Friday Barnes 3 (15 page)

‘Perhaps,' said Friday. ‘But if so, answer me this – how did he get it all in the car?'

‘What do you mean?' asked Sergeant Crowley. ‘Through the door.'

‘But
how
?' said Friday. ‘You have all his personal possessions right here and, as you can see, there is no key. No keys at all. When you found the car it was locked.'

‘What are you saying?' asked Sergeant Crowley.

‘The person who stole this property,' said Friday, ‘is the person who has Dad's keys. No doubt they stole them.'

‘The Pimpernel,' said Melanie.

‘But surely your father would notice if someone stole his keys?' said Sergeant Crowley.

‘He wouldn't notice if you tied him to train tracks in front of an oncoming train,' said Friday.

‘But he'd notice when he tried to drive the car,' said Sergeant Crowley.

‘But he hasn't tried to drive the car,' said Friday. ‘The engine doesn't work. The rugby team had to push it into that parking space.'

‘I can't release him just on the basis that his car keys are missing,' said Sergeant Crowley.

‘Before you formally charge him in front of a magistrate,' said Friday, ‘I suggest you make a concerted effort to find those keys. This could be embarrassing for you. While my mother is in Europe now, it would only take a day for her to get here, with my brothers and sisters. And the only thing worse than dealing with one doctor of theoretical physics, is trying to reason with six of them.'

‘I'll get on it,' said Sergeant Crowley.

‘As will I,' said Friday. ‘No-one frames my father for a crime he didn't commit, no matter how irritating he is. Something sneaky is going on at Highcrest Academy and I'm going to get to the bottom of it.'

When Friday and Melanie got back to Highcrest Academy it was a hive of activity. A marquee had been set up alongside the polo pitch and an announcer's voice could be heard on the wind describing the pedigrees of various polo ponies.

‘The polo tournament must be about to start,' said Friday.

‘That's going to make it hard for you to investigate the accusations against your father,' said Melanie.

‘Not at all,' said Friday. ‘It will make it easy because all the suspects are in one place.'

‘So, who are your suspects?' asked Melanie.

‘It depends on the motive,' said Friday. ‘If it was to get my father sacked, then it could be anyone on the science staff who he has humiliated with his superior knowledge and grating lack of social skills.'

‘Which is everyone on the science staff,' said Melanie.

‘Exactly,' agreed Friday. ‘But the motive could be simpler. It could be about money. Someone stole the goods to sell for money. And the unusable car was a convenient place to hide them. So it would be someone who needs or really, really wants lots of money.'

‘None of the students here really need any more money,' said Melanie.

‘Except for Ian,' said Friday. ‘It's going to take a while for his mother to sort out her financial difficulties.'

‘It could be a member of staff,' said Melanie. ‘Teachers aren't paid well.'

‘The teachers here are,' said Friday. ‘They have to be to put up with the obnoxious students. But
I agree the teachers are more in need of spare cash than the students.'

‘And the Headmaster does have a gambling problem,' added Melanie.

‘Good point,' said Friday.

‘It could be someone who liked stealing things for the thrill of it,' said Melanie. ‘Perhaps because they've seen too many reruns of
Oliver
, which I've always thought over-glamourised pickpocketing.'

‘Really, when it comes down to it, it could be anybody in the entire school,' said Friday. ‘Even people who don't need the money might do it out of petty spite because they've lived such privileged lives they have an almost sociopathic disregard for the suffering of others.'

‘We can't search the whole school,' said Melanie.

‘No,' said Friday. ‘Which means we will need to set a trap.'

‘You mean like a wire cage that you use to capture a possum in the roof?' asked Melanie.

‘I don't think you can buy them in human-sizes,' said Friday. ‘We'll just have to set some bait and lure the thief out.'

‘But how will you actually capture them?' asked Melanie.

‘I'll worry about that bit later,' said Friday. ‘Let's go and check out this polo match.'

There was a carnival atmosphere down on the polo pitch. Parents carrying glasses of champagne laughed too loudly at each other's jokes, while students lounged about, as far away from the adults as possible, enjoying an afternoon off in the sun when they would normally be inside ignoring some tedious lesson.

Parker, a third form boy, was at the microphone making all the public address announcements.

‘Why on earth have they let Parker do the announcements?' asked Friday. ‘He's not terribly verbose at the best of times.'

‘I think that's the reason,' said Melanie. ‘They let the Vice Principal do it last year, and he was such a windbag he drove everyone to despair. The Headmaster wanted someone who could be trusted to use
absolutely no initiative and only say exactly what he had been told to say.'

‘I see,' said Friday. ‘We can use that to our advantage.'

‘By “our advantage”, you mean “your advantage”, don't you?' said Melanie. ‘Because I've got absolutely no idea what you're talking about.'

