Lena Jones - Agatha Oddly

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.’