Friday Barnes 2 (2 page)

Friday knew it would take some time for her uncle  to get to the police station. His office was two hours away, and he might actually be doing something important that he couldn't stop the moment he got the message. So Friday reasoned that she had between two-and-a-half and four hours to fill.

She took out a lollipop and stuck it in her mouth, then looked about the room. She could ask for a
crossword, but she was very good at those so it would probably only fill up five or six minutes.

Friday could ask if she could read the police files, but she suspected there'd be some privacy law preventing the officers from showing them to a child. Also, it'd probably rub the police up the wrong way if she read through their files and solved all their cold cases for them.

Friday glanced at the vagrant at the far end of the bench. He didn't look like the chatty type. He looked more the ‘hit you over the head with a rusty iron bar' type. Friday decided to leave him alone. She pulled out a paperback from her back pocket and started to read. She'd only been reading for a few minutes when she realised the vagrant was watching her. He hadn't turned and stared, but he was definitely watching her out of the corner of his eye. Friday looked up at him.

‘Good book?' asked the vagrant.

Friday hadn't expected the vagrant to engage her in a literary discussion. ‘It is actually,' said Friday. ‘It's E.M. Dowell's
The Curse of the Pirate King
, the story of a privileged boy who defies his family's expectations and runs away to be a pirate, then becomes enormously successful sailing the high seas and winning
sword fights with people who are even more dubious than himself. We have to read it for English.'

‘They let you read that at school?' he asked. ‘In my day it was all Shakespeare and Dickens.'

‘The school is particularly proud of this book because it was written by the great, great grandson of the school's founder, Sebastian Dowell,' explained Friday. ‘E.M. Dowell is one of the few ex-students to become rich and famous without violating insider-trading laws.'

‘Okay,' said the vagrant.

‘It's very exciting. We're all dying to know how it ends,' continued Friday. ‘There's one more book to go in the series. Legend has it that E.M. Dowell came up with the idea for the whole series while he was at our school and he wrote the last chapter first, and then hid it. Like it was pirate treasure.'

‘Sounds like a weirdo,' said the vagrant.

‘Yes,' agreed Friday. ‘Although, the literary biographies phrase it differently. Their euphemism is “eccentric recluse”.'

The vagrant snorted a laugh and went back to staring into the middle distance. Now that she knew he wasn't dangerously terrifying, Friday was curious.

‘What have they busted you for?' asked Friday.

‘What's it to you?' asked the vagrant.

‘I'm up on terrorism charges,' said Friday.

The vagrant raised an eyebrow.

‘I didn't do it,' said Friday. ‘I'm wrongly accused.'

The vagrant snorted again.

‘Look, I know I look like a child, mainly because I am only eleven years old,' said Friday, ‘but I am actually a successful private investigator. I've solved a bank robbery and thwarted a bird smuggling ring, as well as lots of smaller cases. Why don't you tell me your story? Perhaps I can help.'

The vagrant didn't look at Friday but he didn't look away either. He was clearly thinking about it.

‘I'm waiting for my uncle to get here so I can be interviewed,' volunteered Friday. ‘What are
you
waiting for?'

‘Their computer to identify my fingerprints,' said the vagrant.

‘So you're refusing to tell them who you are?' asked Friday.

The vagrant shrugged. ‘I didn't do anything wrong, so why should I help them?'

‘Interesting tactic,' said Friday, admiringly. ‘But
aren't you worried that you'll make them angry by being unnecessarily uncooperative?'

‘Cops are always angry whatever you do,' said the vagrant. ‘They have an awful job dealing with horrible people all day long. Time-wasting is the least of their worries. In fact, they quite like it because it increases their chances of getting overtime.'

‘Come on then,' said Friday. ‘Since we're both stuck here for the next couple of hours, give me something to do. Tell me the details of your case.'

The vagrant sighed. He was obviously weighing up his options. He seemed to be the type of man who preferred to remain silent when possible.

‘They say I stole a blue sapphire bracelet,' said the vagrant.

‘Did you?' asked Friday.

‘No,' said the vagrant.

‘So why do they think you did?' she asked.

The vagrant shrugged. Then he looked down at his clothes. ‘Look at me, I'm a bum.'

Friday nodded. She sucked her lollipop as she thought about it. Truth be told, she wasn't dressed much better herself. But it is a fact of life that some people can wear unironed earth tones and look like
an eccentric academic, and some people can look like a bum who has been sleeping rough for a week.

