LITMIR.BIZ

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      He nods. ‘Why do you ask?’

      I lower my voice. ‘You’ve heard about Sheila Smith?’

      ‘Yes – it’s very worrying. As I told Dr MacDonald, I was on the desk, but I didn’t see Sheila. She normally says goodbye, but on Friday afternoon I was tied up with a party of tourists. They were rather lively,’ he says ruefully.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ says Arthur. ‘It sounds like you had your hands full.’

      ‘We’re going to do everything we can to find her,’ I assure him.

      He shoots me a doubtful look. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you do seem quite young …’

      ‘Oh,’ I say quickly, ‘don’t worry – we’ll report back to our manager.’

      We move off, leaving him to deal with the queue that’s formed behind us.

      We turn left, then right, before heading down a long corridor and through some staff doors that require us to scan our passes, and I realise that Arthur isn’t consulting the map – and he isn’t following me.

      ‘Do you know the way?’ I ask.

      He looks slightly embarrassed. ‘Er … yeah. I have this ability …’

      ‘To remember routes you’ve only seen once?’

      He stops short and turns to look at me. ‘You too?’ he asks.

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘So that means we both have the Auto-Focus/Change Channel thing and the map-memory trick … What else do you reckon we have in common?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ I say. But I’m looking forward to finding out.

      I can’t remember ever meeting someone so similar to me before. I’ve tended to be resented – rather than celebrated – for my unusual brain. Even around Brianna and Liam, I sometimes avoid stating exactly how I know things, and just let them call it a ‘hunch’. Photographic memory and mental filing cabinets only make sense to people whose minds work in a similar way – and there aren’t many of us around.

      The security office has floor-to-ceiling black double doors with a keypad set into one of them. We press the entry buzzer and look up at the closed-circuit cameras trained on our spot.

      Then lights flicker across the panel of the keypad, the door opens, and we’re confronted by a large man – almost a giant – in a dark-blue uniform. He must be close to seven foot, with spiky black hair that makes him appear even taller.

      ‘And you are …?’ he demands.

      ‘Agatha Oddlow and Arthur Fitzwilliam,’ I say quickly, just in case my colleague tries any pranks that get us barred from entering.

      We show our passes, and the security guard holds the door ajar while we enter.

      ‘I’m Darren,’ he says, after we’re safely inside the room. He stares at us until I grow a little uncomfortable. At last, he says, ‘How old are you two?’

      ‘I’m not sure that’s relevant,’ says Arthur. ‘We’re both here on Dr MacDonald’s authority.’ (I have to admit to feeling quite important when he says that. I stand up straighter and hold my head a little higher.) Arthur holds up his security pass, but Darren just shrugs and peels his gaze from us. He walks over to a desk, where he leans down to input information into a computer. He’s not exactly friendly.

      I glance around the room. There are no windows, and it’s fairly dark. One whole wall is dedicated to a set of small screens linked to cameras inside the different rooms.

      ‘Which day’s footage did you need to see?’ Darren asks.

      ‘The reception area, on Friday, from around five twenty-five pm please,’ I say.

      ‘That’s late,’ he says. ‘We close at six and final admission is fifteen minutes before that. There wouldn’t have been many people coming in so near to closing time.’

      ‘We’d still like to see it, though,’ I say.

      Darren shrugs again, and types the requested date and time into the PC.

      ‘Done.’ He points to the screen that’s bottom-right in the stack, and Arthur and I walk over to it.

      ‘That must be the party of tourists who distracted the receptionist,’ says Arthur, indicating a horde of middle-aged people reclaiming their bags and coats from a man and woman, who are presumably their tour guides.

      ‘Who’s that?’ I ask, pointing at a figure in a man’s fedora hat and a long coat, walking past the tourists.

      ‘I can’t see their face,’ says Arthur. ‘Can you?’

      We squint at the screen, but the person doesn’t turn towards the camera. They stride out of shot, heading for the exit.

      ‘Do you think it might be Sheila?’ I ask.

      Arthur turns to Darren, who’s busy scrutinising the bank of CCTV footage. ‘Darren, how do we rewind this? Can we do it on the screen itself?’

      The security guard comes over and shows us the correct buttons to rewind and pause, and Arthur takes the video back to the point at which the unidentified character appears. ‘Is this Sheila Smith?’ he asks Darren.

      Darren joins us by the screen again, and studies the images for a moment. ‘It could be,’ he says at last, ‘but I wouldn’t like to say for sure. Why?’

      ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that she’s gone missing,’ I say. ‘We’re trying to track her down.’

      ‘You are?’ He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

      Arthur rolls his eyes. ‘I know we’re young, but we’re highly experienced investigators.’

      ‘It’s definitely a staff member,’ I continue, ignoring the Darren’s rudeness. ‘See there.’ I point to a centimetre of ribbon, showing at the back of the person’s neck, just above their coat collar. ‘Do you see a glimpse of one of the gallery’s security lanyards?’

      ‘Good eye!’ says Arthur approvingly, and I blush. (Since when did I start blushing all the time? It’s mortifying.)

      ‘Well, if they’re a member of staff, I’d say it’s definitely Sheila,’ says Darren. ‘Nobody else dresses quite like that! I haven’t seen a fedora since those old films with Cary Grant.’

      ‘She does have her own style,’ I say, admiring the hat and the long coat. ‘I can’t wait to meet her.’

      ‘She’s certainly an interesting woman,’ says Darren. ‘I hope she’s all right. The gallery won’t be the same if anything happens to her. Dr MacDonald may be the director, but Sheila Smith’s the one everyone goes to. She’s like the warm heart of the place, you know?’ He breaks eye contact and starts staring at one of the screens, as if he’s embarrassed by his own sentimental outburst.

      I catch Arthur’s eye and he says, ‘Well, we’ve got everything we need for now – thank you.’

      ‘Please let us know if you think of anything or hear something that might be relevant,’ I say. ‘And … thanks for your help.’

      Outside the room, Arthur catches my eye. ‘Well, that was intense,’ he says.

      ‘It really was.’

      ‘Do you think he’s involved?’ he asks.

      I pause for a moment. ‘I don’t know. He did seem very protective of Sheila, so probably not.’

      ‘I agree. I think he’s genuinely upset that she’s gone missing.’

      We head back

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