‘Naturally.' Friday took a notebook and pencil out of her pocket. ‘I'm going to write a script for Parker.' She started busily scribbling away.

‘Make sure you don't use running writing,' said Melanie. ‘He can't read that.'

A few minutes later, Friday was approaching Parker in the announcer's tent with her script in hand. Mrs Cannon, their English teacher, was sitting next to Parker as he read through the list of players.

‘Today Ian Wainscott will be riding Valiant Fury, Valkyrie and Butterfly Buttons,' read Parker.

‘Mrs Cannon is obviously there to keep an eye on Parker,' said Friday. ‘To make sure he doesn't lose his head and say something outrageous.'

‘It sounds like the perfect job for her,' said Melanie. ‘There's no way that could happen, so she can just have a little nap if she likes.'

‘Well, you're going to have to distract her,' said Friday. ‘Because saying something shocking and untrue is exactly what I want Parker to do.'

‘All right,' said Melanie.

The girls walked up to the desk. ‘Hello Mrs Cannon,' said Melanie. ‘Friday wants me to distract you so that she can get Parker to say something that isn't on his official script.'

‘Really?' said Mrs Cannon. ‘That sounds intriguing. Much more intriguing than this unspeakably boring polo match. Why don't you pretend to sprain your ankle, then I could pretend to be concerned?'

‘Okay,' said Melanie. ‘Does that mean I can lie down?'

‘I wouldn't dream of trying to stop you,' said Mrs Cannon. ‘I just wish I could do the same.'

‘You could say you had a fainting spell,' suggested Melanie.

‘What a good idea,' said Mrs Cannon. ‘If you've got a sprained ankle and I have a fainting spell, then we can both have a nice rest on the grass.'

‘The Headmaster can't complain about that,' said Melanie as they both made themselves comfortable.

‘Of course not,' said Mrs Cannon. ‘If he did I'd report him to my union.'

‘Parker, I need you to read this,' said Friday, handing him her handwritten script.

‘Will I get in trouble?' asked Parker.

‘If everything goes to plan, no-one will think to be cross with you because they'll all be far angrier with someone else,' said Friday.

‘Okay,' said Parker. ‘That's all right then … let's have a look.' Parker picked up the paper and started reading, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I will now describe the Trumpley Cup for you. It was handmade eighty years ago by Spanish craftsmen using solid gold. Apart from its incalculable value as an antique and part of our school's cultural history, if melted down the gold alone would be worth $100,000.'

The crowd gasped. They were all gathered along the side line either side of the announcer's tent and they turned around to look at the Trumpley Cup, which until that point had been ignored as another boring sporting trophy. The cup glistened in the sunlight. It was unmistakably golden, but people
naturally assumed it was gold-plated. Here, in the heady atmosphere of a polo tournament surrounded by ridiculously rich students and parents, the idea that it was made of solid gold seemed entirely probable.

Friday scanned the crowd to see if anyone was behaving suspiciously. Several people were staring at the cup with open lust. A couple of parents had even taken out their smartphones to do a few calculations on the value, and how much they could earn if they invested the money in an illegal offshore tax avoidance scheme.

‘Is that all you needed me to do?' asked Parker.

‘For now, yes. Thank you, Parker,' said Friday. ‘We've set the trap, now we just have to wait for someone to take the bait. Come on, Melanie, wake up. We've got to watch the match.'

‘Can we stand by the pony lines?' asked Melanie, yawning. ‘I like ponies. They're like unicorns with lower aspirations.'

‘I'd better get the match started then, I suppose.' Parker leaned into the microphone. ‘Teams, take your positions. We are ready to start play.'

The teams trotted into position on opposing sides of the field. The umpire held up the ball and everyone was silent for a moment, then he tossed it onto the field. What followed was a frenzy of whacking mallets, whinnying horses and teenagers swearing at each other like sailors. Although there really was no need to use such colourful language when essentially all they were saying was ‘get out of the way'.

Soon Ian managed to flick the ball out into open field and took off galloping after it. The opposition wheeled round to give chase, but Ian was already several lengths ahead and travelling at full speed. He only had one horseman to get past. The defender was thundering down field to intercept him.

‘Oh my gosh,' said Friday. ‘I hope Ian's going to be all right. That's an awfully big horse.'

‘Did you hear that, ladies and gentlemen?' said Parker into the microphone. ‘Ian Wainscott's girlfriend is seriously concerned for his safety.'

‘Parker!' exclaimed Friday. ‘Don't announce that to the whole school.'

‘You're standing so close to the microphone they all heard you say it,' said Parker.

‘They're going to collide!' exclaimed Friday.

Ian and the opposing defender were powering towards each other in a direct line. Ian was obviously banking that his opponent would flinch first and pull out of the collision, but from where Friday was standing she had a better view of the boy's face. He didn't look intelligent enough to do something so sensible.

