Читать книгу Agatha Oddly - Lena Jones - Страница 9

Arthur and I agree to start our search at the gallery. He calls ahead, to get clearance from Dr MacDonald for us to view the CCTV footage and speak to some of the attendants who were around on Friday.

‘So, does everyone who works there know she’s gone missing?’ I call to him as we cycle through the tunnel network towards Trafalgar Square. The wind’s strong in this section, causing my bike to make a strange whistling sound, as if it’s alive.

‘They should do. Dr MacDonald made a staff announcement. Tread a bit gently, though, in case anyone missed it.’

Above ground, I return my hired bike to one of the public racks close to Trafalgar Square, while Arthur chains his to a lamppost. Then we walk across Trafalgar Square, past Nelson’s Column and the four giant black lions on their pedestals, and stride up the steps to the gallery and through the revolving doors.

At the reception desk, a man in a National Gallery T-shirt is fielding enquiries and directing visitors to the various rooms and exhibits.

‘Hi,’ says Arthur, when it’s our turn. ‘We should be on your list to visit your security office.’

The receptionist only appears a little surprised to be confronted by a pair of school-age investigators. Dr MacDonald must have forewarned him. He consults a clipboard. ‘May I have your names?’ he asks politely. We hand over our fake ID badges.

‘Ah, yes – I’ve got you here. The security manager says you’re to go straight to the security office. It’s here,’ he opens a folded gallery map and draws a black ring round a room set in a distant part of the building. She’s let the security guard on duty know you’re to be helped with whatever you need.’ He hands us security passes. ‘These will get you through the doors.’

‘Thank you,’ we say politely.

Before we head off, I ask him, ‘Were you here on Friday, at around five thirty?’

He nods. ‘Why do you ask?’

I lower my voice. ‘You’ve heard about Sheila Smith?’

‘Yes – it’s very worrying. As I told Dr MacDonald, I was on the desk, but I didn’t see Sheila. She normally says goodbye, but on Friday afternoon I was tied up with a party of tourists. They were rather lively,’ he says ruefully.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Arthur. ‘It sounds like you had your hands full.’

‘We’re going to do everything we can to find her,’ I assure him.

He shoots me a doubtful look. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you do seem quite young …’

‘Oh,’ I say quickly, ‘don’t worry – we’ll report back to our manager.’

We move off, leaving him to deal with the queue that’s formed behind us.

We turn left, then right, before heading down a long corridor and through some staff doors that require us to scan our passes, and I realise that Arthur isn’t consulting the map – and he isn’t following me.

‘Do you know the way?’ I ask.

He looks slightly embarrassed. ‘Er … yeah. I have this ability …’

‘To remember routes you’ve only seen once?’

He stops short and turns to look at me. ‘You too?’ he asks.

‘Yep.’

‘So that means we both have the Auto-Focus/Change Channel thing and the map-memory trick … What else do you reckon we have in common?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. But I’m looking forward to finding out.

I can’t remember ever meeting someone so similar to me before. I’ve tended to be resented – rather than celebrated – for my unusual brain. Even around Brianna and Liam, I sometimes avoid stating exactly how I know things, and just let them call it a ‘hunch’. Photographic memory and mental filing cabinets only make sense to people whose minds work in a similar way – and there aren’t many of us around.

The security office has floor-to-ceiling black double doors with a keypad set into one of them. We press the entry buzzer and look up at the closed-circuit cameras trained on our spot.

Then lights flicker across the panel of the keypad, the door opens, and we’re confronted by a large man – almost a giant – in a dark-blue uniform. He must be close to seven foot, with spiky black hair that makes him appear even taller.

‘And you are …?’ he demands.

‘Agatha Oddlow and Arthur Fitzwilliam,’ I say quickly, just in case my colleague tries any pranks that get us barred from entering.

We show our passes, and the security guard holds the door ajar while we enter.

‘I’m Darren,’ he says, after we’re safely inside the room. He stares at us until I grow a little uncomfortable. At last, he says, ‘How old are you two?’

‘I’m not sure that’s relevant,’ says Arthur. ‘We’re both here on Dr MacDonald’s authority.’ (I have to admit to feeling quite important when he says that. I stand up straighter and hold my head a little higher.) Arthur holds up his security pass, but Darren just shrugs and peels his gaze from us. He walks over to a desk, where he leans down to input information into a computer. He’s not exactly friendly.

I glance around the room. There are no windows, and it’s fairly dark. One whole wall is dedicated to a set of small screens linked to cameras inside the different rooms.

‘Which day’s footage did you need to see?’ Darren asks.

‘The reception area, on Friday, from around five twenty-five pm please,’ I say.

