Lena Jones - The Secret Key

I climb into bed and pull the sheet over me, then take a last look at the photograph.

A lump rises in my throat. ‘Night, Mum,’ I say, as I turn out the light.

‘Dad, will you stop letting Oliver walk all over the work surface? It’s unhygienic.’

I’m trying to wash up the bowl I used for breakfast, but our cat is sitting by the sink and keeps batting my hand with his tail. He’s purring loudly at the fun new game he’s invented. I turn to look at Dad, who is hunched over a bowl at the table. He shrugs and shovels in another spoonful of cereal. He’s running late, as usual.

‘I can’t watch him all the time, Agatha.’

Sighing, I scoop Oliver off the counter. He’s grey, and on the portly side from all the treats Dad feeds him. He causes so much trouble, but he has a special place in my heart. He’s middle-aged in cat years, and his main hobby is sitting – on the work surface in the kitchen, in front of the mirror in the hall or on the threadbare armchair that used to be Mum’s. I suppose he misses her too. When he isn’t sitting, he’s lying down.

Oliver rubs his face up against my chin and I scratch the soft fur of his neck. I can feel his low, rumbling purr in my chest. I think back to the day I first met him. It was a rainy afternoon, and I was sitting by the fire, reading. Mum had come in through the front door with a cardboard box, which she brought over and set down in front of me.

‘What is it?’

‘Why don’t you find out?’ she said, smiling and shaking the raindrops from her hair.

I opened the wet cardboard box. At first it seemed to be full of nothing but blankets. I looked at Mum, puzzled.

‘Keep searching – just be careful.’

I pulled back the layers of blanket, realising that there was a sort of hollow in the middle of them, like a nest. And there – curled into itself and barely bigger than my fist – was a kitten. My eyes widened with surprise, and I didn’t dare touch the sleeping creature.

‘Go on – you can stroke him.’

‘Him?’

‘Yes, he’s a boy. You’ll have to think of a name.’

I thought about this for a moment. ‘Why do I have to think of a name?’

Mum laughed. ‘Because he’s yours.’

‘He’s … mine?’

Something like a shiver passed through me as he opened two huge ink-black eyes and looked up at me.

Then Mum had put her arms round me from behind and held me while I held Oliver. I closed my eyes.

The memory was so clear – even though that kitten was fully grown now, Mum was still somewhere behind me, holding her arms round me. He might have been mine, but his heart always belonged to Mum.

I put Oliver down on the tiles and clear my throat. As I finish my washing-up and dry my hands, Dad brings his empty bowl over to the sink.

‘Are you OK, love?’

I nod and manage a smile. ‘I’m fine.’

‘It’s just, you look a bit …’ He puts his head on one side.

‘… of a genius?’ I suggest, trying to deflect the attention from myself and clear the lump in my throat, but he doesn’t laugh.

‘Is something wrong?’ Dad is more interested in things that grow in soil than things that live in houses, but sometimes he notices more than I expect.

‘I’m fine, Dad, really …’

‘Really?’ He puts a shovel-sized hand on my shoulder.

‘Yes, really, Dad. Now go – get to work before you’re late!’ I reach up on tiptoes and hug him. For Dad, actions make more sense than words. He softens.

‘Hold on,’ I say, ‘your collar’s all twisted.’ I sort out his polo shirt and he stands very still, like an obedient child.

‘Right – you’ll do,’ I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Off you go.’

‘Have a good day, love.’

Dad goes, and I rush back upstairs to finish getting ready. I brush my teeth and pull on my blazer, brushing my hair until my dark bob shines. I tie Mum’s red silk scarf round my neck like a lucky charm and, finally, put on my tortoiseshell sunglasses – perfect for observing people without them noticing. Next, I pack my satchel – notebook, magnifying glass, sample pots for evidence, fingerprint powder and my second-best lock-picking kit. (My best one has been locked in the headmaster’s shiny desk since yesterday afternoon.)

Outside, the sun is bright. Dewdrops sparkle on the emerald-green lawns and the sun fades. It’s been hot today. I feel a swell of pride – the beautiful trees, the grass and flowerbeds, all lovingly tended by Dad and his wardens. I step through the wrought-iron gate of Groundskeeper’s Cottage and close it behind me, taking my usual route along the Serpentine lake. I’m looking forward to my morning chat with JP, who lives in the park. JP isn’t supposed to live in the park – he’s homeless – but Dad pretends not to notice when he’s still there at night-time. Dad says he scares off the occasional graffiti artist. This morning, as I approach, I see JP sitting with his eyes closed, looking pale.

‘Hey, JP!’ I hurry towards him. I have a premonition that he will fall forward as I reach him, a knife sticking out of his back. He would murmur something as he fell into my arms – ‘Agatha, you must avenge me.’ Then I would …

‘Morning!’ JP calls brightly, his eyes flicking open.

He’s not dead.

‘Were you comfortable last night?’ I ask.

‘Not too bad. I slept under the weeping tree in the Dell. Don’t tell your Dad, though.’

‘Did you make sure not to leave a trace?’

‘Not a fingerprint.’ He laughs and eyes my pockets hopefully. ‘Do you have anything to eat?’

I pull out two pieces of toast, sandwiched together with butter and marmalade.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ He takes a large bite, then speaks through a mouthful. ‘Now, by the way …’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you have a school to go to?’

I check my watch. It’s 8:37 already; school starts at 8:55. ‘Yup, I’d better run. Bye!’ I set off at a brisk walk.

‘Have a good day!’ he calls after me.

I walk along the path. There aren’t many people around at this time, but I nod to an old lady as I pass her, and she smiles back. She’s walking fast, wearing a light tan coat and matching hat.

As I pass under the canopy of beech and willow trees, I hear a roar ahead. Approaching me, far too quickly, is a motorbike. Motorbikes are banned from the park, the same as any vehicle. I feel cross, but I have no time to react as the bike shoots past me, down the footpath and out of sight. A moment later and I hear a screech of tyres, a loud thud, then nothing.

Before I know it, I’m running back in the direction that I’ve just come from, and as I round a bend in the path I see what I feared – the old lady in the tan coat lying on the ground. The bike is next to her, but only for a second – the rider revs the engine and speeds away.

‘Hey!’ I shout after the rider, rather pointlessly. ‘Stop!’

Of course, the bike does no such thing, and just disappears down the winding path. I rush over to where the woman lies on the ground. Her hat is askew, her eyes closed, and the contents of her handbag are strewn over the path.

I stand frozen for a second, stunned. I have to check myself – I haven’t Changed Channel. This is not a dream. This is really happening .

‘Are you all right?’ I ask, and she opens her eyes slightly, but just looks blearily at me, then blacks out.

‘Help!’ I shout. ‘Someone, help!’

There is hardly anyone around, but JP comes running over.

‘We need to call an ambulance. I’ll call nine-nine-nine,’ I say.

‘You have a mobile?’ He sounds surprised.

‘Well, of course,’ I say, a little peeved. ‘I’m just not glued to it all the time. We need to hurry.’