Lori and Max

by Catherine O’Flynn

  Why would Max mention Peggoty to me in the letter? I don’t even like the cat. And who or what is Dandybird? Alison Burrows would say I read too many detective books, but what does she know. It feels like a clue or a coded message. I think Max is trying to tell me something and the only concrete clue I have is a fat, fluffy cat that makes me sneeze.

  I pick up a Curly Wurly and take it up to Mr Meacham behind the counter. Nan is excellent at making conversation with shopkeepers. If it was an Olympic sport, she would definitely be a gold medallist. I think it must be a skill you develop as you get older. This situation, though, demands that I make apparently casual conversation with Mr Meacham, so I imagine I’m Nan and go for it.

  ‘Good morning. How is Peggoty?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Peggoty, your cat. I would like to know how she is. It’s a casual enquiry.’ This is harder than it looks.

  ‘Oh, well, thank you for your casual enquiry. Peggoty is fine as it happens. Be useful if she caught a mouse once in a while, instead of sitting about all day like the Queen of Sheba, but we can’t have everything.’

  ‘I see. May I make another enquiry?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘You don’t happen to have another cat or pet of any kind called Dandybird, do you?’

  ‘Danny Bird?’

  ‘Dandybird.’

  ‘No, afraid not. One pet’s enough. Sounds like a good name for a budgie to me.’

  ‘And do you know anyone who has a budgie?’ I try.

  He rubs his chin. ‘My auntie Peggy in Whitstable.’ I quickly get out my notebook. ‘But both she and the budgie have been dead for over fifteen years.’

  I put my notebook away and pick up my Curly Wurly. ‘OK, well, thanks for your help, anyway.’

  Mr Meacham smiles. ‘Thank you for your enquiries.’

  As I make my way to the door, I notice an old-fashioned wooden crate of pop on a stand at the side of the shop. Something makes me stop to look and that’s when I see it: a line of bottles of Dandelion and Burdock.

  Dandybird! Dandelion and Burdock! Max’s favourite drink. Could that be what it means? My brain suddenly turns into a massive police computer churning this new information and all its implications. Max misses Peggoty, but she’s not missing Dandybird. Why? Does that mean she’s still getting Dandelion and Burdock wherever she is? Her mum said that Meacham’s was the only place she knew that still sold it. Mr Meacham might hold vital information!

  I take a bottle up to the counter. Mr Meacham looks up from his paper:

  ‘Back again? More pet enquiries?’

  ‘Moving on to soft-drink enquiries.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you sell much of this?’ I say holding up the bottle.

  ‘Well, now, it’s funny you should ask that.’ He leans forward as if sharing a secret. ‘If you’d have asked me that exact question a few weeks ago, I’d have said, “Hardly any.” I drink most of it myself. It’s what I used to drink as a kid, but of course no one likes it these days. Unfashionable, rather like me.’

  ‘But what would you say if I asked you today?’

  ‘As you just did.’

  ‘As I just did.’

  ‘I’d say that, suddenly, in the last week or two, we’ve started shifting some. It’s always the same customer, a lady who comes in most mornings and buys a bottle of that and a whole load of sweets and crisps.’

  I have a tingling feeling all over my body.

  ‘Does she ever buy any kola kubes?’

  ‘You know her, do you? Yes, always 100g of kola kubes, too. I’m surprised she has any teeth left in her head. Not that I’d say that. It’s not good business sense for sweet-shop proprietors to mention dental health, plus she’s not the chatty sort, to be honest. Bit of a sour look about her. Maybe that’s why she needs all the sugar.’ We both laugh at this for quite some time.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The next morning, I am in position lurking in the comics and magazines at the rear of the shop when Mr Meacham gives the arranged signal, saying loudly to no one in particular: ‘It certainly is a beautiful day. I do miss Paris in the spring.’

