. Then one day he came home with a stab wound and she made him quit. I think he prefers cooking.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said with a smile.
‘Pressies!’ announced Izzy. There was a sudden flurry of ribbons and wrapping paper and female activity.
Earlier in the day, I’d considered not bringing a birthday present with me, because I wanted it to be absolutely clear that I don’t do girlie sleepovers. However, it would have been rude not to. So I added my small parcel to the pile.
While the girls were oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing all over the place, I took a look around the office. There were cardboard boxes stacked here and there, and a couple of scribbled-on flip charts. Above me hung a projector – exactly the same sort of thing as we had in our classroom at school. That and the flip charts told me that this room must be used for staff training.
Izzy appeared at my shoulder. ‘Aww, are you feeling a bit of a spare part?’
‘Pack it in,’ I muttered.
At that moment, a man wearing a Regal Hotel sweatshirt came clattering into the room. His hair was yanked back into a ponytail and he had a beard which looked like a small mammal clinging to the underside of his face. He had a laptop under one arm and was hobbling along with the help of a grey metallic walking stick.
‘Hello, Mr Beeks,’ said Susan.
‘Oh, yes, happy birthday, Susan,’ he replied with a nod.
Ah, Bryan Beeks! The maintenance man who was my reason for being here in the first place.
‘Thanks,’ said Susan. ‘We’ll be out of your way soon, we’re just waiting for another two to arrive.’
Luckily, I hadn’t mentioned any details of my investigation to Susan, beyond what I’d told her at school. She had no idea that I was keeping a close eye on this guy.
I was struck by Mr Beeks’s voice. It was distinctively deep, and he had a noticeable Geordie accent. Whoever it was at the hotel who was the ‘reliable source of information’ the texter had mentioned, I was now fairly sure they wouldn’t have mistaken Beeks’s voice for anyone else’s. So far so good.
‘You’ll have to be out of here soon, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Beeks. ‘I’ve booked this room all evening, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to get done. I’ve let it pile up a bit.’
‘How’s your leg?’ asked Susan.
‘Not too bad,’ he said, propping his walking stick against the desk and shuffling over to the nearest seat. ‘The doctor says it’ll be another few weeks before it’s healed.’
He seemed calm and friendly, not at all like someone who was planning to stage a diamond heist within the next couple of hours. He snapped his fingers and stood up again. ‘I’ve left my phone in my coat pocket.’
He limped across the room. I picked up his walking stick and handed it to him. It was quite thick, but very light.
‘Shall I fetch the phone for you?’ said Susan. ‘If your leg’s hurting?’
‘Bless you,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘but it’s only in the staff cloakroom down the hall. Won’t be a minute.’
Out he went, leaving his laptop on the desk. The last couple of sleepover guests arrived and Susan finished opening her pressies. There was a hushed moment when she got to mine, a copy of a really good book I’d read recently called True Tales of Gruesome Crimes. Izzy gave me a stare, which I think was her way of signalling that I’d chosen well.
It turned out that Susan’s sleepover party were staying in one of the unbooked rooms on the third floor. She got the keycard from her mum at reception and we all charged up to room 307. Nice: more thick carpet, big TV, and a shiny white bathroom so big you’d need to mount an expedition to reach the toilet.
Meanwhile, I was torn between not wanting to get involved in all the girlie talk going on, and needing to make progress with my enquiries.
‘Mr Beeks, he does the fixing of broken stuff around here, yes?’ I asked casually.
‘Yes, he’s such a nice guy,’ said Susan.
‘What’s with the walking stick?’
‘He’s torn the ligaments in his ankle and knee, playing rugby. But he’s still coming into work. Did you see his crappy old purple van in the car park?’
‘Yes, I did,’ I chuckled.
Yes. I did.
I’d suddenly spotted an important clue. Bryan Beeks hadn’t torn the ligaments in his ankle and knee at all! That injury was nothing more than acting!
Think back to what I saw before coming into the hotel. Have you spotted the same mismatch I had?
Apart from my own, there had been only one set of footprints in that snowy staff car park. They’d come from an old purple van, which I now knew to be Bryan Beeks’s. They’d shown someone striding across the snow. Something that would have been impossible if he’d really hurt his leg as badly as he claimed.
But why would anyone pretend to have an injured leg? How could that have any bearing on the robbery he was supposed to be planning? Was he going to make the smugglers think he couldn’t run away from them, or something? It didn’t appear to make any sense. However, the mysterious texter had been right – keeping watch on Beeks was obviously a good idea.
The girls were having a great time. One or two were sniffing approvingly at the free shampoo in the bathroom, but most of them were lounging around pretending to order fizzy cocktails or flicking through channels on the TV. I took a peek inside the mirrored wardrobe.
‘Hey, there’s a room safe,’ I said.
I heard a rapid scrambling behind me. They all crowded in to have a look.
‘Hey, there’s a room safe,’ they said. It was quite a large one, with a numeric keypad lock, and was bolted to the wall at the back of the wardrobe.
‘All the rooms have them,’ said Susan. ‘You can set your own combination. Shall we put our stuff in there while we go to dinner?’
There was a chorus of ‘Yeah!’s. Every last one of them went straight to their overnight bag, and took out a phone and a handheld games console. After a few bleeps of its keypad, the safe held enough technology to stock a small shop!
By then it was past seven o’clock, and we were all hungry. Susan led us back down past reception, along the corridor-like front of the building, and into the other half of the hotel’s U-shape, on the far side of the courtyard.
A sleazy-looking, greasy-faced beanpole in a black jacket and bowtie greeted us at the entrance to La Splendide. This, it turned out, was Vernon, the head waiter. He eyed us as if we were a pack
of scuttering cockroaches.
‘You’re at one of the window tables, Miss Lillington,’ he said to Susan, as if he was speaking to something a cockroach might turn its nose up at.
The restaurant was positively beautiful. The dining area was large and delicately laced with the smell of fresh bread. Its high ceiling was decorated with flowery patterns, and the lighting came from shaded lamps placed at the centre of every table.
Our table was circular, spread with a spotless white tablecloth and neatly laid with sparkling cutlery and tall glasses. It was placed beside that big window I’d seen from the office earlier on; looking out, I could see across the snowy courtyard to the brightly lit rectangle of the office’s window. The blinds were open now, and Bryan Beeks was clearly visible, sitting at the desk by the door, working at his laptop.
I had the perfect vantage point from which to watch him. As I sat down, next to Izzy, Susan leaned across to me and whispered, ‘Spotted any diamond smugglers yet?’
Ah! Good point!
‘Excuse me a minute,’ I said, ‘just got to verify something.’
I nipped back out to the reception desk. There was now a Do Not Disturb sign on the admin office door, and I could very faintly hear Bryan Beeks tapping away at his laptop inside.
I asked Susan’s mum if I could take a quick look at the hotel register, as part of my ongoing detective investigation into certain matters which would have to remain confidential for the time being. She smiled sweetly and clearly thought I was slighty peculiar. Anyway, the current screen of the register showed all check-ins for that day:
TIME
NAME & ADDRESS
ROOM
4.22 p.m
G.T. Foreman 145 Bailey Street, Bath
209
4.40 p.m.
Mr & Mrs Smith c/o GPL Ltd, Poole, Dorset
206
5.09 p.m.
Peter Glynn Flat 2, Bunn Court, Stortley
319
5.58 p.m.
Mr L. Moss 12 Watford Grove, Leamington
217
6.30 p.m.
Secret of the Skull Page 6