The Hangman's Lair Read online

  On my way home, an unpleasant and worrying train of thought rumbled slowly through my mind, like an old-fashioned steam train chugging through a long, dark tunnel. By the time I turned the corner into my street, rapidly scribbling notes in my notebook, I’d come to a decision. I had a definite plan of action. And it wasn’t one I was looking forward to.

  I phoned my great friend Isobel ‘Izzy’ Moustique, St Egbert’s School’s all-round genius and official Princess of Facts and Figures. I needed to ask a couple of favours.

  ‘First,’ I said, ‘see what you can find out about a gang of kids who hang around in Herbert Street. You know loads of people, someone will have come across them.’

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ she said. ‘What’s the case you’re investigating this time?’

  ‘Let’s just say that if this works out, we’ll be going on that school trip after all.’

  ‘Great! I thought you’d drawn a total blank on the missing money,’ she cried. ‘You’ve finally got a lead?’

  ‘Er, something like that,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Second, I need you to start a rumour.’

  ‘A rumour? Why? What about?’

  That plan of action I mentioned needed . . . hmm, what would you call it? It needed a certain amount of back-up. If my plan was going to work, there was some very specific information that had to be out there on the local grapevine.

  See if you can spot what that information was, when it crops up in Chapter Four . . .

  A Page From My Notebook

  My train of thought:

  1.That money is so well hidden that I’d need a lot of time to find it, and probably some help too.

  2.I can’t afford to delay. For one thing, the gang might retrieve the money and spend it. (And for another thing, the school trip that four hundred and twenty pounds was for is supposed to take place in a couple of weeks!)

  3.I can’t afford to get help searching. Too much risk ofbeing spotted, and the gang being alerted to what’s going on.

  4. If I can’t SEARCH for the money, there’s only one alternative . . .

  My plan of action:

  1.Make contact with the gang. They don’t know me, and I don’t know them. This is a vital advantage.

  2.Convince them . . . somehow . . . that I have something they want. Something worth four hundred and twenty pounds. (Note to self: Yes, but WHAT?? Must think of something!)

  3.Secretly follow them . . . somehow . . . when they retrieve the money from The Hangman’s Lair.

  4. Persuade them . . . somehow . . . to hand over the cash BEFORE I give them this whatever-it-is I haven’t thought of yet.

  5. Run for it.

  Problem A: Not at all sure about point 5. Should rethink that bit.

  Problem B: My plan of action has potential pitfalls and dangers all over it! I am NOT looking forward to this.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  THE NEXT DAY, I WAS in the dinner queue at school when something made me almost jump out of my skin. The sight of a school dinner can sometimes do that. Or the sight of a school dinner lady. However, in this case, I almost jumped out of my skin because I heard a loud ‘Pssst!’ behind me. I turned round and found myself face-to-shoulder with Bob Thompson.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he whispered.

  ‘Oh, er, fine, y’know, er, making progress,’ I said.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘I have a plan of action worked out, but it relies on the Herbert Street gang not knowing who I am, or that you have any connection with me. If they get wind that you’re involved, they’d smell something fishier than a plate of fish fingers in fish sauce with extra fish on top. So, thanks, but no.’

  ‘Oi, are you having yer dinner or what?’ squarked a dinner lady at me. I almost jumped out of my skin again. As Bob lumbered away, a dollop of today’s delicious, nutritious recipe was slopped down in front of me. It appeared to be fish fingers in fish sauce with extra fish on top.

  ‘Yummy,’ I said, with a painted-on grin.

  I spotted Izzy and hurried over to sit next to her. She had a book open on the table in front of her.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. My eyes did a quick zip around the room to check that nobody could overhear me. It made me feel slightly giddy, and I made a mental note not to do that again. ‘Have you managed to set that rumour going?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Izzy. ‘I talked loudly in front of a couple of serious gossips, and I posted stuff on the forums of a couple of websites.’