  Mr Meacham came up with this himself, I really wasn’t sure about the Paris bit but he got very excited by the idea of giving a secret signal. The only problem is that it’s clearly not a beautiful day and the blonde woman who has just entered is confused by the comment.

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s drizzling!’

  ‘Beautiful for the flowers, I meant,’ says Mr Meacham with a beaming smile.

  The woman is somewhere in her thirties and wearing a black, hooded anorak. She goes over to the display stand and I watch covertly as she selects a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock and two packets of smoky bacon crisps. She asks Mr Meacham for 100g of kola kubes and stops for some time to scan the front pages of all the newspapers before paying and leaving. Mr Meacham winks at me as I follow her.

  ‘Is that Danny Bird?’ he whispers.

  I give him the thumbs up and leave.

  My plan is to get the subject’s car registration number and take it straight to Alison Burrows. But when I get out of the shop, I see that there is no car and the woman is already halfway down the road, walking quickly, head down, looking at her phone. I look around and then start jogging as discreetly as I can behind her, ducking into doorways and behind parked cars every now and then for no real reason except that’s what people do on telly.

  Fifteen minutes later, we reach the edge of the Glebe estate. The high-rise tower blocks on the estate are the tallest buildings in New Heath by miles. My dream has always been to live on the top floor of one of them. From up there I’d have an amazing, birds-eye view of any suspicious activity happening down on the mean streets below. I’d set myself up in a nice comfy chair by one of the big windows with my binoculars, or better still a camera with one of those enormous long, zoom lenses. I’d have a bag of Maltesers on my left. Soft drink of choice on my right. It would be total crime-spotting luxury. The only problem is that they’re going to demolish all the blocks soon, so that’s one dream that’s never coming true.

  Parka woman doesn’t go toward the tower blocks, though. Instead she heads for a row of small, empty-looking houses on a short path some distance away from the nearest road. I watch her go into number eight, the house at the end of the block. I make a mental note of the street name and hide behind a big bush. There’s loads of litter trapped on the branches which provides extra cover. Perfect. I begin my surveillance.

  Now I’m here, staring at a closed door, I start to wonder again if I’m doing the right thing. I mean, I realise that criminals don’t go around with stripy tops, eye masks and big sacks marked ‘Swag’ on their backs, but parka woman really doesn’t look like an evil kidnapper; she looks more like somebody’s mum. Maybe she’s just an innocent person with a very sweet tooth. Maybe I’ve got carried away, just like Alison Burrows said.

  I start worrying about needing the toilet. This never seems to happen to detectives on a stake-out on telly. What do they do? Do they wee in their cars? I’m wondering how long this all might take, when the door opens again and the woman comes out carrying a black bin bag of rubbish. She leaves the front door open as she struggles up the path with it. If Max is in that house, then the bin bag will be full of real evidence that I can take to Alison Burrows.

  The woman goes to the side of the house to open a gate and drag the wheelie bin from the back garden. I look back at the open door, straining to see any evidence of Max inside. I feel calm and in control for the first time since parka woman entered Meacham’s. Once she goes back indoors I can grab the bin bag and take it away somewhere safe to investigate. All I have to do is wait. But my eyes keep turning back to the open door. What if Max is inside right now?

  My heart starts beating crazily and suddenly, without my brain’s permission, my legs are pushing me up from behind the bush and I’m running faster than I’ve ever run in my life, straight for
that door.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I’m hiding in a complete stranger’s loo. This was the first door I came to inside the house and I dived in, breathing heavily, my heart beating so loudly I’m sure parka woman will hear it from outside. I am trespassing. I have broken the law. I look down at my legs in horror. They are criminal legs. I hear the woman’s footsteps coming back up the path and I hold my breath. Two scenarios instantly pop into my head:

  1) the woman is completely innocent. She’ll find me, call the police and they’ll lock me up.

  2) the woman is an evil kidnapper. She’ll find me, not call the police and she’ll lock me up.