‘That’s late,’ he says. ‘We close at six and final admission is fifteen minutes before that. There wouldn’t have been many people coming in so near to closing time.’

‘We’d still like to see it, though,’ I say.

Darren shrugs again, and types the requested date and time into the PC.

‘Done.’ He points to the screen that’s bottom-right in the stack, and Arthur and I walk over to it.

‘That must be the party of tourists who distracted the receptionist,’ says Arthur, indicating a horde of middle-aged people reclaiming their bags and coats from a man and woman, who are presumably their tour guides.

‘Who’s that?’ I ask, pointing at a figure in a man’s fedora hat and a long coat, walking past the tourists.

‘I can’t see their face,’ says Arthur. ‘Can you?’

We squint at the screen, but the person doesn’t turn towards the camera. They stride out of shot, heading for the exit.

‘Do you think it might be Sheila?’ I ask.

Arthur turns to Darren, who’s busy scrutinising the bank of CCTV footage. ‘Darren, how do we rewind this? Can we do it on the screen itself?’

The security guard comes over and shows us the correct buttons to rewind and pause, and Arthur takes the video back to the point at which the unidentified character appears. ‘Is this Sheila Smith?’ he asks Darren.

Darren joins us by the screen again, and studies the images for a moment. ‘It could be,’ he says at last, ‘but I wouldn’t like to say for sure. Why?’

‘I’m sure you’ve heard that she’s gone missing,’ I say. ‘We’re trying to track her down.’

‘You are?’ He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

Arthur rolls his eyes. ‘I know we’re young, but we’re highly experienced investigators.’

‘It’s definitely a staff member,’ I continue, ignoring the Darren’s rudeness. ‘See there.’ I point to a centimetre of ribbon, showing at the back of the person’s neck, just above their coat collar. ‘Do you see a glimpse of one of the gallery’s security lanyards?’

‘Good eye!’ says Arthur approvingly, and I blush. (Since when did I start blushing all the time? It’s mortifying.)

‘Well, if they’re a member of staff, I’d say it’s definitely Sheila,’ says Darren. ‘Nobody else dresses quite like that! I haven’t seen a fedora since those old films with Cary Grant.’

‘She does have her own style,’ I say, admiring the hat and the long coat. ‘I can’t wait to meet her.’

‘She’s certainly an interesting woman,’ says Darren. ‘I hope she’s all right. The gallery won’t be the same if anything happens to her. Dr MacDonald may be the director, but Sheila Smith’s the one everyone goes to. She’s like the warm heart of the place, you know?’ He breaks eye contact and starts staring at one of the screens, as if he’s embarrassed by his own sentimental outburst.

I catch Arthur’s eye and he says, ‘Well, we’ve got everything we need for now – thank you.’

‘Please let us know if you think of anything or hear something that might be relevant,’ I say. ‘And … thanks for your help.’

Outside the room, Arthur catches my eye. ‘Well, that was intense,’ he says.

‘It really was.’

‘Do you think he’s involved?’ he asks.

I pause for a moment. ‘I don’t know. He did seem very protective of Sheila, so probably not.’

‘I agree. I think he’s genuinely upset that she’s gone missing.’

We head back through the staff-only corridors, until we’re out again into the public area of the gallery.

‘Time to find out if any of the attendants know where Sheila is,’ says Arthur. ‘Where shall we start?’

‘How about the Van Gogh exhibition?’

‘Good choice.’

As we walk past the entrance desk, the receptionist calls us over.

‘Dr MacDonald has asked if you could go up to see her, when you’re finished with your interviews.’

‘Will do,’ says Arthur. ‘Thanks.’

At the entrance to the exhibition, Arthur turns to me. ‘How about you take this one, and I interview someone else?’

‘Good plan. Meet you by the reception desk in twenty minutes,’ I suggest, ‘and we’ll go up to see Dr MacDonald?’

‘Great.’ He heads off along an art-lined corridor, and I walk once again into Van Gogh’s extraordinary world. The artist had a condition known as ‘synaesthesia’. This means his senses overlapped – he saw shapes when he heard sounds, for instance. Those great swirls in the sky in The Starry Night? They were the result of his synaesthesia.

There’s no time to look at or reflect on the paintings today, though. We have a case to solve, and a missing woman to find.

The attendant is sitting on a wooden chair beside the archway that leads to the next room. He’s staring into space and nodding his head. It takes me a moment to realise he’s listening to music.

‘Hey!’ I say to him.

As he fumbles with his phone, turning off his music app, I take the opportunity to study him. My eyes flick over him, searching for clues to his personality and interests.

‘Hi!’ he says with a smile. ‘What can I help you with?’

I decide to trust my hunch. ‘What do you play?’ I ask.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I noticed your fingernails. You play the guitar?’

