7

We manage to find Cardiff Analytics—you didn’t think we would, did you?

When we arrived at the Cardiff station we went to Burger King because Charlie needed cheering up. He’d left his hypoallergenic pillow on the train. He reckoned this was down to his blood sugar having dipped to dangerously low levels. He’s not at his best when he’s hungry, so we decided we needed to get some food into him fast. He ordered his Whopper meal in a strong Welsh accent, which was a surprise to me and Ben.

The girl with the stenciled-on eyebrows didn’t look impressed. She said, “Are you disrespecting me?”

Ben said, “Sorry, he’s a bit overexcited.”

After we had sat down at the plastic table, we asked Charlie why he had done it.

He said, “I have a very suggestable ear for accents.”

“We’ve been here less than five minutes.”

“What can I say? It’s a talent.”

I worked out that Cardiff Analytics was within walking distance of the station. We followed the little blue dot on Google Maps and twenty minutes and one pee stop later we were outside the revolving doors of Alan Froggley’s office. I couldn’t believe it had been so easy. I was beginning to think a career as a private investigator might be for me.

“You ready?” Ben asked.

“Yes,” I said, even though I suddenly wasn’t sure if I was. My whole body was nervous.

Ben must have noticed because he said, “You want us to come in with you?”

I did but I said, “No, it’s alright,” because I thought it was probably something I should do on my own. And I couldn’t trust Charlie not to use his bad Welsh accent again.

Ben said, “Good luck, Fred,” with such a serious expression it made me feel even more nervous.

Charlie pulled me in for a hug. He smelled faintly of pickles and ketchup. “You’ll be grand, so you will.” Charlie’s sensitive ear for accents wasn’t so sensitive that he could tell the difference between Welsh and Irish.

I stepped into the revolving door and shuffled around very slowly. Ben and Charlie waved the entire time—even when it had become awkward to keep waving. They only stopped when I completed a full revolution and stepped back outside again.

“What are you doing?” Ben folded his arms.

“He’s chickened out, so he has,” Charlie said.

Charlie was right. The doubt was creeping up through my body. What if he didn’t want anything to do with me? What then? I didn’t think I could take another emotional blow.

Ben pointed at the door. “Get back in there. Those train tickets cost me fifty-four quid.”

I wasn’t sure I liked Ben’s newfound bossy side, but he looked like he meant business, so I stepped back into the revolving door. Before I started the slow shuffle around, Ben shouted, “Don’t worry, dude, he’s going to love you.”

I really hoped he was right.

As I walked into the large entrance foyer, a security guard with quite a substantial mustache looked me up and down and said, “This isn’t a playground.” Which I thought was a strange thing to say as we were obviously in an office.

I hurried past him to the reception desk where a lady with a big face and an even bigger mouth was clicking her long sparkly nails on a computer keyboard. Her lips stretched into a smile when she spotted me, but her voice was clipped. “Hello, how can I help you?” is what she said, but her eyes said, Why are you here bothering me, kid?

I puffed up my chest and tried to sound confident. “I’m here to see Alan Froggley.”

“And how are you spelling that?”

“A L A—”

“I meant the Froggley part. Two gs or one?”

“Two. F R O G G L E Y.”

Her sparkly nails clicked her keyboard some more. The way she was hammering the keys made me think I might have annoyed her with the A L A N thing.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have an Alan Froggley at Cardiff Analytics. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

All the puff seeped out of my chest.

“Are you absolutely sure? Did you spell Alan right?”

She stared at me for a whole minute without blinking and then said, in a surprisingly cheerful voice, “There is no Alan—spelled A L A N—Froggley at Cardiff Analytics.”

“He’s on your website.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have an Alan Froggley.”

“He enjoys walking and swimming.”

She smiled again. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“But it says he works here—on the internet. I saw him!” I accidently shouted that bit, but Big Face didn’t flinch.

Her smile became a little thinner, but she said the exact same thing again: “I’m sorry, we don’t have an Alan Froggley at Cardiff Analytics. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“But I’ve come all the way from Andover.”

