The Poisoned Arrow (9 page)

From the angry embarrassment that was flushing his cheeks and turning his bushy eyebrows into a sharp frown, I got the distinct impression that he didn’t
know
where that computer
was. Which backed up the idea that he was innocent. (Unless, that was, he’d either already sold the computer or he’d stolen it on someone else’s behalf and handed it over to
them.)

I shook my head.
Stop it
, I told myself,
I’m going to start thinking in circles if I’m not careful!
I decided to try a different line of enquiry.

‘Your friends,’ I said. ‘Matt, Jack and Anil. I’m very puzzled. Why didn’t they say anything to the police on Monday, right after the theft? Why did they wait until
Tuesday?’

Nat glanced at me, then back at his textbook, then back at me again. ‘They knew what I’d done on Monday. But they’re my best friends. They gave me a chance to own up first. Do
the right thing.’

‘And you did own up,’ I said. ‘But then you wouldn’t hand the computer over. You said you’d hidden it. You’re still saying you’ve hidden it. So the
police came to a dead end. And then, let me get this straight, your three friends came forward and told the police what they’d seen. How kind of them. You wouldn’t give the police proof
that you’d stolen the laptop, so your friends stepped in and made sure the police had three witnesses and therefore enough evidence to charge you. You’d think they
wanted
to make
sure you’d be charged.’

Nat suddenly slapped the e-reader down on his desk.

‘
Enough!
’ he shouted. ‘Shut up and get out! I don’t want some stupid kid hanging around me!’

For a moment or two I was too shocked to speak. Then I started with, ‘But —’

‘But nothing! Go on, get out! It’s got nothing to do with you! I stole a computer, I’ll take the consequences and that’s the end of it!
Get out!
’

Without another word, I scuttled quickly out of Nat’s room and back down the stairs. Mrs Hardyman had heard the shouts and came hurrying along, apologising for her son’s rudeness and
assuring me that he was a good boy who’d never been in trouble before in his life. I told her not to worry and that I would now go and carry on my investigation. No matter what Nat thought
about it.

I went over to Muddy’s house. My great friend George ‘Muddy’ Whitehouse was St Egbert’s School’s Number One Mr Fixit, and I needed to borrow one of his gadgets.

I found him working away in the garage attached to the house – or his Development Laboratory, as he prefers people to call it. Whereas Nat’s room was what you might call
‘neatly cluttered’, Muddy’s laboratory was what you might call ‘disgustingly heaped with every sort of spare part and broken machine you can imagine’.

He was turning dials on a piece of electronic equipment, making a circuit board attached to the wall shoot out flashes and showers of sparks.

‘Woohoo!’ he beamed. ‘Nice one!’

‘Isn’t that thing appallingly dangerous?’ I asked nervously.

Muddy shrugged. ‘Well, only if you touch it, or go near it, or you aren’t wearing rubber boots. Otherwise, it’s fine.’ He took off the plastic goggles he was wearing to
reveal clearly defined clean patches around his eyes. He looked like a panda in reverse.

We chatted for a while and I told him all about the Hardyman case. ‘Do you have a small recording device of some kind that I can borrow?’ I asked.

‘Ooooh, like, y’know, a wire?’ said Muddy gleefully. ‘Like undercover cops use in movies?’

‘No, like schoolboy detectives use to tape ordinary conversations,’ I tutted.

‘Oh,’ said Muddy, disappointed.

‘I’ve already written down heaps of notes,’ I said, ‘and I’ve still got several people to talk to. I thought I’d record my chats with them and write up any
observations later on.’

Muddy ferreted around in a couple of cardboard boxes, then produced a regular handset with a couple of extra bits sticking out of it. ‘I adapted this from my mum’s old mobile
phone,’ he said. ‘It records for a couple of hours before it needs a recharge. I was trying to make something that would automatically turn voice messages into written ones, but for
some reason they kept coming out in Swahili.’

‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘it’s only the recording function I need. Thanks.’

‘Is this case turning out to be a real brain-mangler, then?’

I sighed and gave my glasses a quick polish on my sleeve. ‘I have to admit,’ I said, ‘my talk with Nat has only made the entire mystery seem even more alarmingly deep and
complex than ever. I think it’s looking less and less likely that he
did
commit the crime. I think. But if he
didn’t
commit the crime, what sort of terrible hold has the
real
crook got over him? Must be something pretty extreme. And
what
is going on with those friends of his?’

‘Maybe they’re not friends at all,’ said Muddy. ‘Maybe they’re out to get him for some reason.’