‘Take me through the details,' urged Friday.

‘Apparently some rich housewife was taking a shower and she put her bracelet on the windowsill,' said the vagrant. ‘When she got out of the shower, the bracelet was gone.'

‘And they immediately arrested you?' asked Friday.

‘I was seen by three separate witnesses as I walked through the field behind the lady's house,' explained the vagrant.

‘That doesn't look good,' conceded Friday.

‘There was a prison break at the maximum security jail yesterday,' continued the vagrant, ‘and they say I look like an ex-con.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘So the cops picked me up on the road out of town,' said the vagrant. ‘And when they searched me they found that I was a wearing prison-issue undershirt.'

‘Why were you wearing a prison-issue undershirt?' asked Friday.

‘I was released from jail yesterday,' said the vagrant.

‘Oh,' said Friday, taken aback. She had started to warm to this vagrant, but now that she knew he actually was a ‘con', she was not so confident of her ability, or the appropriateness, of getting him off. ‘What did you do time for?'

‘I don't want to talk about it,' said the vagrant.

‘That bad, huh?' said Friday.

‘I don't want to talk about it,' he repeated.

‘Okay,' said Friday, ‘I can see how you would fit the profile for just about any crime likely to be committed in a small country town.'

‘I didn't do it,' said the vagrant.

Friday looked at him with pity. That was what people always said when they realised that no logical argument would be persuasive. ‘So let me get the facts straight,' she said. ‘You were released from prison yesterday … and how did you leave?'

‘I walked,' said the vagrant. ‘I walked until I got tired at about ten o'clock, then I found a nice big bush and I curled up underneath it to go to sleep.'

‘Then this morning, you resumed walking?' asked Friday.

‘That's right,' said the vagrant. ‘I like walking and being outside.'

‘And there was a rich lady in town who took a shower,' said Friday. ‘Who knows how long rich ladies' take to shower? Probably longer than average, because they wouldn't care about the hot-water bill. So maybe as much as fifteen minutes, or twenty at the outside – she wouldn't want to get pickled fingers. And during that twenty-minute window you just happened to be walking through the field behind her house.'

‘Yes,' said the vagrant glumly.

‘Where's the bracelet now?' asked Friday.

‘I don't know,' said the vagrant. ‘I didn't take it. And the police can't find it. So they're saying that I took it and stashed it somewhere, planning to come back and get it later.'

‘That would work,' agreed Friday. ‘Or you could have swallowed it.'

‘A whole sapphire bracelet!' exclaimed the vagrant.

‘You could have put it in a lump of cheese and swallowed that,' said Friday. ‘That's what we did with our cat when we wanted it to swallow a tablet.'

‘I didn't swallow the bracelet!' said the vagrant.

‘Is there any possibility that you did swallow it, but now you have no memory of doing so, perhaps
because you have subsequently suffered a blow to the head while you were resisting arrest?' asked Friday.

‘What makes you think I resisted arrest?' asked the vagrant.

‘There's an open first-aid kit on the desk over there,' said Friday, ‘and a red droplet of spatter on the linoleum floor by the doorway, which looks a lot like blood.' Friday pointed at the spot without turning her head towards it. She did not care for blood and didn't think that fainting in front of this large vagrant would help her street cred. ‘Also, there are six desks in this room, but I have only seen two police officers,' continued Friday, ‘which suggests to me that somewhere in this building there is a police officer receiving medical attention.'

‘I didn't hurt anyone,' said the vagrant. ‘The constable tore his pants when he leapt over a barbed wire fence trying to chase after me. He got a nasty scrape on his backside. They took him to the doctor for a tetanus injection.'

‘Hmm,' said Friday. ‘You do make an excellent suspect. You even look like a criminal.'

‘I know,' said the vagrant.

‘With so much circumstantial evidence, and your criminal record and frightening physical appearance working against you,' continued Friday, ‘you could quite easily end up back behind bars for this.'

‘Hmmpf,' said the vagrant. ‘You're making me wish I didn't start talking to you.'

‘The only thing that will clear your name is finding the bracelet,' said Friday.

‘If you do, there's a big reward,' said the vagrant. ‘$10,000 to anyone who provides information leading to its recovery.'

‘It's a good job I know where it is then,' said Friday.

‘You do?' asked the vagrant.

‘But first, before I take on a client, I like to know what their name is,' said Friday.