Just at the last moment, Ian deftly flicked his mallet and hit the ball cross field to Princess Ingrid,
who, unnoticed by anyone, was galloping up the opposite wing. Ian slammed into the defender in a sickening collision. Luckily, the defender was leaning out of his saddle so he took most of the weight of the blow and the horses were unharmed. Ian fell out of his saddle, landing on his bottom. He looked up just in time to see Princess Ingrid smack the ball into the goal.

‘GOAL!' roared Parker.

Ian picked himself up and was apparently unhurt because he was able to jog over to the lines and get up onto another pony.

‘I had previously thought all sport was stupid,' said Friday, ‘but witnessing this – a game played with horses and big, long mallets – I realise that sport is capable of a whole greater level of idiocy than I had ever imagined.'

And so the game progressed. Highcrest Academy and Pontworth Manor Prep were well-matched. Pontworth Prep had a lean Argentinian player called José – who had superb strength, amazing agility and absolutely zero scruples about cheating – as well as two brutish thugs who seemed larger than the ponies they were riding, and a solidly built Irish girl
who could scare the horses with the vehemence of her swearing.

But Highcrest had a strong lineup, too. Ian's marvellous balance in the saddle, Binky's dogged determination, Nigel's total disregard for his own safety and Princess Ingrid's superior horsemanship gave their team a good chance. By the end of the third quarter, Highcrest Academy was only one point behind.

Friday watched Ian trot back to the lines. He was tired and drenched in sweat. He looked up and caught her eye.

‘Are you all right?' asked Friday.

‘What's this?' said Ian. ‘The great detective showing human empathy. Perhaps the rumours that you're a cyborg aren't true after all.'

‘That horse hit your leg very hard,' said Friday.

‘Stow it,' said Ian. ‘I don't need your sympathy.'

‘I don't suppose you do,' said Friday. ‘You need an ice pack. Crush injuries should be treated with ice and elevation.'

‘Is that what the database that you have instead of a brain tells you?' asked Ian.

‘I'm sure Mrs Marigold will lend you a packet of frozen peas if you need them,' said Friday.

‘Thanks for the advice,' said Ian.

‘Well-played, Wainscott,' said the Vice Principal. ‘You too, Your Highness.' He bowed to Princess Ingrid. ‘In the next chukka I want you to concentrate on zone defence. You're only one point behind – hold on to that, then attack in the last five minutes when they're tired.'

‘We're already tired,' said Ian.

‘I'm the coach and I say that's the strategy you should use,' said the Vice Principal.

‘You are not qualified to spit on my boots, let alone tell me how to play polo,' said Princess Ingrid as she swung up into her saddle. ‘I play not just to win, but to destroy my enemy.'

‘You mean opposition,' said Binky.

‘They are my enemies,' said Princess Ingrid. ‘Most of you are, too, so watch it.' She kicked her horse and cantered back towards the field.

‘The strategy I'm going to use is getting the ball into the goal,' said Ian. ‘I hope that works for everyone, because I'm too knackered for anything more complicated.'

As the match resumed, Pontworth Manor Prep had obviously taken a team decision to elevate their
poor sportsmanship to a higher level. As José passed Princess Ingrid with the ball, he pretended to swing at the ball but then whacked her pony hard in the ribs with his mallet. Princess Ingrid's pony reared up whinnying as José galloped down the field to score in the undefended goal.

‘It would be one thing if he hit Princess Ingrid with a mallet,' said Melanie angrily, ‘but to hit her pony is just cruel.'

‘Ian looks cross,' said Friday.

‘You can't tear your eyes away from him for a moment, can't you?' said Melanie.

‘Look,' said Friday.

Ian had the ball and was taking it up the wing. José was steaming across field to intercept him.

‘Ian's going to be squashed,' said Friday.

‘You should have more faith in him,' said Melanie.

‘It's got nothing to do with faith,' said Friday. ‘It's all about physics. José has more momentum.'

They were just about to crash into each other, when Ian whacked the ball with a deft backward flick, passing it to Binky. José pulled up his horse, looking over his shoulder and trying to wheel around. But José's pony had had enough of her belligerent rider.
She dug in her front hooves, lowered her head and threw José onto the ground right at Friday's feet. José lay flat on his back gasping for air.

‘Serves you right, you nasty animal basher,' said Ian.

‘Poor sportsmanship!' wailed the Pontworth Prep coach. ‘He did that on purpose.'

‘Ian didn't do anything,' said Melanie. ‘It was the pony who did it on purpose.'

The Vice Principal rushed forward to help the Pontworth Prep coach get José to his feet. The other players trotted over.

