On Saturday I am still thinking about what the girls in my room said about Mr Sharples. I decide to write down the facts.
Mr Sharples
The murderer might not be Mr Sharples, but then again it might be, and anything I can learn about him will help, even if it means I can rule him out. I’ve never spoken to him before the other day, and he’s never spoken to me before. But Pam said he whistles at girls when they go past. Maybe I’m too young so he wouldn’t say anything to me; maybe it’s just girls who have boobs he says things to.
Jonesy and I used to pretend we had boobs; we’d stick stuff in our jumpers and walk round the room like we were older. We even stole a bra from the big girls’ room once, tying a knot in the back to make it fit properly. Then Jonesy pretended to be a boy talking to me who couldn’t stop looking at my boobs. I smile at the memory of it, but as soon as I do I feel sad.
It makes me determined to do something. I’m going to go to Mr Sharples’s farm buildings to see if I can find out anything about him.
Yesterday was the last day of school and it’s now the summer holidays, so I have plenty of time to investigate him. I leave the cottage and walk around the village until I spot Mr Sharples, cutting the big patch of grass that runs along Praise Road. I know what I have to do. I walk fast through the gate and across to the farmhouse. I go straight round the back so no one can see me. I see Petal standing there in her pen, and wave at her. I remember what Mr Sharples said: ‘The horse can’t tell anyone,’ so she can’t let him know I’ve been here.
There’s a large garage filled with tools and machines. I try the rusted red metal door and it opens straight away, but with a loud creak. Inside it is dusty and dark and the only light comes in through one dirty, dusty window. It smells of dried grass, mud and oil, and everywhere you turn there is equipment – a small tractor, a little motorbike; along one wall is a saw, a rack that has all sorts of screwdrivers and spanners on it, and some mallets.
If you wanted to kill someone there is plenty of stuff here you could do it with.
Along the same wall is a desk with a noticeboard above it, which has letters pinned to it. There’s a wooden chair in front of it with a brown overall draped over the back.
On the desk are a radio, a light, and what looks like a small engine of some sort that Mr Sharples might be repairing. There are also some letters and envelopes spread out.
The desk has two drawers, which I open; in one is a pair of battered shoes, in the other is a folder, but it’s just filled with receipts. I open one of the letters. It’s from Renfrewshire Council, saying that ‘after consideration’ his job would be continued.
I open another; this one’s from the Dykebar Hospital.
Dear Mr Sharples,
I note with disappointment that you have missed your last two appointments.
It is vital that you continue your treatment with us. To miss further appointments would not only jeopardise your health but also your employment as we would be duty bound to inform your employer.
Please contact my office as soon as possible to reschedule an appointment.
Yours sincerely,
Dr H. Talbot
I can feel the heat in my face as I read the letter.
Shona and Pam were right – he’s a mental.
The Dykebar is where the mentally wrong go. Some of the parents of Homes kids are in there; that’s why they can’t look after their children. And one of the older boys was sent there after he went crazy and started trying to attack everyone with a hammer.
I have to tell the girls. I have to get out of here.
Outside, I hear whistling and the sound of metal being rolled on the path. I drop the letter, run to the back of the garage and duck behind the tractor.
The door creaks loudly as Mr Sharples pushes it fully open. He’s talking, but it seems to be to himself. I peep over the tractor wheel and see that his back is to me. He is stood at the desk, mumbling.
A bead of sweat comes down my forehead and rolls down my nose. I’m trying to breathe as quietly as possible. I watch as Mr Sharples pulls open one drawer, then pulls open the other one, then tuts.
My legs are starting to hurt. I’m crouched down and my thighs are cramping. He has to leave soon – I can’t stay in this position much longer. Mr Sharples looks in the first drawer again and lets out a big sigh and then walks out, shutting the door behind him. The garage is now dark apart from the small patch of light coming through the dirty window.
I breathe out. I wait for what I think is five minutes, to be sure he’s left, and then climb out from behind the tractor. I try the door handle but it’s shut tight and won’t open. I didn’t hear Mr Sharples lock it. I lean against the door but I can’t get it to move.
I look around for another way out and realise that the window is my only chance. I put a small stool underneath it, open it up and squeeze through. It’s so tight the metal frame scrapes my leg as I lower myself down. I have to go head first and end up doing a handstand to reach the ground. Luckily, I’m good at handstands at gym, and I take a few steps forward on my hands before flipping over to land, a little stunned, in a crab position.
I get up and brush myself down. I shut the window as much as I can, then creep to the side of the building to make sure I can’t see Mr Sharples. He’s not there, so I walk as fast as I can back to Cottage 5.
When I get there, Shona looks me up and down. ‘Where’ve yous been?’ she demands.
‘Nowheres,’ I reply.
‘Then why is your shin bleeding?’
‘Fell over, didn’t I?’
She thinks about it. ‘You fall over on your knees, not your shin, you liar.’
I have no response. I think about telling her what I saw, the letter, but I can’t. It could be what Jonesy knew that got her killed.
‘Got to go clean it up,’ I say and run inside, up to the bathroom, and use toilet paper to clean up the blood.
I’m going to tell the police. I’m going to tell Detective Walker. I’m going to make sure that bastard gets what’s coming to him.