CHAPTER 12

NOT A TRACE

Luckily Dulcie had enough ideas for both of them next morning. When Brian rubbed her awake on the pillow she was buzzing in her air bubble, thrilled to get her mandibles into a project.

‘We need to put out feelers,’ she said as he threw on his uniform.

‘I haven’t got any,’ he reminded her, buttoning up his shirt.

She tutted. ‘How do you manage? Well then, I guess your eyes will have to do.’ Grudgingly she added, ‘I’ve noticed you don’t use yours too badly.’

Brian blushed. It may not sound much of a compliment, but for someone who got an average of minus four a month, it was praise indeed.

Luckily too, Dulcie’s mind was methodical. ‘Remember I spent my early days cleaning and tidying. Organisation is the key. We need an HQ for Operation Find-Alec.’

Brian loved the idea of turning his bedroom into a command centre. He was Sherlock, he was Poirot, he was Double-O-Bunion. Pulling his tie rakishly to one side, he scanned the room. It needs to look more professional. He should lose that Star Wars cushion for starters, buy a fingerprint kit and replace the Doctor Who poster with a map to stick pins in, like they did in war films.

But Dulcie would have none of it. ‘Use that brain of yours,’ she squeaked. ‘The first rule is secrecy. What if your dad comes in? We don’t want him nicking our clues, telling the gardaí so they can steal our glory.’

Brian blinked in the mirror. ‘You really think we can beat the police?’

‘Course we can – because we’ve got a great big ace up our sleeve. School.’

Brian could think of several words to describe school, but ace wasn’t one of them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, where does Alec spend most of his time?’

‘Home. And school, I suppose.’

‘Exactly. We can’t go snooping round his house. But imagine if someone at school knows something … something they want to hide. You’re the perfect spy. Lurking in corridors, listening in the yard – easy as pie because, no offence, everyone ignores you.’

A sour-sweet smile rose in Brian. Being invisible had its uses.

With secrecy paramount, the command centre was downgraded from the bedroom to the back of the Doctor Who poster. And by the time Brian shoved it under the bed it was even less impressive.

Questions	Answers
1. When did Alec disappear?	Between Saturday night and Sunday afternoon
2. Where?	Dunno
3. Why?	No idea
4. How?	Haven’t a clue
5. Who could be involved?	Anyone
6. Suspicious-looking characters	Everyone

‘It’s a start,’ said Dulcie as they headed downstairs to breakfast. ‘Now keep your eyes skinned and your ears pinned back. Who knows what we’ll find at school?’

Nothing, it turned out, except long faces and short fuses. The children huddled in jittery groups, speculating wildly.

‘Maybe Alec ran away.’

‘To join the circus.’

‘Maybe his nan took him to Barbados and forgot to say.’

‘Maybe he went to Hollywood,’ said Skinny Ginny, who dreamed of going herself, ‘to audition for the Muppet Hunger Games.’

‘Quiet!’ Florrie flew in. Her normally rock-hard hair stuck out in wispy tufts. ‘Not a peep from anyone today. Thanks to your parents I haven’t slept a wink.’ She clutched an imaginary phone to her ear. ‘What are you doing to protect my Barry, Mrs Florris?’ Broadbean blushed. ‘How do I know my Clodna’s safe?’ Clodna’s eyelids fluttered clumsily, like swing-bin lids in a breeze. ‘As I gently reminded them,’ the teacher snapped, ‘Alec went missing from home, not school.’ She glowered from the front desk. ‘I am fully confident he’ll be back before home time. And you are all perfectly safe.’

Oh dear, Mrs Florris. Fail. And fail again. Because Alec was still missing when the last bell rang. And the next day there wasn’t a Trace.

Everyone thought she was off sick. She’d been out of sorts for a few days, with all that yawning and gazing. And in the Land of Florrible, unwell was short for unwelcome because illness, of course, was another kind of failure. ‘Studies show that the common cold can lower your Maths score by twelve per cent,’ the teacher told them at least once a week. ‘A verruca can spoil your spelling – how do you spell verruca, Barry? … There is no record of Albert Einstein ever having piles.’

So it wasn’t until ten past twelve, when her mum stuck her head round the door, that anyone thought twice about Tracy.

‘Sorry to disturb,’ said Sharlette Briquette. She came in holding a pink lunch box. ‘Tracy forgot her–’

‘Tracy?’ Mrs Florris’s eyebrows collided. ‘She isn’t in today.’

Sharlette blinked slowly round the class. Her lashes could have swept the floor. ‘What do you mean? She left as usual this morning.’

‘What I mean,’ said the principal in a flat grey voice, ‘is that she isn’t. In. Today.’

‘Are you sure?’ Sharlette’s voice was bright red.

‘Mrs Briquette. Your job is to know where the rain clouds are heading. My job is to know who’s in my class. And I can assure you that your daughter is not. Nor has she been all morning.’

Sharlette ran a hand through hair the colour of Crunchie filling. ‘So where is she?’

Not in the corridor. Not in the hall. Not in the staff room or the secretary’s office. The cloakrooms were empty and the other classrooms full – of children who weren’t Tracy.

When Florrie went out with Sharlette to phone the police, the class sat strangely still and silent.

The principal came back alone. ‘The gardaí have advised us to close the school today.’ For once her voice was soft. ‘The secretary is texting all parents to collect you at lunch time. Those of you with mobiles, please call them now. Those of you without can use the office phone.’

It was the ‘Please’ that did it. Florrie never said please.

Nobody spoke. But everyone knew. There were two missing children now.

Brian joined the queue for the office phone. When he rang home there was no answer. He left a message on the answerphone.

‘No one’s to leave until their mother or father arrives,’ said Mrs Florris as the bell rang for lunch.

It was chaos at the gate: parents jostling, children shoving, hands held and hugs hugged. But there was no sign of Bernard O’Bunion. Despite the teachers’ efforts to fasten every child to its parent, Brian managed to slip through the crowd and out the gate.

Trust Dad. He stomped along the pavement. The only no-show. He dodged a car door that swung open across his path.

‘Watch it!’ yelled Mrs Budget, a small but mighty woman, bundling Gary into the back seat. Scowling at Brian, she slammed the door.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ muttered Brian. How dare Dad not come! He kicked a pebble into the road. He got the text like everyone else. He strode down High Street, past the library – even the lawn looked anxious today – past the bank and the shoe shop, too furious to worry about being kidnapped by any pedestrians disguised as old ladies or pigeons.

Reaching Smile-in-the-Aisle, he stopped. Why should I go home? Why not let Dad wonder, just for a bit, where he was, and whether he could have disappeared too? Serve him right. With a rush of hot triumph, Brian marched into the supermarket.

But Alf wasn’t there: not at the till annoying customers, nor stacking shelves or sweeping the floor.

‘Called in sick,’ snapped Anemia Pickles from her till. ‘I mean, fanks a mil.’ She chewed her gum like a lion chews a zebra. ‘I’m on me own ’ere.’

Brian nodded and turned. Perfect. He’d spend a few hours at Alf’s house and, oh dear, forget to tell Dad. That would give him a kick in the parentings.