The vagrant paused for a moment. It obviously went against the grain for him to concede anything. ‘Malcolm,' he eventually said. ‘What about you?'

Suddenly the main doors burst open and Uncle Bernie hurried in. ‘Friday! What mess have you got yourself into now? Terrorism charges! You haven't been looking up bomb recipes on the internet, have you?'

‘Of course not,' said Friday. ‘I promised the federal agents I would never do that again.'

The sergeant emerged from his office. ‘Mr Barnes, I'm Sergeant Crowley,' he said. ‘If you'd both step into the interview room, we have a lot of questions for your niece.'

‘What about me?' asked Malcolm.

‘It's all right,' said Friday. ‘When they let me off. I'll fix up your thing too.'

‘What if they don't let you off?' asked Malcolm.

‘Well, I don't think I'd be a very good advocate for you then,' conceded Friday as the lady police con stable led her into the interview room.

‘Friday Barnes, you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say or do may be used in evidence. Do you understand?' asked Sergeant Crowley.

‘Yes,' said Friday.

‘The national counterterrorism centre received an anonymous letter informing them that you have been making ricin in your dorm room,' stated Sergeant Crowley.

‘Ricin?!' exclaimed Friday.

‘The deadly poisonous powder derived from the seed of the castor-oil plant,' said Sergeant Crowley.

‘I know what ricin is,' said Friday.

‘Of course you do,' said Sergeant Crowley. ‘You've been making it in your dorm room.'

‘That's ridiculous!' exclaimed Friday. ‘Why would I do that?'

‘We don't claim to understand your agenda,' said Sergeant Crowley, ‘but we know you have a history of this type of thing.'

‘I do not,' protested Friday.

‘Do you deny that last year in –' Sergeant Crowley checked his notes ‘– geography class, your pencil box exploded?'

‘Actually, it imploded,' said Friday.

‘Friday, now is not the time to be pedantic,' said Uncle Bernie.

‘But it did,' said Friday. ‘And I didn't do it. Why would I implode my own pencil box?'

‘Because you were honing your technique,' suggested Sergeant Crowley.

‘And why would I make ricin?' asked Friday. ‘I  don't have any grudges against anyone. And
apart  from anything else, it's really hard to make. First of all, you've got to …'

‘Shhh,' said Uncle Bernie.

‘So you do know how to make it?!' pounced Sergeant Crowley.

‘Of course, I was curious,' said Friday. ‘Isolating lectins is a fascinating field of research.'

‘This is nonsense,' said Uncle Bernie. ‘Unless you have some evidence, I suggest you release my niece right now before I contact a lawyer about pursuing a complaint of wrongful arrest.'

‘But we do have evidence,' said Sergeant Crowley. ‘Our crime scene investigation team locked off her dormitory and went through her room with a fine toothcomb.'

‘Urgh,' groaned Friday. ‘You would've had to do that just before laundry day when the hamper is full of dirty underwear.'

Uncle Bernie sighed. ‘What have you got hidden in your room, Friday?' he asked.

‘Nothing,' protested Friday.

‘We found an unregistered short-wave radio,' began Sergeant Crowley.

‘I use that to talk to Uncle Bernie,' said Friday. ‘It's important to stay in touch with family.'

‘Military-grade night-vision binoculars,' continued Sergeant Crowley.

‘I sleep in a building with two hundred teenagers,'  said Friday. ‘It would be stupid not to have night-vision binoculars.'

‘And a cavity drilled into the handle of your hockey stick, containing ricin,' said Sergeant Crowley.

Uncle Bernie laughed. ‘Well, then there's no way this can possibly be true. Friday would never own a hockey stick.'

‘Actually I do,' admitted Friday. ‘You have to. It's essential school equipment.'

A constable came into the room carrying a large plastic bag with a hockey stick inside.

Uncle Bernie scooted his chair back, away from the table. ‘Is that thing safe?' he asked. ‘Even the tiniest particle of ricin is super dangerous.'

‘Ask your niece, she's the expert,' said Sergeant Crowley. ‘Do you deny this is your stick?'

Friday leaned in for a closer look. ‘It's definitely mine. It's got a nick in the paint from when I tried to try to squash a spider but accidentally hit a light-fitting instead. Also, it's got my name across the handle in my handwriting.'

‘And do you deny that these are the ricin seeds?' asked Sergeant Crowley, producing a small plastic bag. It had been vacuum-sealed in thick plastic, zip-locked inside another plastic bag.