  I’m trying very hard to think of a third, less terrifying outcome when I hear the front door slam and footsteps moving away, going back up the path. Parka woman’s gone out! She was just putting the rubbish out before leaving the house. I let out a very long breath and wait for the feeling that I’m about to have a heart attack to pass.

  When I’ve calmed down, I start searching the ground floor, though it’s pretty clear straight away that this has been a terrible mistake in every possible way. This is not a kidnapper’s den. It’s a totally normal house: ‘Keep Calm & Carry On’ mug on the draining board, OK Magazine on the sofa. There’s no trace of Max anywhere. I sit down on the bottom step of the stairs. How could I have got so carried away? Dandybird? What was I even thinking of? What would Nan think if she could see me now, trespassing in a stranger’s house? I put my head in my hands.

  I don’t hear any footsteps. The first thing I hear is the jangle of keys on the other side of the front door. I stand up so quickly I feel dizzy. I run from the front door, down the hall and just manage to throw myself into the understairs cupboard as I hear the key turn in the lock. There are coats hanging on the back of the cupboard door and it’s only then that I realise my mistake. This is parka woman! The first thing she’s going to do is take off her parka and hang it in the exact place I’m standing. I push myself as far back in the cupboard as I can and crouch down low behind a vacuum cleaner. I hear her footsteps getting closer and then the creak of the door opening. I hold my breath. I try to will my heart to stop beating. The woman stands a few feet away from me. I can hear her breathing. She doesn’t take off her coat. Instead she moves coats around, from hook to hook. I hear her muttering, ‘Where is it?’ before finally grabbing an umbrella. The door closes and, a moment or two later, I hear the front door slam again.

  I need to run as fast as I can, out of this house and far, far away and never look back again, but I know I have to wait just a few more minutes to make sure the woman is out of sight. As I crouch in the dark, I realise that it’s time I gave up my detective dreams. Crime isn’t a game. Nan’s right, I need to live more in the real world. It’s time to grow up.

  I count to a hundred and finally get out of the understairs cupboard. I head to the porch and sneak a look through the side window. There’s no sign of the woman, or indeed anyone, around. I decide then that the first thing I’m going to do when I get out of this house is dump my secret notebook in the wheelie bin. I’ll go home and tell Nan I’ve decided on a career change. Maybe I could be a teacher, I couldn’t be too much worse than Miss Casey. I mean I’m good at remembering names and I’ve been able to clap for as long as I can remember.

  I reach up to open the door when I hear a noise. A creak or a squeak from somewhere. I don’t care. Probably the neighbours. I just need to get out. I open the front door and remember the house next door looked empty. I stand on the threshold, willing myself to slam the door behind me and leave. But the estate is deserted. If I heard a noise, it can only be coming from this house.

  I look over my shoulder and back up the stairs. It could be anything. Could be parka woman’s husband. Could be a vicious pet dog. Could be a hundred and one things that will put me in even deeper trouble. But then it could – just very slightly possibly – be Max. I close my eyes and think ‘What would Sylvie Clandestino do?’ Slowly I close the door and go back inside. I’ve only done half the job I came to do. I have to check upstairs.

  I tiptoe as silently as I can until I reach a landing with four closed doors. I listen at each one but the only thing I can hear is the blood hammering in my ears. I try the first door as gently as I can, moving the handle very slowly, opening the door a tiny crack. It looks safe. I open the door fully and see a neat, empty bedroom. That’s when a voice nearby makes me jump out of my skin.

  ‘Julie?’

  I dive behind the door to hide.

  ‘Julie? Is that you?’

  I recognise that voice. I come out from behind the door and stand in the middle of the landing.

  ‘Max? Max, is that you?’

  There’s a pause and then I hear her voice clearly coming from the door straight in front of me: ‘Lori?’

  ‘Max!’ I try the door but it’s locked. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m OK. You need to find the key.’

