LITMIR.BIZ

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out of class. I make it past the biology labs, alongside the headmaster’s office and into the Great Hall with its polished maple floor. This is where we have assemblies, and where we sit exams. Even though the hall is empty, I feel watched by an invisible presence, and not just from the dusty frames of St Regis’ past alumni. I shiver and hurry on.

      Creeping quickly over to the back doors, I hurry out on to the playing fields. I take off my red beret, crouch down, and start to run under the windows of the maths department, where students are still in form class. From an open window, I can hear one of Dr Hargrave’s sermons on innocence and obedience.

      ‘The rules are there to protect students from themselves. Stay within the rules, children, and you have nothing to fear …’

      ‘… and nothing to gain,’ I mutter, forging on.

      At the end of the block, I stop and peer round the corner. The entire school is ringed by a three-metre-high wire fence, impenetrable with the tools I have on me (strawberry-flavoured eraser, 2HB pencil). The only way out is in disguise, and I’m looking right at one – between the sports teacher’s hut and the door to the kitchens stand the half-dozen wheelie bins that are collected by the council twice a week.

      I know Mr Harrison, the PE teacher, will be having a cigarette in the privacy of his hut before the first class arrives to collect their hockey sticks and basketballs. He’s a creature of habit (full-tar, slim filter), and I’m relying on that. Smoke signals from the window support my hunch. Coast clear, I creep across the open ground to the bins and quickly look inside each of them in turn. All of them are full to the brim with tied-up rubbish sacks. What a pain.

      Quickly, making as little noise as possible, I empty one bin, stashing the sacks in the space between the hut and the back wall of the school. I take off Mum’s scarf and put it in my pocket – I don’t want it getting dirty. For a second I hear a noise from the hut and freeze, but nobody comes out. The bin is empty. I peer in. There is a thin, brownish slime at the bottom, and a strong smell of rotten fruit. I sigh. With a last look at my polished shoes and my lint-brushed skirt, I start to climb in.

      As I do, there’s a sound of unlocking from the kitchen door. Quickly, I crouch down in the foul-smelling bin and shut the lid. I’m in warm, smelly darkness, but I can hear well enough.

      ‘Oi, Charlie! You got anything else that needs chucking? I’m gonna put the bins out.’ It’s one of the kitchen workers.

      ‘Yeah,’ replied another voice, ‘take these peelings.’

      There are muffled noises and footsteps coming closer. I close my eyes and hope he doesn’t pick the bin I’m in. A moment later, light floods in. I look up. A young, stubbled face peers at me, looking startled.

      ‘Oh, hey, David!’ I say cheerfully.

      ‘Again, Agatha?’ He does not seem thrilled to see me.

      ‘Look, David—’

      ‘Dave.’

      ‘Dave, this is very important.’

      ‘It was very important last time. I could lose my job!’ He speaks in an urgent whisper.

      ‘Look, this is the last time, I swear. Never again.’

      He stares at me, unspeaking, then back to the kitchen, then at me again.

      ‘Never again,’ he says. ‘And if you get caught, I didn’t know you were in there, OK?’

      ‘Sure.’

      He dumps the bag of potato peelings on my head and slams the bin shut. If I weren’t in hiding, I might have sworn. I spend another five minutes in cramped confinement, trying to shift the soggy bin bag from my head without making a sound. I hear Dave taking the bins around me, one by one, to the gates. I’m sure he’s leaving mine until last, prolonging my discomfort. Finally, I feel my centre of gravity shift sideways, and we begin the bumpy ride to the bin depot. With a last thud, my journey is complete.

      I wait a moment until Dave has time to go back inside the gates. A dribble of cold juice has escaped the bin bag and trickles down my neck. A shiver runs up my spine. With the bag on top of me, it’s impossible to peek out and see if the coast is clear. Instead, deciding I can’t put it off any longer, I spring out.

      The bin depot is outside the school grounds, next to the H83 bus stop. A small old man flattens himself against the shelter in shock.

      ‘Sorry!’ I leap out of the bin and make off down the road at speed, slinging my satchel over my shoulder.

      ‘Stop!’ he yells ‘You … you criminal!’

      I shout over my shoulder, feeling the need to correct him.

      ‘I’m not a criminal – I’m a detective!’

      

      Away from the bus stop, I take out my notebook. Where to start? Hmm. First I should take another look at the crime scene – the longer I leave it, the more it’ll be contaminated with litter from passing tourists. Time is of the essence. From Hyde Park I can then walk to the Royal Geographical Society – the base for Professor D’Oliveira – on Kensington Gore. My body is tingling, almost light-headed. What is this feeling, I wonder? Then I realise –

      Adrenaline! I feel alive!

      As I hurry back towards Hyde Park, I have to skirt round crowds of tourists on every corner, stopping to have their pictures taken beside red phone boxes. When I get to the park, I use my best subterfuge to keep out of sight of Dad’s gardeners, most of whom will know me if they spot me.

      I cross the grass, rather than taking the main paths, hiding behind trees and shrubs, and only moving when I’m sure the coast is clear. As I reach the scene of the hit-and-run, I take a quick look around. There are plenty of people, but there aren’t any abandoned wheelbarrows or lawnmowers to suggest a gardener is nearby.

      I’m hoping to spot a clue to the biker’s identity, when I see something glinting under a prickly shrub and, with a quick look down at my already filthy skirt, get down on my knees and crawl towards it. At that moment, I hear Dad’s voice, sounding sombre and far too close.

      ‘It’s very strange; I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’m wondering if it’s connected to the water mains. Anyway, I’ve taken some samples.’

      I don’t hear his companion’s reply, but two pairs of feet stop in front of my hiding-place.

      ‘This mahonia has got far too leggy.’ It’s Dad’s voice. ‘We should look at that in the spring.’ Again, his companion makes a quiet response. I concentrate on staying still. Then the voices move away, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath.

      They haven’t seen me.

      I look at the object I crawled under the bush for, but it’s just a chocolate wrapper. I crawl out, feeling stupid, and hoping nobody spotted me.

      ‘Agatha!’

      Crud.

      Lucy, Dad’s deputy gardener who looks after the plant nurseries, has spotted me. Luckily, Lucy always assumes the best of me.

      ‘How’re you doing?’ She blows a lock of hair out of her eye.

      ‘Good, thanks. Busy.’

      ‘Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve got weeds coming out of my ears!’ Lucy grins. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ she asks, the first doubt creeping in.

      ‘Free period,’ I lie. Lucy deserves better, but I can’t risk her telling Dad.

      She nods, as though this should have been obvious. ‘Oh, I have something for you.’ She fishes in her pocket and draws out a pencil. ‘One

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