‘He's fine,' said the Vice Principal. ‘Just winded. You'll be able to keep playing, won't you, boy?'

José nodded his head. ‘Sí, sí.'

As the Vice Principal let him go, Friday noticed a mark on José's upper arm. ‘Is that a smallpox vaccination scar?' she asked.

‘Of course, so what?' said José as he dusted horse muck from the seat of his trousers.

‘Barnes! It's not good manners to draw attention to our visitor's scar,' snapped the Vice Principal.

‘I didn't point it out to be rude,' said Friday. ‘I pointed it out to accuse him of cheating.'

‘What?!' exploded the Vice Principal.

‘This is an outrage!' declared Pontworth Prep's polo coach. ‘How dare my player be insulted in the middle of a match! This is all just a ploy to psyche him out, isn't it?'

‘No,' said Friday. ‘I couldn't care less who won the match.'

‘What about school pride?' demanded the Vice Principal.

‘I don't think the school should be proud of the results of four of their students riding round on horses whacking a ball,' said Friday.

‘They're called ponies,' said Melanie.

‘Which I totally don't understand,' said Friday. ‘The vast majority of them are over fourteen hands high at the withers, which is the distinction between a pony and a horse.'

‘It's traditional to call them ponies,' said Ian.

‘It's irrational,' said Friday.

‘Are you going to make this girl apologise?' demanded the Pontworth Prep polo coach to the Vice Principal. ‘Or will I have to write an official letter of complaint to your headmaster and the International High School Polo Association?'

‘I'm not going to apologise because he confirmed that it is a smallpox vaccination scar, and the World Health Organisation certified smallpox as being eradicated in 1979, which means that José can't be a high school student,' said Friday. ‘He must be well over thirty.'

‘Perhaps he got held back for poor academic results?' said Melanie.

‘No school holds a student back that long,' said Friday.

‘Thank goodness,' said Binky. ‘Otherwise I'd be here into my fifties.'

‘José, I'm appalled that you would deceive the school about your true age,' said the coach.

‘Stow it, Roger,' said the Vice Principal. ‘No-one believes this crackpot scheme wasn't your idea. You tried using a rodeo bronco last year, and a racing thoroughbred the year before that. You're always coming up with new and stupid ways to cheat. Tonight there will be an angry letter written to the International High School Polo Association, but it's going to be about you.'

‘Sirs,' interrupted Ian, ‘this is all very shocking and a terrible blight on the game, but can we just get on
with the match? We've got a good chance of winning anyway, even with José being a flagrant cheat. Let's finish the game and have some fun.'

The crowd cheered. The riders remounted. Except for José. He was replaced by their substitute player, a pimply, lanky, gangly boy.

‘That one's definitely a teenager,' said Friday.

‘Either that or he's suffering a terrible vitamin deficiency,' said Melanie.

Play resumed and Pontworth Prep was clearly cowed. Princess Ingrid could smell blood – she showed no mercy. With Binky setting her up and Ian running interference for her, she was easily able to slam home three more goals, much to the delight of the roaring crowd. When the final siren sounded the Highcrest students ran onto the field cheering. Then they stood back while the sweaty horses were led back to their grooms. Then they rushed forward again to pick up the four players and carried them on their shoulders to the podium, where the Vice Principal was standing with the Trumpley Cup.

Ian, Princess Ingrid, Nigel and Binky climbed up on the stage. The Vice Principal leaned in to give
his speech. Friday and Melanie wiggled their way to the front of the crowd.

‘Here we go,' said Friday. ‘I bet this takes a while.'

But it didn't, because at that moment the Vice Principal was interrupted.

‘Excuse me, Vice Principal,' said the Headmaster, moving between him and the microphone. ‘I'm sorry to interrupt.' The Headmaster reached out and took the cup from the Vice Principal's hands. The Vice Principal looked like he wanted to cry.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' said the Headmaster, ‘we are honoured to have a very special guest pay a visit to us today. It is only fitting that we ask him to present this trophy, given that his daughter is part of the victorious team.'

Princess Ingrid went from looking triumphant to ghostly pale.

‘Please make welcome His Royal Highness – the King of Norway!' The Headmaster stood back and a very elegant but slightly overweight man in a perfectly cut navy blue suit stepped forward.

‘Your Majesty,' continued the Headmaster, handing the trophy to him, ‘if you will be so kind.
The Trumpley Cup has been won by your daughter and her team.'

The king took the trophy, beamed proudly and turned to face the victors. Then his face fell. ‘Hva pokker er det som skjer?' he demanded.

No-one knew what this meant, but from his tone of voice he was clearly very angry.

‘I'm sorry, sir, is there a problem?' asked the Headmaster.

‘Who is this?' demanded the king. ‘She is not my daughter. Where is my daughter? What have you done with her?'