He smiles. ‘Wow, you’re observant! Yeah – I’m a third-year guitar student at ACM – the Academy of Contemporary Music in Clapham.’

I study him. ‘Rock?’ I ask.

‘We have to cover everything, but, yeah, I’m more into the rock side than classical or folk. Do you play?’

I shake my head. ‘No. I love listening, though.’

He gestures to the art on the walls. ‘What’s your favourite?’

‘The Sunflowers.’

He nods. ‘They’re cool.’ He points to the wall opposite his chair, where two paintings of Van Gogh himself hang side by side. ‘I like the self-portraits. They’re kind of creepy, but fascinating, you know?’

‘He was so talented …’ I pause for a moment, then say, ‘Have you heard the senior curator’s gone missing?’

He frowns. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘I’m looking into her disappearance.’

‘You are? How old are you?’

I produce the fake ID badge and he takes it and reads it. ‘“Prodigal Investigations”. Is that like a PI firm or something?’

‘That’s right. They specialise in recruiting young people,’ I explain, ‘… but we still report to grown-ups,’ I add quickly. ‘So, do you know Sheila Smith?’

He hands back the badge. ‘Everyone knows her. She’s a really nice woman. Very glamorous – she always looks great …’ He pauses. ‘So, what’s happening? Are the police involved?’

‘They wanted to leave it a few more days – they say there isn’t any reason yet to suspect foul play, but they’re happy to let us look into it in the meantime, as the family are concerned.’

He looks worried. ‘So, do you think she’s all right?’

I shrug. ‘I hope so. There’s certainly nothing to suggest she was attacked.’ I get my pen ready for note-taking.

‘So, Robbo,’ I say, reading his name badge, ‘when was the last time you saw her?’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Friday, at the end of the day. She came round to say goodbye and check I hadn’t gone mad from boredom, sitting here all afternoon.’

‘So she was already in her coat?’

‘Yeah.’ He laughs. ‘She was wearing this long coat, with a man’s hat. She carried it off, mind – very Marlene Dietrich.’

So that was Sheila in the CCTV footage!

‘Did she seem all right?’

He starts to nod, then appears to remember something. ‘Well, she was a bit on edge, you know?’

‘In what way, “on edge”?’

‘It’s just that normally she gives you her full attention, but on Friday she kept checking her phone and she seemed distracted. It’s probably nothing …’

‘It was worth mentioning, though – thank you. Was there anything else?’

‘No. After a few minutes, she just said, “See you on Monday, Robbo”.’

‘Well, thanks for your help.’ I tear a page out of my notebook and scribble down my mobile number. ‘If you think of anything else, please give me a call.’

He takes the slip of paper. ‘Will do. I still can’t believe it … Sheila, missing …’

I remember Darren and the receptionist’s comments on how young Arthur and I were, and want to reassure him. ‘I promise I’m going to report back to my supervisors,’ I tell him, ‘and they’re going to do everything they can to find her.’

It’s only been ten minutes, but Arthur’s already waiting when I reach the reception desk.

‘Let’s find a quiet spot to talk before we go and see Dr MacDonald,’ he says. ‘Maybe we can find a space upstairs in the medieval section, where it isn’t too busy.’

We walk up the stairs and enter a room where there are lots of religious paintings in dark colours with splashes of gold.

‘So, what did you find out?’ I ask him.

‘Not much. You?’

‘Robbo last saw her at the end of the day on Friday, when she did her usual round of goodbyes. She seemed distracted – she kept checking her phone. He also confirmed she was dressed in the clothes we saw on the monitor.’

‘So that was her then, on her way out?’

‘Yes. It’s good to have that confirmed,’ I say.

He nods and consults his notes. ‘Emma saw her in the ladies’ toilets at five twenty pm. They smiled and exchanged pleasantries – nothing more. I also had a quick chat with the other two attendants—’

‘Wow, you’re quick!’

‘Well – nothing to report, basically, so there was no reason to keep them talking.’

‘So, no leads …’

He shakes his head. ‘We’d better report to Dr Mac. Let’s hope she’s not expecting any results yet.’

‘I’d also like to inspect Sheila’s office, if she has one.’

He nods. ‘She does. We can get the key from Dr MacDonald.’

We head back down to the main foyer area and from there pass through another staff-only door and take the stairs two flights to the second floor. Arthur’s been here before, so he leads the way. As we walk, I tentatively say, ‘Arthur – have you noticed anything not quite right about the Sunflowers painting since it moved position?’

He shakes his head and looks puzzled. ‘No. What sort of thing?’

‘Just the colouring … I’m probably imagining it. Forget it.’ I decide not to mention the invisible A at this point – it might distract us, and Sheila’s safety must be our priority.