‘Hmm, dunno,’ I muttered. ‘Every angle I look at this problem from, all I can see are more problems. Anyway, thanks for this I’ll see you later.’

‘Hang on!’ cried Muddy. He dived back into his cardboard boxes and came up with a small camera to which he’d attached a big lens. ‘I’ve been itching to try out the
new Whitehouse Snoop-o-Zoom Mark 2. I’m coming with you!’

I groaned. ‘Do you have to?’ I said, one hand over my eyes. ‘Do you really, really, really have to?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded, grinning. ‘I want to see if the students at uni are like the students on telly, going to parties all the time and making a lot of noise at three in the
morning!’

‘A
WWW, WOW, LOOK AT THAT
!
And that! And that! Ooooh!’

‘Muddy,’ I growled through clenched teeth, ‘pack it in. People are staring.’

‘But look,’ he cried, ‘they’ve got a
proper
laboratory. And have you seen the size of their canteen? And that sign up there says
IT Centre
. Not just a room
like at school – a whole
centre
! I can’t wait to be a university student. A
real
laboratory,
plus
parties all the time and making a lot of noise at three in the
morning!’

The university was certainly an impressive place. A narrow road wandered through the main campus, passing all kinds of buildings, each of which was totally different in size and style to the
ones either side. It looked as if teams of builders had raced each other to finish one idea after another. Signposts and diagrams pointed here, there and everywhere, to the Department of
This-Subject and the Institute of That-Studies.

Muddy and I were surrounded by flowing streams of students, all of them way taller than us and most of them wearing designer jeans. By the time we found the Department of Mathematics, we’d
heard nine languages being spoken and seen about a dozen contenders for Cool Dude of the Year.

‘This is amaaaazing,’ Muddy said grinning.

The maths block was fronted by a large, paved area. In the middle of this plaza was a tall tree, its branches fanned out in an elegant dome, surrounded by a series of benches.

‘You stay out here, Muddy,’ I told him.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Muddy, parking himself on one of the benches.

‘Pack it in. Seriously, don’t go talking to anyone. I want to investigate incognito.’

‘Wearing a what?’ asked Muddy.

‘No, incognito,’ I said. ‘It means “undercover”, “on the quiet”.’

‘I bet Izzy told you that word,’ muttered Muddy.

‘Doesn’t matter where I got the word,’ I said, blushing slightly. ‘Don’t start talking to people about the case. I know what you’re like. I don’t want
anyone knowing there’s a brilliant schoolboy detective here. My enquiries are strictly off the record, so I don’t need a blabbermouth like you asking questions. OK?’

‘Yes, sir!’ said Muddy, saluting.

‘Oh, play with your camera or something,’ I said crossly. I crossed the plaza and went into the maths building through sliding glass doors.

I found Dr Shroeder’s study without any problem. It was on the ground floor, only a matter of metres away from the entrance. Right opposite the plaza I’d just left, in fact.

The corridor off which it stood was closed at the far end by heavy fire doors. On the right were various tutors’ private offices. On the left, all along the corridor, were a series of
wooden lockers and storage cupboards. These were roughly the same height as me. Above them, starting at about adult-shoulder level, were glistening windows, about a metre tall, which also ran from
one end of the corridor to the other. They faced the plaza – I could see the top of that tree.

Pay attention to the layout of this corridor. It will become important later on!

I knocked on the door of Room 9B. I had no idea if Dr Shroeder was there or not, but I wanted to —

‘Come in!’ called a musical voice.

In I went. Dr Shroeder was a short, smiley man with a patched-up corduroy jacket and hair which rose in huge, fuzzy grey tufts above his ears. His eyes blinked behind owlish spectacles and he
flitted about from one thing to another like a hummingbird darting from flower to flower.

I introduced myself as a friend of a friend of Nat Hardyman. Dr Shroeder ushered me in and shook my hand enthusiastically.

‘Delighted to meet you, young man,’ he said. ‘Come on in, can I get you a cup of tea? Or coffee? Or milk? Or lemon squash?’

‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ I smiled.

‘Thank goodness for that, I’m out of all of them,’ said Dr Shroeder. ‘Now then, you wanted to talk to me about poor Nat?’

I checked it was OK for me to record our conversation, and set Muddy’s home-made recorder down on a workbench which ran along the wall beside the door. The room was a sort of
half-classroom, half-office, with a large whiteboard at one end, a scattering of chairs and an assortment of bookcases and filing cabinets.

This is exactly what was said: