The man with the humungous shoulders exhaled loudly. “Kids.” Then he reached over and grabbed my mobile.
My hands began to shake. I shoved them in my pockets. I’d turned my mobile off, but he mightn’t be as clueless as my dad, who wouldn’t know how to turn it back on or how to find a photo.
The man knew what he was doing. He turned it on and looked at my photos. “Why on earth did you take a photo of that van?” He glanced up at the van on the building site and then stared right through me.
“I like cars.” OK, I know what you’re thinking: couldn’t I have come up with a better answer than that? People who are into cars aren’t into boring white vans. People who are into cars like Ferraris, V8s, alloy wheels, neons and spoilers. But you don’t know what it’s like standing in front of a man with humungous shoulders who is probably working out the best way to make sure you never get to tell anyone why you took a photo of a white van.
“Liar.” He huffed so loudly he sounded like a giant. He looked from Cal to me and then to Masaru. “Do you know who I am?”
We shook our heads. He must be a famous criminal, I decided.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll tell you what the warehouse is for.”
I held my breath. If he told us, would that mean he had no choice but to kill us? Then I had another thought. He mightn’t be a bad guy, he might be an undercover police officer. Maybe he was investigating the art thefts. Maybe he knew more than us. Maybe he wanted the reward for himself. I breathed again.
“It will be a bank, a food bank.”
I almost whispered, “A what?”
“The warehouse will be used to store food. Food manufacturers donate the food and then it’s distributed to charities, who give the food to people who have fallen on hard times.”
“Poor people?” asked Cal.
“Anyone in need. Sometimes the breadwinner of the family gets retrenched and suddenly parents need outside help to feed their own children.” He paused, as though he was letting it sink in, before he said, “Get the picture?”
I nodded. “Yeah, yeah, we get the picture.” It might be my family who needed help from a food bank if Dad couldn’t find another job.
“So,” he said, “I’ve told you the truth. Now you tell me why you are so interested in the warehouse.”
The truth flashed before me. We had found the hiding place for all the stolen paintings. He was lying too. What a good liar he was. A moment ago I’d believed him. I spoke up before Cal or Masaru had a chance. “We used to ride our bikes on the site. When the warehouse was built and we got locked out, we hoped it’d be a sports centre.” I shrugged. “But a food bank is OK. Maybe we could get jobs there after school.” Inside I smiled; what a genius I was.
Cal groaned. Obviously he hadn’t realised I had a plan.
The man with the humungous shoulders folded his arms. “Volunteers run the food bank.”
“Oh.” So much for earning pocket money. “That’s OK. Our school likes us to do voluntary work in the community.” I could feel Cal glaring at me.
“Good. My name is Robert. You can tell me your names tomorrow. I’ll see you all at 4.30 pm at the side gate. There’ll be a truckload of food to unpack.” Then he strode off towards the warehouse.
We saw him enter a side door of the warehouse with a key. He was a bad guy, I just knew it.
Cal and Masaru faced me. They didn’t look happy. “Are you crazy?” asked Cal. “We don’t want to work after school. Our brains work hard all day – at least mine does. When are we going to have fun? You’re on your own.”
Masaru turned away and muttered, “Yeah, you’re on your own.”