And this is when Big-Face-Sparkly-Nails snapped. She leaned toward me and hissed, “Now listen here, you little twerp. I said we don’t have an Alan Froggley working here. Now stop pestering me and go away.”

I was a little shocked, so I didn’t move. This was not how things were supposed to go.

“Scoot.” She looked over at the guard. “Nigel, see him out.”

The mustachioed security guard took a step toward me. I knew that if I didn’t leave I’d be in trouble, but I wasn’t sure if Big Face was telling the truth. I’d made it all the way to Cardiff—I’d even made it through the revolving doors. The thought of leaving and knowing nothing about Alan was suddenly too much to bear. I had to do something.

I contemplated making a dash for it and shouting out Alan’s name down the corridors. I must have had a look of rebellion about me because Nigel lurched forward and grabbed my arm before I could get out my first cry of “Alan Froggley, where are you?”

“Now I’ve got you,” he said, and he lifted me off the ground!

“You can’t do this!”

“Looks like I can.”

I pedaled my legs like mad, but he wouldn’t let go. He was determined he was going to carry me out.

I looked outside for some support from my friends, but they were waving sticks around like lightsabers and were too deeply involved in their battle to notice. Panic took hold of me. Cardiff Analytics was my only lead to Alan Froggley—they couldn’t throw me out. I had to do something.

“Out you go.” Nigel started to push me into the revolving doors.

“No,” I said, and I can’t say that I’m one hundred percent proud of what I did next, but I dropped to the floor, wrapped myself around his legs, and began to beg.

“I will not leave until somebody gives me the information. Somebody must know something! Please tell me.” Turns out I can yell quite loudly when motivated.

Nigel tried to shake me off, but I clung on tight. Grams always said I could be dogged when I put my mind to something.

“Get off!”

“Not until you reveal the truth about where he is. What is this company hiding?”

Nigel began hopping around the foyer, but I did not let go.

“I’m not leaving until someone tells me what happened to Alan Froggley. I beg of you.”

Big-Face-Sparkly-Nails suddenly hollered over, “You alright there, Nigel? Want me to call security?”

“I am security, Tiffany. And I think I can handle some mixed-up kid.”

I loosened my grip a little. What if I was just some mixed-up kid? Maybe I’d made a massive mistake, maybe I’d got it all wrong.

But then Nigel stopped hopping and said, “Did you say Alan Froggley?”

I looked up at him. “Yes, Alan Froggley, who enjoys walking and swimming—where is he?”

He stared down at me. “I knew Alan Froggley. He left here over two years ago. Personal reasons.”

“You knew him?” I was actually talking to someone who knew my biological dad.

“We weren’t like friends or anything, but yeah—I knew Al.”

“Al? He called himself Al.” I let go of Nigel’s leg and slid onto the floor. “Where did he go?”

Nigel crouched down next to me and I saw that he had friendly eyes. “What’s all this about, kid?”

I didn’t want to get into a deep and meaningful discussion, so I said, “I need to find him, that’s all.”

“Think he was headed back home.”

“Do you know where that is?”

Nigel stroked his top lip. “Sorry, son.”

But Nigel didn’t need to be sorry because I’d worked it out. I’d seen Al’s registered place of birth on my birth certificate—I knew where his home was. I jumped to my feet. “Thanks, Nigel.”

“Hey, kid, you alright?” he called after me.

“Yes, Nigel. I’m alright. I’m more than alright.”

And then I stopped.

“Did he look like me?”

Nigel’s face crumpled into a frown and then he said, “Yeah, kid, he did a bit.”

I felt my heart do this little flutter in my chest.

I marched outside, and Charlie and Ben lowered their weapons.

“That was quick.”

“He’s not here. We’re off.”

They exchanged worried glances.

But I was too inspired to worry about worried glances, so I said, “Don’t just stand there—follow me!”

“Why, where are we going?” Charlie asked.

“St. David’s. The birthplace of Alan Froggley.”