  ‘Excellent. Give it a day or so for the news to get around, and then I can put Operation Hangman’s Lair into, er, operation. Anyway, later on I’ll —’

  ‘Listen,’ hissed Izzy. ‘This morning I’ve also asked around about these Herbert Street kids. I think you should pack this whole scheme in. Now.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘At the school they go to, on the other side of town, they have the worst reputation you can possibly imagine. They’re bullies on a level which makes Bob Thompson look like a great big softie who cries a lot!’

  ‘Yes, I realise they’re not exactly nice.’

  ‘“Not exactly nice?”‘ spluttered Izzy. ‘They’ve all been in trouble with the police, two of them for breaking into cars. One of them has a scar on his face that he got in a fight, and another’s got four older brothers who are all in prison for armed robbery!’

  ‘I’ve promised I’ll get that money back, and that’s what I’ll do,’ I said. ‘I’ve never given up on a case yet, and I never will.’

  That’s all very well,’ said Izzy, ‘but if this scheme of yours doesn’t work, they are going to be after you, Saxby And when they catch you, they’re not just going to ruffle your hair a bit.’

  ‘Ooh, I hate it when someone does that,’ I muttered.

  ‘Quite. I mean, no offence, but you’re not exactly the sporty type, are you? You’re not very tall, you’ve mended your glasses with a plaster, and your idea of strenuous exercise is getting up in the morning.’

  ‘OK, I know I’m a bit. . . geeky . . . but —’

  ‘But nothing. If anything goes wrong, they are going to flatten you, do you understand that?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said bravely.

  I didn’t feel brave. I felt very, very nervous. Izzy was right. I couldn’t allow one single thing to go wrong with my plan of action. And I still hadn’t quite worked out what some of it was going to be!

  Later that day, I went to see my other great friend George ‘Muddy’ Whitehouse, the school’s King of Gadgets and Fixer of All Mechanical Things. I wondered if, possibly, maybe, he might be able to help me out, perhaps, perchance, on the next stage of Operation Hangman’s Lair, the following afternoon.

  ‘Undercover work?’ he cried. ‘You bet! Fantastic!’

  ‘Just let me do all the talking, OK? You only need to be there to agree with what I’m saying.’

  ‘Should I wear a disguise?’

  ‘What, dark glasses and a false beard? No, I don’t think your usual approach to disguises would be quite right. Your normal look will be fine: scruffy, covered in mud and food stains. Anything except school uniform. We don’t want to give them too many clues as to who we really are, just in case.’

  ‘Just in case what?’ asked Muddy.

  ‘So, anyway, tomorrow after school, let’s meet up at quarter to four. See you . . .’

  We entered Herbert Street at precisely 4:22 p.m. the following afternoon. I judged that enough time had now elapsed to allow Izzy’s deliberately-started rumour to spread through the non-adult community. I hoped my judgement was right: if the rumour hadn’t spread far enough, I was going to have a very tough time fooling the gang with the pack of lies I was about to tell.

  ‘Is that a fake moustache?’ I whispered angrily

  ‘Only a little one,’ mumbled Muddy, covering his top lip. ‘I figured that if these kids are older than us, it might help if —’

  ‘Take it off! Now!’

  Muddy peeled the hairy thing awa
y from under his nose and stuffed it into his pocket which was, as usual, full to bursting point with assorted gizmos and broken odds and ends.

  ‘Remember,’ I whispered. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  Herbert Street was a wide road, with a huge traffic roundabout at one end and a small, weed-strewn children’s play area at the other. The road surface was a patchwork of greys, where it had been dug up over and over again, and the broad pavements were busy with cracked paving slabs and shreds of wind-blown litter. The houses on each side of the road were modern and boxy, with identical wooden canopies above the front doors, and chain-link fences fixed to concrete posts.

  I wondered for a moment which house Bob Thompson lived in. Probably the one with the broken fridge on the front lawn.

  Towards the roundabout end of Herbert Street was a row of shops, fronted with a long, blank-looking run of parking bays. There was a newsagent’s, a chip shop, a Chinese takeaway, a big shop that sold spare parts for cars and a laundrette with Wash-O-Mat across the window in faded letters.