Uncle Bernie scooted his chair all the way back so that he was wedged up against the far wall. ‘This is crazy,' he cried. ‘If that's ricin, we're all in danger.'

Friday peered at the bag for a moment then burst into laughter.

‘What are you laughing about?' asked Sergeant Crowley. ‘This is a very serious matter.'

‘You haven't got very good crime scene investigators, have you?' said Friday. ‘Let me guess, you got the two most junior officers on staff to go through my things. You probably weren't expecting to find anything and were shocked when they did.'

‘So you admit it!' accused Sergeant Crowley.

‘I don't admit anything,' said Friday. ‘That's my hockey stick. But I didn't drill a hole in the handle and I didn't put those beans in there. And even if I did, who cares? They're only beans.'

‘Beans that can be used to make ricin, one of the deadliest substances known to man,' said Sergeant Crowley.

‘Electricity is deadly,' said Friday, ‘and you've got two power sockets in this room. No-one is arresting
you
.'

‘Why did you hide them in your hockey stick?' demanded Sergeant Crowley.

‘I didn't,' said Friday. ‘I've been set up. And by someone with a perverse sense of humour.'

‘I don't see what is funny about a terrorist threat,' said Sergeant Crowley.

‘It's funny, because not only is this not ricin – it's not even the castor seed that ricin comes from,' said Friday, picking up the packet. ‘These are pinto beans. They look a lot like castor seeds, but are entirely harmless. In fact, if you've ever had a burrito you've probably eaten them because pinto beans are the main ingredient in refried beans, a feature of Mexican cooking.'

‘How do I know you're not lying?' asked Sergeant Crowley.

‘You don't,' said Friday. ‘You'll have to check with a botanist or a Mexican chef. Or you could wait until the counterterrorism unit get here and ask them to run it through their forensic process. You should, it will give them a good laugh.'

Sergeant Crowley drummed his fingers on the desk for a few moments, then got up and walked over to the door. He opened it and leaned out. ‘Harris?' he barked.

‘Yes, boss,' replied Harris.

‘Run down to the taco place next to the pub and get the chef back here, pronto,' ordered Sergeant Crowley. ‘And when I say run, I mean run, now!'

Six minutes later, Jorge, a short-order chef from Guadalajara had cleared Friday's name by confirming that the bag did, indeed, contain pinto beans. Sergeant Crowley immediately rang the counterterrorism unit and told them to turn back – it had been a false alarm.

‘You can go now,' said Sergeant Crowley, sulkily.

‘Do you want to make a complaint about wrongful arrest?' Uncle Bernie asked Friday. ‘We could pick up the forms while we're here.'

‘No, of course not,' said Friday. ‘I've had a wonderful morning. I want to thank Sergeant Crowley. It's been very educational. And it got me out of double woodwork. So it was extra educational in that it didn't fill my head with redundant twaddle.'

‘I can have an officer drive you back to school,' offered Sergeant Crowley.

‘No, thank you,' said Friday.

‘I'll drive her,' said Uncle Bernie.

‘No, I mean I don't want to go,' said Friday.

‘You're not going to confess to something else, are you?' groaned Uncle Bernie.

‘No, I want to help Malcolm,' said Friday.

‘Who's Malcolm?' asked Sergeant Crowley.

‘My friend outside,' said Friday.

‘What friend?' asked Sergeant Crowley.

‘The gentleman you've got handcuffed to the bench,' said Friday.

‘You mean the escaped prisoner and thief we've got handcuffed to the bench?' said Sergeant Crowley.

There was a knock at the door. The lady police constable ducked her head into the room. ‘Boss, I just got a fax through from the prison. Our suspect doesn't match their physical description.'

‘Are you sure?' asked Sergeant Crowley.

‘Our suspect is six foot five and has blue eyes,' said the lady police constable. ‘The guy who climbed over the wall this morning is five foot four and has brown eyes. Also, he's only twenty, so that's about twenty years younger than the guy we've got.'

‘Okay,' said Sergeant Crowley. ‘So he's just a bum who stole a bracelet.'

‘He didn't steal the bracelet and I can prove it,' said Friday. ‘If you take me to the scene of the crime.'

Sergeant Crowley sighed. He would've liked to have gone to the pub, or at least the taco bar. All that talk of refried beans had made him hungry. But solving the only other pressing matter on his plate that day would make things easier for him in the long run. Plus, he suspected that if he didn't cooperate, Friday would only embarrass him again.