The Plotting Shed (Sam Trowel: Special Patrol Youth Book 1)

by Tim Flanagan

  THE PLOTTING SHED

  By

  TIM FLANAGAN

  Also available from Tim Flanagan:

  THE MOON STEALER SERIES

  The Moon Stealers and the Quest for the Silver Bough (Book 1)

  The Moon Stealers and the Queen of the Underworld (Book 2)

  The Moon Stealers and The Everlasting Night (Book 3)

  The Moon Stealers and The Children of the Light (Book 4)

  LAWRENCE PINKLEY MYSTERIES

  The Curious Disappearance of Professor Brown

  The Mystery of Van Gogh's Missing Heart

  Lawrence Pinkley's Casebook Vol. 1

  Lawrence Pinkley's Casebook Vol. 2

  The New Savants: Surge of the Red Plague

  Amazon Publishing Manual

  Visit the author's website for more details on how to claim your exclusive FREE book!

  www.timflanaganauthor.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  The Strange Torpedo

  Chapter Two

  My First Assignment

  Chapter Three

  Following the Target

  Chapter Four

  Breaking In

  Chapter Five

  The Production Line

  Chapter Six

  Escape

  Chapter Seven

  Transport Home

  Chapter Eight

  Setting the Trap

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Strange Torpedo

  Do you know your neighbours? Do you really know them? The man at the end of the road who spends every minute mowing his lawn and deadheading his roses could be a mass murderer with a particular fetish for burying his victims in his garden. Or maybe the woman who checks to see if her neighbours are watching before discreetly tucking an empty alcohol bottle into her rubbish bin just before it gets collected is secretly disposing of the evidence that she’s slowly poisoning her husband.

  The thing is—you never really know what your neighbours are like. People are not what they seem.

  And that’s where I come in. My name is Sam Trowel. You don’t know me, but I know you. I’ve been watching you from the shadows, and I have a lot of patience. I can wait until you push that stale lump of gum under the railing beside the bus stop or eat grapes in the supermarket before you’ve paid for them. When I pass you in the street, you won’t recognise me as the same person who asked you for the time yesterday or passed you a leaflet promoting a closing-down sale the day before that.

  I’m Samuel Cornelius Trowel—twelve-year-old master of disguise, spy, and Sudoku genius. Oh yes, I also work for MI6. Well, when I say work, it’s more like a voluntary post, really. Cutbacks and overseas commitments mean that the government have no money left to spy on its own citizens. And that’s why the Special Patrol Youth (or SPY for short) was founded—a government initiative to give kids a purpose in society whilst also reducing crime. But as it’s so top secret, I’m not allowed to talk about my life. If I did, you’d have to undergo mind-altering experiments to make you forget, and they can be pretty nasty. I’ve heard what happens to others after they’ve been altered—they’re never the same again. Imagine spending what was left of your life blowing raspberries from your lips and repeatedly shouting “Wibble” at the top of your voice until a nurse comes in and pushes a Jelly Baby between your slobbery lips. That’s what happens when you have your brain altered. It gets… altered.

  But you’re still here.

  You still want to know about life as a SPY?

  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  I remember the morning that changed my life quite clearly—it’s the sort of thing you would remember pretty well, wouldn’t you? I was sitting at the breakfast table, tucking into my cereal and trying to solve a fiendishly difficult word search printed on the back of the box.

  ‘Doesn't your room need tidying up?’ asked my mum as she searched for her car keys.

  ‘Yes, mum,’ I agreed just before my teeth unexpectedly bit against something hard. I reached into my mouth and pulled out a small blue tube that looked like a miniature torpedo from a toy submarine. I was accustomed to finding unusual items in my food—unfortunately for me, only last week I had uncovered a blue finger bandage hidden beneath the lettuce and gherkin in my lunch from Mad Burgers. It was shiny and seamless—the torpedo, not the bandage, although, come to think of it, that was a bit shiny too, and it’s not surprising, really, considering all the grease that had oozed out of the burger. I picked up the torpedo and had a closer look—across the surface were small white lines that looked like tiny writing.

  The front door slammed as my mum left for work, and as I had nothing else to do, I reached over to a drawer overflowing with junk. This was where odd screws, unidentifiable plastic shapes, lost keys, used batteries, and Dad’s secret stash of chocolate were hidden. Amongst the assortment of items, I knew there was a small magnifying glass that had been the prize in some particularly expensive Christmas crackers that Aunty Agnes had brought over last year as her contribution to the festive dinner.

  Eventually, I found it—a small triangular-shaped object that twisted round on a pivot in the apex to reveal a strange, distorted piece of glass. I lifted the blue torpedo up to the light and moved the magnifying glass forwards and backwards until I felt slightly dizzy and the tiny writing came into focus.

  PLACE INSIDE YOUR EAR AND CLEARLY STATE YOUR CODE WORD.

  If lost, please return to London, SE1.

  No reward available.

  I was impressed.