  The area around the shops was surprisingly lively. People were coming and going in a regular, steady stream. Cars were crawling in and out of parking slots every couple of minutes.

  There were several groups of kids in sight. A cluster of teenage girls scuttered past the newsagent’s, tapping at their phones and telling each other things which appeared to be very, very important.

  Muddy eyed them carefully. ‘Is that the gang?’

  I looked at him. ‘Somehow, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, what do we look for?’ he said. ‘We can’t go over there and shout, “Hands up anyone here who’s nicked some money recently”, can we?!’

  There was an easy way to identify the Herbert Street gang. Something Izzy had said would make at least one of them recognisable.

  Do you remember what it was?

  ‘That’s them, over there,’ I said. ‘Izzy told me that one of them has a scar on his face. See the kid in the red coat?’

  Five boys were perched on the bonnet of a chunky BMW, laughing and jostling each other. The one in the red coat had a livid groove in his skin, which ran from the bridge of his nose, round his cheek to his chin. And he was the least scary-looking of them. They all had hair which was close-cropped into a tangle of points, like a wild lawn. Their faces were angular and flecked with acne.

  A man in blue overalls suddenly came hurrying out of the car spares shop. He shouted at the gang to gerrof his car, go-ooon, gerrof with yer! They jeered at him as they slid along the bonnet of the BMW and dropped to the ground. Once the man had hurried inside again, they regrouped on the bonnet of the next car along, like pigeons scattering and then returning to their territory.

  ‘Don’t forget . . .’ I said.

  ‘Let you do the talking.’

  ‘Right. You set?’

  ‘Yup. You?’

  ‘Yup. Ready?’

  ‘Yup. You?’

  ‘Yup. Right, let’s go.’

  ‘Go.’

  ‘Go, yup, right.’

  We walked as casually as our shaking legs would allow. I could feel my heart pattering as if it was trying to shove the rest of my innards aside and make a run for it before it was too late.

  We approached the gang, trying to make sure we didn’t even glance in their direction. This part of Operation Hangman’s Lair needed us to lure the gang into talking to us first, not us talking to them first. As we got within earshot of them, I nudged Muddy and we sat down on the kerb.

  ‘This is all your fault!’ I said, loud enough for them to hear, but soft enough to make it appear that I didn’t mean them to hear. ‘If you hadn’t got greedy and nicked the whole lot, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

  ‘Hey, woooow, man; take a chill pill, bro,’ said Muddy. Then he did a weird hand gesture he’d seen on a music video.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whispered through clenched teeth.

  ‘I’m getting into character. I’m being a street gang member.’

  ‘You’re being a complete twit!’ I whispered. ‘Act natural.’

  I heard movement behind us. Shoes crunching against the pavement. My heart started making a bid for freedom again.

  ‘I did what you wanted,’ I said, loud-but-not-obviously-loud. ‘I distracted the sales guy. If you’d snatched half a dozen, he’d never have spotted what we’d done. But no, you have to bundle a whole drawerful into your school bag. Now we’ve got the cops after us.’

  There was a long pause. Cars growled past. A breeze

  fluttered litter into the road.

  ‘Oi!’ called someone behind us.

  Bingo.

  We turned. All five of the gang were standing a couple of metres away. The one with the scar had pulled the hood of his coat up. Another of them, the tallest, took a step closer. I got the impression he was their unofficial leader. His head was so rectangular I half expected to have seen it in a maths lesson somewhere. His eyes were piggy and kind of squashed together, as if someone had got hold of his ears and pulled all his features forwards.

  ‘Who’re you?’ he grunted.

  ‘Ask ‘em why the cops are after them, Moz,’ said the one with the scar.

  ‘Shut up, Zippy, I’ll ask ‘em what I want,’ said Moz.

  ‘Don’t call me Zippy,’ muttered Zippy.

  Moz sniffed noisily at us. ‘Why the cops after you, then?’

  ‘Oh no, they heard you!’ cried Muddy suddenly. ‘It’s all over! We’re found out! We’re rumbled! We’re going to get got by the cops! Oh, you mad fool! They overheard everything you —’

  I interrupted him with a stare which could have turned milk sour.

