Secret of the Skull (8 page)

I was doing two things: searching through my case files and shivering. No, three things: searching, shivering and hoping that the batteries in my flashlight would last another couple of minutes.
It was already beginning to splutter and fade slightly. It wasn’t quite five in the afternoon, but the icy shroud of winter gloom that had engulfed the town was already darker than a black
cat in a coal mine. The heater I’d recently bought for the shed had packed up.

I was looking for information I needed to put in the book I was planning. I’d decided it was time for Saxby Smart, brilliant schoolboy detective, to share his insights into the criminal
mind with the world.

Grumble, grumble where is it? . . . Moan, grumble, bloomin’ freezing in here . . . Grumble [
chattering teeth
] . . . Ought to get a proper light for this shed . . . [
shiver
]
Grumble and some bloomin’ heating . . . Moan, whinge, the things I do for truth and justice . . .

Suddenly, my phone bleeped loudly. I almost knocked the flashlight off my desk in fright. Shadows bounced madly off the pile of DIY and gardening stuff that took up half the shed.

Pausing only to grumble some more about people texting me when I was in the middle of grumbling, I opened my inbox and read,
I have a case for you. Will you help me?

There was no name attached, and I didn’t recognise the number. I texted back,
Who are you? Bit busy. Can we talk at school tomorrow?

At last I found the file I was looking for and tucked it under my arm. Just as I was starting to shiver again and wishing I’d worn my woolly hat, the reply arrived:
No. Doesn’t
matter who I am. Case is urgent. Will you help me or not?

I paused at the shed door, frowning slightly at the message glowing up at me from the tiny screen.

Hmmm.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

T
HIS TEXTING BACK AND FORTH
between me and a mysterious someone else continued for a while. During that time, I left the shed,
warmed up indoors, made myself something to eat, went to the loo, brushed my teeth and got ready for bed.

The conversation went like this:

Me:
Sure, I want to help. But must know who you are!

Other:
Told you – name not relevant. Help or not?

Me (after some thought):
Te ll me about your problem. But I’m not promising anything!

Other:
Read attached file.

The attached file read:

A diamond smuggling operation has been recently tracked across South America and Western Europe. Check the news

feeds if you want more information. Various security forces from several countries are involved. The smugglers currently believe they have outwitted the authorities. They are using a series
of one-off meetings to pass diamonds from one criminal organisation to another. The next such meeting will take place at the Regal Hotel on Saturday. One of the smugglers, codenamed Moss, will book
into the hotel at six that evening. His contact, codenamed Heather, will meet him there at 9 p.m. Neither of them knows the other. A reliable source of information at the hotel has overheard the
maintenance man, Bryan Beeks, talking to an unknown person by phone. Beeks is thought to have links with several high-profile criminals. He has learned of the smugglers’ meeting and is
planning to steal the diamonds before they can be handed over. The smugglers are unaware of his plan. You must keep a close watch on Beeks and prevent him from stealing the diamonds. The smugglers
are not your concern. Will you help?

I read the file through a couple of times. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. The Regal was the poshest hotel in town. I’d never been inside it before, but I knew where it was. It
occurred to me that the mysterious texter might be playing some kind of trick. It was a possibility which lurked darkly at the back of my mind until the case was all but solved. However, I’ll
tell you now that trickery was the last thing on this person’s mind.

I had only one clue to their identity. It wasn’t so much

what
they’d said, as the fact that they’d said it at all. Remember that – it’ll be important. This single, vague clue would, it turned out, nag at me for days.

Eventually, I replied:
OK. Will see what I can do. But don’t expect to remain anonymous!

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

A
FTER 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.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

B
Y
F
RIDAY 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.