Murder at the Museum - Lena Jones

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been moving very slowly, and you can’t quite believe that it’s still Wednesday, or whatever day of the week it is, because it seems like you’ve lived a week – a month, a year! – in a short space of time. I suppose I like this feeling a bit too much – I rely on the adrenaline rush to keep my life from getting dull – but I try not to worry about that.

      I go over to sit on my bed and sip at the glass of milk. I wonder if Mum ever felt like this, when she was a Gatekeeper. You don’t get into this line of work if you don’t like excitement – if you don’t thrive on risk. Did she worry that one day her escapades would get her into serious danger? Or did she live her life from day to day, not worrying about what tomorrow would bring? I look over at her photo on my bedside table.

      Looking at this picture usually makes me feel sad or wistful, similar perhaps to what I’d feel if I was looking at a picture of a house that I used to live in – a happy memory. But, tonight, I don’t feel sad or wistful.

      I feel angry.

      I decide to analyse this new response. I run through what I know – and don’t know – surrounding her death:

      1. Whatever happened to Mum, it wasn’t a bike accident.

      2. I have a hunch that her death was linked to her work as a Gatekeeper.

      3. Someone’s covered up what actually happened – could it have been the Guild?

      I realise my new anger is because I’ve just had a close encounter with someone who almost certainly belonged to the organisation. I feel something close to rage at whoever caused Mum’s death – but also at whoever hid the truth from Dad and me. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing until I’ve calmed down enough to turn the rage into determination.

      ‘I will find out what happened to you, Mum,’ I promise her photo.

      Finally, with no energy left to think or feel, I get under the covers, drink the last of my milk (thinking how Mum would have scolded me for not brushing my teeth) and turn the light out. Just before I drift off, I remember the swab that will need analysing. I grab my mobile, switch it on, and send Brianna a text, asking if I can go over to hers the next morning. Then I let sleep pull me under its thick surface.

       4. THE BLACK BAMBOO

      I wake up late and check my mobile. Brianna replied at about 2am.

      Sure. Come over whenever

      I don’t know what she was doing up in the early hours, but I guess I’ll find out when I see her.

      I pull on my dressing gown and head down to the kitchen. Dad and the brown twill suit have both gone. He’s left me a note:

      Gone to that meeting I mentioned.

      May be back late.

      Help yourself to croissants.

      Croissants are my favourite. I’m just cynical enough to suspect he’s done something wrong – or is planning to do it – if he’s buying me my favourite breakfast food. This doesn’t stop me accepting it, though. I eat a croissant, down a glass of orange juice, then go up for a shower before getting dressed. I choose one of my mum’s floral shirt dresses over a pair of jeans. I add a wide black belt to cinch in the dress, and top off the ensemble with a denim jacket. I love wearing Mum’s things – it makes me feel closer to her. I toughen up the look with my Doc Martens boots.

      I stuff a couple of croissants in my jacket pockets and munch on another as I head across Hyde Park towards Cadogan Place. It’s quicker to walk to Brianna’s than take public transport. It’s close to noon, and the air is muggy for early September, but the light is glorious, gilding the trees.

      I turn into Sloane Street, the home of super-expensive designer shops like Louis Vuitton and Chanel. Brightly coloured flags fly outside the embassies for Denmark, Peru and the Faroes. A black cab driver has got out of his vehicle next to the Danish embassy. He’s on his knees, unwinding what looks like a long piece of black plastic bin liner from one of his back wheels. I recognise him as one of the drivers from the taxi rank outside the park.

      ‘Hi, Aleksy!’ I call.

      ‘Hi, Agatha. Just look at this mess. I wish people weren’t so careless with their rubbish,’ he says. ‘This could affect my brakes if I don’t get it all out.’

      ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

      ‘No, that’s all right, thanks. No point both of us getting filthy.’

      ‘OK, if you’re sure. Good luck!’

      ‘Thanks!’

      I leave him and continue my walk. I demolish the last croissant at the corner of Brianna’s road, and dust the pastry flakes off my hands.

      When I reach the grand townhouse on Cadogan Place, Brianna throws open the door. She couldn’t look less like a CC these days: there’s not a trace of the over-manicured mannequin that Liam and I loved to hate, before we got to know her. The CCs are the Chic Clique, a group of annoying, wealthy, smug girls, all with identical long blonde hair, thick make-up and manicured nails, that go to my school. Brianna’s hair – which has been dyed a brilliant sky blue, cut to chin length and then shaved on one side – is sticking up messily at the back, and her black eyeliner is smudged, giving her panda eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.

      ‘Fantastic shade of blue!’ I say, ruffling her already ruffled hair, and she grins and gives me a hug.

      ‘Thanks! Thought it made a change from last week’s pink.’ She pulls back to look at me. ‘I love the dress. Another one of your mum’s?’

      I nod, happily, and follow her as she leads the way to the study, where she seems to spend most of her time.

      ‘Have you slept at all?’ I ask as I follow her through the massive, marble-paved hallway. ‘You look shattered.’

      She shakes her head. ‘I’m doing research into how long a person can survive on no sleep.’

      ‘Really? How long have you managed so far?’

      She squints blearily at her watch. ‘Ummm … something like thirty hours?’ She sounds unsure.

      ‘Isn’t sleep deprivation one of the ways they torture people?’

      She grins ‘Yeah. But it’s a bit different when you’re safely at home.’

      I’m confused. ‘So how does this fit with you wanting to be a forensic scientist?’

      She shrugs. ‘I want to get inside the heads of criminals, so I’m trying out a few torture methods on myself.’ She sees the look of alarm on my face and quickly adds, ‘Just the easy, painless ones – a dripping tap, sleep deprivation, that kind of thing.’

      ‘Your mum and dad are away again?’ I ask.

      ‘Do you need to ask?’

      Her parents (or ‘seniors’, as she calls them) are always travelling to glamorous locations, leaving Brianna in the care of her rather careless and frequently absent older brother.

      ‘Missed you at the cinema,’ I say. ‘It was a good one.’

      ‘Yeah – Liam said. But I had way too much to do.’ She leads me through to the study, where I stop in surprise at the sight of Liam. He’s sitting in a chair at the desk, leaning back with his feet up. His face breaks into a beam when I enter, and he gets up and hurries over.

      ‘Hey – great to see you.’

      ‘So, this is why I’m here …’ I begin.

      ‘You mean it’s not just for the pleasure of my company?’ says Brianna, pouting.

      ‘Stop

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