7.00 PM
If Amelia X, Girl Detective is a made-up story, does that mean Death in the City is also made up? Is Inspector Garcia just an actor?
Have I built my life and my hopes on a falsehood?
8.00 PM
‘Clara! Clara, where are you?’
‘Clara? Won’t you come out, wherever you are? Dad cooked spaghetti.’
Olive and Digby are calling me, but I will not answer, not even for spaghetti.
I thought I was clever. I thought I could be a proper detective.
But I was wrong.
I am a fool.
8.30 PM
‘There you are. Digby, she’s under Dad’s bed. Come out, Clara. Please come out.’
I tuck my head under my wing so Olive can’t see me. I shall stay here for the rest of my life. I shall not eat. I shall not drink. Hopefully, everyone will soon forget about me.
Olive wriggles under the bed and lies down next to me. I keep my head under my wing.
‘I brought you some spaghetti,’ she says. ‘It’s got meatballs. They’re falling apart and look fairly weird, but they taste nice.’
I can smell them. They mean nothing to me.
Olive lies beside me for a while, saying nothing. Then she whispers, ‘Dad used to cook all the time. He said it relaxed him after a day at work. Only then—’
She takes a deep breath. ‘Then Mum died and he stopped cooking. That’s when we started living on baked beans. I didn’t mind at first, because I couldn’t taste anything. And then everything started going wrong at school, and the baked beans were just another part of it.’
Her hand touches my back. She starts stroking me.
‘And then you came,’ she whispers. ‘You were the first good thing that had happened for ages. You were funny. You were smart. You were my friend. That’s when things started to change. And now Dad’s cooking again. I don’t mean that everything’s all right, because it’s not. And maybe it never will be, without – without Mum. But it’s better, Clara, and that’s all because of you.’
I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if I just looked at the spaghetti, to see if Olive is right about the meatballs.
I lower my wing a little, so that one eye is uncovered. The meatballs are falling apart. They look a bit like dead maggots, which I have always liked.
But I will not be tempted.
‘I just wanted to tell you that, because it’s important,’ says Olive. ‘But there’s something else. Digby and I think you might be onto something. You know, with Jubilee Crystal Simpson.’
I jerk my head out from under my wing and stare at her.
‘Because I didn’t tell anyone about Digby's sheep being stolen and neither did he. He phoned his mum to check, and she hasn’t said a word. And Dad wouldn’t have let it slip. So you’re the only one. And it might just be a coincidence, Dad getting orders the very next day to go on compassionate leave. But it might not. We have to tell him, Clara. Which means you have to come out from under the bed, because he won’t believe us unless you’re there.’
I peer at the meatballs. Maybe I will eat a little bit.