  The standard of cereal promotional gifts had certainly improved since my childhood, when a cardboard spinning top or fake tattoo that washed off as soon as you started to sweat had seemed a lot more interesting than eating the actual cereal.

  Not anymore. Now it was interactive cereal toys to push inside your ears. Although, come to think of it, I’m sure I remember pushing something up my nose once when I was a child, but that landed me in hospital and with an uncomfortable encounter with a doctor and a rather overly large pair of long-handled tweezers.

  But what could the code be?

  I sat back at the table and stirred the spoon around in my bowl just to be sure there was nothing else hidden amongst the chocolate puffed balls that could mash a molar or resize an incisor. Fortunately, there was nothing else. I returned to my breakfast and the word search I was completing on the back of the cereal packet, when I noticed a codebreaker puzzle at the bottom of the box. It looked pretty tricky, especially for such an early hour of the day, and not something you should tax your brain with whilst wearing Ninja Turtle pyjamas and a pair of fluffy unicorn slippers (another gift from Aunty Agnes at Christmas).

  I read the instructions: to solve the puzzle you had to work out the numbers then translate them into letters to discover the five-letter code word.

  Leaving the word search behind, I immediately began working on the codebreaker puzzle instead.

  After a few minutes of chewing on the end of my pen, I had worked out the answers to the five number puzzles. Then, by writing down the letter for each number, I had a five-letter word.

  I felt particularly pleased with myself as I slipped the blue torpedo into my ear and said the code word out loud.

  ‘Moist,’ I said clearly.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘Moist,’ I tried again, this time a little louder. Still nothing. ‘Moist. MOIST.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve spilt milk on your pyjamas again?’ asked my dad as he walked into the
kitchen behind me.

  ‘Oh, no… sorry, Dad,’ I apologised.

  ‘Is it your grandma’s carpet? Did your mum tell you to remind me again?’ he replied. ‘I suppose I better go round there now and deal with it.’

  He buttered a slice of bread, cut it into triangles, pushed the pointy end into his mouth, and picked up a pair of yellow washing-up gloves from the sink, pulling them on with an eye-watering slap as the rubber twanged against his skin.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, spitting crumbs into the air.

  I opened the door from the kitchen, walked through into the garage, and slid into a red-and-yellow-striped saggy deck chair. It was quiet inside the garage, with no background noise and no chance of anyone else hearing me.

  I tried again.

  ‘M O I S T.’

  There was a faint crackle inside my ear, like an old-fashioned radio being tuned, followed by an operator’s voice.

  ‘Please hold the line while we try to connect you,’ she politely said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, not really understanding what was happening.

  There was more static crackling on the line before another voice came through.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello,’ I replied.

  ‘State your name,’ demanded a voice.

  ‘Sam Trowel, but…’

  ‘Don’t interrupt, Sam Trowel. Now listen carefully. My name is Eustace Burbridge, and I am the commander of a new initiative programme managed by the Secret Intelligence Service in MI6. What we’re looking for is a team of young people who are willing to become part of a special task force that will infiltrate and prevent serious crimes from happening. Since you have successfully deciphered the code, we believe you already have one of the qualities we’re looking for...’

  ‘Codebreaking?’ I asked, feeling quite proud of myself.

  ‘No, enough time on their hands to spend working out the answer to questions on a cereal packet that a tranquilized chimpanzee with an average IQ of twelve would be able to solve. Now, I said don’t interrupt…’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You did it again. As part of this special task force, it will be your job to investigate criminal activity. Once this conversation is over, your earpiece will explode, and no evidence of our existence or conversation will remain. All your missions will be delivered in secret and accessible by your unique code word.’

  ‘Moist?’

  ‘What is?’ Mr Burbridge asked.

  ‘My code word.’

  ‘Well, I hope you won’t share it with anyone.’

  ‘Erm… what if I don’t want to become part of your special task force?’

  ‘We can make your life very uncomfortable, Sam Trowel. We could enlist you with the army if you prefer, or maybe community work as the chief dung analyser at the elephant enclosure at London Zoo. I hear they’re always a little concerned that the elephants don’t have quite the right diet.’

  That certainly wasn’t my idea of fun. ‘Do I get paid?’

  ‘No,’ was the short, sharp reply. ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘Yes, do I get a code name?’ I asked, warming to the prospect of being a spy.

  ‘No,’ repeated Mr Burbridge.

  ‘But all spies have code names.’

  ‘Your name is Sam Trowel, and that’s what you’ll be known as.’

  ‘What about Digger?’

  ‘Digger?’

  ‘Yes. It sounds mysterious.’

  ‘It makes you sound like you’re a gardener. No code names. Now, was there anything else?’

  ‘Well, there was one thing.’ I hesitated, wondering whether I should say it or not.

  ‘Well, ask away!’

