Lena Jones - Agatha Oddly

‘Good idea.’

I Change Channel and summon up a view of the National Gallery, with its roof removed, as if I’m floating above it. If I was Sheila Smith and I wanted to hide here, where would I go? And if I was her assailant, where would I put her, alive or dead?

It takes me a moment to realise Arthur is speaking to me. ‘Hello? Earth calling Agatha …’

‘Sorry!’

‘Where did you go?’ he asks.

I blush. ‘I just switched off this room inside my head and shone a light inside the gallery building.’

Most of the time, people look at me politely or with mild concern when I explain my Change-Channel mechanism. Not Arthur, though. ‘Oh – I do that!’ he says enthusiastically. ‘I call it Auto-Focusing!’

‘Changing Channel!’ I say. I catch his eye and we laugh.

‘I guess the Guild attracts a certain brand of weirdo,’ he says.

‘I prefer “maverick”,’ I say. ‘You know – someone who’s happy to do things their own way.’

He grins. ‘OK. Maverick it is. Let the investigation begin!’

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?’