  I look around desperately and try to think. Where would a criminal mastermind hide a key they didn’t want anyone to find? It could be anywhere in the house. It could even be with the criminal mastermind right now. Maybe they keep it in a safety deposit box in a bank. That’s when I see a wooden key rack hanging on the wall right ahead of me. It has a motto printed on it:

  ‘Hang it where it’s plain to see, then you’ll never lose that key.’

  I shrug. Maybe not a criminal mastermind, but still sensible advice. I grab the key off the hook and quickly open the door. Max is standing on the other side, grinning: ‘Lori Mason Private Detective. What took you so long, partner!’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Oh no. Not again! Max and I are halfway down the stairs when we hear it. The unmistakable sound of the key turning in the front door.

  We look at each other for a micro-second and then turn around and run full-speed back upstairs. The front door creaks open as we pile into Max’s room and look for somewhere to hide.

  ‘The key! The key!’ hisses Max and grabs it from me, running back to hang it up outside on the landing as we hear voices coming up the stairs.

  She dives back into the room and closes the bedroom door as silently as she can, bundling us both through into the en-suite. She turns the shower on full blast, presses her ear up against the door and listens. When we hear the rattle of the key on the rack, she calls out loudly, ‘Julie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Don’t come in, please!’

  I can picture parka woman, just outside the door, key in hand, poised to put it in the lock and discover it’s already unlocked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m in the shower. I’m not dressed.’

  We hear a man’s voice. ‘That’s brilliant, that is. Just what we need. I just want to get this over with.’

  ‘Shut up, Karl,’ she hisses and then in a louder voice calls out, ‘Listen, Max, there’s a nice man here, a friend of mine, and he really wants to talk to you about something, so are you almost done?’

  I shake my head crazily.

  ‘No, I’m definitely not almost done,’ says Max quickly. ‘Only just this second got in…’

  I hold my nose and point at her.

  ‘And … and … the thing is I’m really very grubby. I haven’t had a shower since I’ve been here … so I really need a good, long shower.’

  ‘Eeeuw,’ says the woman. ‘I’d say you do. Alright. We’ll get a cup of tea. Don’t be long, though.’

  We hear footsteps go downstairs and I breathe out for what feels like the first time in days.

  ‘Give her a minute,’ whispers Max.

  We leave the shower running and go back through the bedroom. We open the door a crack to check the coast is clear and then very rapidly close it again. A man sits at the top of the stairs listening to music on his headphones.

  I look at Max and state the obvious. ‘We’re trapped.’

  Max nods. ‘Any ideas?’

  I close my eyes and think
and it comes to me. ‘Just one,’ I say.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It’s been a quiet day down at the river. The fish aren’t biting at all. Paul has eaten his sandwiches, drunk his tea, read the newspaper twice – all about the local missing girl – and even done the crossword. He doesn’t ever really get bored when he’s fishing, but today it’s a bit cold and miserable. He thinks of his nice warm living room at home. It’s Thursday, which means it’ll be cottage pie for lunch. He could be home in half an hour, sat with the wife, food on a tray, watching Homes Under the Hammer on catch up. He decides to tell Martin he’s had enough. He reaches for the Kommunicator 150, but it seems like Martin’s beaten him to it as the walkie-talkie crackles into life before he’s had a chance to speak.

  ‘Come in, please. Come in, please. Anybody. Can you hear me? Urgent assistance required.’

  ‘That’s not you, Martin, is it?’ says Paul.

  ‘You can hear me! This is Lori Mason…’

  ‘Oh, hello again…’

  ‘Hello, listen. Please! This is an emergency. Missing girl Max Ellington is being held at number 8 Cattells Drive on the Glebe Estate, I repeat number 8 Cattells Drive. Tell the police come quick. Lori Mason is with her. We’re in danger.’

  Paul is already on his feet. ‘I got it. Number 8 Cattells Drive. Hold tight there, Lori. There’s a phone box two minutes away.’