  ‘Do you have a moustache?’ I asked. In my mind’s eye, I could visualise Mr Burbridge as an old colonel with a row of medals across his chest, as well as a stiff upper lip that propped up a moustache.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied proudly, ‘a big bushy one with little tiny pinched ends that curl round like a very tight spring. Your first assignment will be delivered shortly. Over and out.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ I replied, but he’d already gone. The torpedo felt warm inside my ear and began to gently fizz. I suddenly remembered what Mr Burbridge had said about the torpedo exploding. I quickly whipped it out of my ear and threw it into the corner of the garage, where it deflated like a soggy balloon and popped into non-existence.

  From that point on, I was a member of SPY, a secret SIS task force to keep mankind safe from evildoers.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My First Assignment

  I waited a couple of days, but nothing happened, and I didn’t get a chance to open a new packet of cereal because mum insisted we finish off what we already had, so no more blue torpedoes mysteriously appeared in my bowl.

  On the third day, I left the house to meet my friends at the park for a kick around and, if we were lucky, a go on the swings when the younger kids weren’t looking.

  Just along from my house, I passed a street vendor selling hotdogs.

  ‘Hotdog, sir?’ he asked me.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I replied and kept walking. I never liked to eat immediately before playing on the swings or especially the roundabout—it always turned my stomach. Within moments, I could hear the rapid squeak of the wheels on the hotdog cart as he chased after me.

  ‘Are you sure, sir? They’re on special offer.’ He smiled a strange smile and raised an eyebrow at me. Either he had taken a particularly unhealthy interest in me in my trendy baseball cap, or he was trying to convince me his little pink sausage was more superior to any others I might have tried. The hotdog vendor’s desperate attempt to persuade me to buy one was reason enough to make me suspect the minimal meat content inside the hotdog might have come from the back door of the homeless dog shelter or been scraped up from the hard shoulder of the motorway.

  ‘No, I really don’t want one,’ I said more forcefully, unable to get the vision of the hotdog being more dog than anything else out of my mind.

  The man wheeling the cart swung it round in front of me so I had to stop walking to avoid colliding with a row of stale-looking finger rolls.

  ‘You really do,’ said the vendor with another wink of his eye.

  ‘I really don’t,’ I replied. He held out a hotdog for me to take. I was beginning to feel a little bit uncomfortable and didn’t like being accosted by a man waving giant sausages in my face.

  ‘This isn’t like any other hotdog you’ve ever had,’ he added, but I still wasn’t convinced the hotdogs were anything special. The vendor winked again. I wondered if he’d accidentally squirted mustard into his eye or maybe was out on day release from the Obsessive Street Vendors’ Institute for the Insane. Either way, I was beginning to get worried that all the swings at the park would be taken unless I did something about this guy. And did it pretty quickly.

  ‘Okay, I’ll take it,’ I said, giving in just to get rid of the man. I reached into my pocket for some change and placed it on top of the cart. I then took the hotdog and squirted a line of thick tomato ketchup along the length of the sausage.

  But the vendor still didn’t move.

  He looked suspiciously from side to side, checking the length of the street for something. I wasn’t sure what. He dipped his finger in the ketchup on top of my hotdog then began to write something on the counter.

  ‘h. d. s. What does that mean?’ I asked whilst silently hoping he’d washed his hands thoroughly before dipping them into my ketchup. ‘Hot. Dog. ’s?’ I guessed. ‘Yes, I already know that is what you’re selling.’ I noticed that I had begun to speak in a loud, clear voice, as if the vendor were simple. ‘Although,’ I added, ‘from the look of this sausage, if you can call it that, it’s obvious you’ve taken the recipe to literally require the inclusion of dog meat to justify calling it a hot dog.’

  ‘No!’ the vendor growled through gritted teeth. He picked up the handles of the cart and wheeled it roun
d so I was on the other side. It was then I realised what he had been trying to tell me.

  ‘Oh… Spy,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘Is this a message from Mr Burbridge?’ I asked.

  The vendor nodded, wiped the ketchup writing from his cart, then immediately began wheeling it away.

  I looked at the hotdog then spoke my code word.

  ‘M O I S T,’ I said, receiving a few odd looks from some of the other people on the street. One end of the hotdog crackled to life, and a tinny voice began to speak.

  ‘Sam Trowel. This is your first assignment,’ said the shiny red sausage. I put the hotdog up towards my ear like a telephone and listened.

  ‘We have received several reports of a large-scale fake-money operation in the area. Replica twenty-pound notes have been filtering into the banks from many different shops and businesses. On many of the banknotes, we’ve found partial or full fingerprints belonging to a man called Arthur Longsocks, but that on its own is not sufficient to prove his involvement. We need you to trace Mr Longsocks and his associates, find out how the notes are entering the local economy, and if possible, suspend his operation. Report back to HQ by placing an advert inside The Times newspaper in one week for the attention of Mr Poodle. This hotdog will explode in five seconds.’

  I quickly ran to the nearest litter bin, threw in the hotdog, and continued running towards the park with a long smear of red tomato ketchup across my cheek. Behind me, the hotdog exploded inside the bin, spraying litter across the road and setting off a couple of car alarms.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Following the Target