  ‘It’s nothing, really,’ I said to Moz. ‘We’ll be going now, nice to meet you n’all.’

  I half-turned to leave, but Moz jabbed me on the shoulder and half-turned me back. T said, why are the cops after you? We don’t want police coming round here. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m . . . Steve,’ I said. ‘And this is —’

  ‘Bond,’ piped up Muddy. ‘James Bond. Like the spy. It’s a bit embarrassing him having the same name as me, actually. But, y’know, it impresses the girls, and when I —’

  I interrupted him with a stare which could have knocked a charging rhino on its back.

  ‘That a code name is it?’ grinned Moz. ‘You doing undercover work?’

  My blood turned to ice. The rest of the gang sniggered.

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ I said, ‘he has to have a teaching assistant all to himself at school.’

  ‘Give ‘em a slap, Moz,’ said Zippy

  ‘Belt up, Zippy, I’ll slap who I like,’ said Moz. ‘You two looking for a slap? I want to know why the cops are after you.’

  ‘It’s his fault,’ I said, nodding at Muddy. ‘We went into Gamebusters the other day. We were going to steal that new one, Maximum Death IV. So I distracted the guy behind the till, I pulled a display over and made out I was hurt. He comes out from behind the counter, and Mr Brilliant here is supposed to nip round to the big drawers, find the right disc, stick a few in his pocket and run.’

  Moz eyed us. ‘But . . .?’

  ‘But my friend here decides to take the lot and dump them into his school bag. One hundred and forty games. Then we’re out the door before the shop assistant knows what’s happening.’

  ‘I don’t know what came over me!’ cried Muddy. ‘I went funny in the brain! Greed overtook my mind! I was mad for games and more games! The red mists descended and —’

  I interrupted him with a stare which could have melted concrete.

  ‘And now you think the police are going to come banging on your door?’ said Moz.

  ‘We’ve never stolen anything before, ever,’ I said. ‘And we never will again. Instead of harmlessly killing zombies, we’ve got a huge pile of nicked gear to worry about! We only wanted to nick Maximum Death IV because we had no money, and it’s rated adults-only, so the shop wouldn’t have sold it to us anyway
, even if we did have the money.’

  ‘When was this?’ said Moz, suspiciously

  ‘A couple of days ago,’ I said.

  ‘Hey, Moz,’ said Zippy, suddenly. ‘I think I heard about that. My sister said she’d heard something about two kids who snatched a load of computer games.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that too,’ said one of the others. ‘My mate’s girlfriend said.’

  ‘Looks like you two are going to be front page news around here,’ smiled Moz.

  ‘Oh no!’ I cried. (You know, I ought to give acting a go. I had just the right note of fear and panic in my voice). ‘This is awful. We’re not crooks. We just did a very bad thing, just the once. Come on . . . James . . . we’re going to go and throw all those discs away. Get rid of them.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Zippy. ‘Don’t chuck ‘em. I know someone with a market stall. You could make a load of money.’

  ‘Button yer lip, Zippy,’ said Moz. ‘I’ll say if they get chucked or not.’ He looked down at me with those squashed-up eyes of his. ‘Yeah, don’t chuck ‘em, Steve, you could make a load of money.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, no, no, no way. That’d make things even worse. No, those discs are getting binned. Right now.’

  Come on, Moz, I thought to myself, think the thought I want you to think! There’s a great idea just sitting there, waiting for you to find it! My heart was racing and my legs were starting to get shaky

  Zippy leaned over and whispered to Moz. Moz stared at him for a second or two, then turned back to me and Muddy

  ‘I’ve had a great idea,’ said Moz. ‘If you don’t want to make a load of money, then we will. You can give us those discs.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to risk walking around with them. The cops might pick us up!’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ sneered Moz. ‘You fetch those discs, now, and you give them to us, or you get a pounding. Understand?’

  I hadn’t reckoned on this. Foolishly, I’d assumed that they would offer to buy the discs off us. I’d underestimated them. My stomach rolled over in slow motion. I now had to take a risk.