Read Online Johnny Mackintosh and the Spirit of London by Keith Mansfield - Free Book Online

experiment?”
    Johnny wondered how Mrs. Irvine could seem quite so alert first thing in the morning. “I’m not sure,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t what I expected.”
    â€œNo? Why was that?” Mrs. Irvine pointed for Johnny to sit down in the chair in front of the desk.
    â€œIt was sort of incomplete. You didn’t touch anything did you?”
    â€œHeavens no. I didn’t dare go anywhere near it.” Mrs. Irvine pursed her lips together and stared into space for a second as though thinking something over. “Well that’s a shame. And now Mr. Wilkins has cleared everything away. But of course that’s not why we’re here.” Johnny’s heart sank. He should have known it was stupid to mention the journalist to anyone else. “I’m going to put a stop to this nonsense right now,” Mrs. Irvine continued. “They should leave you alone to get on with your life.”
    Johnny nodded and sank lower into the chair, wishing he wasback in his bed. Mrs. Irvine began to dial the number and Johnny closed his eyes. He could picture the look of triumph in the journalist’s face as he’d told Johnny that soon “everyone will know.” Everyone will know what? It was clearly important to the man—it was as though he was disappointed when Johnny hadn’t responded. Of course he might have got the wrong boy. Johnny thought he would know if something about him mattered that much to someone else.
    Mrs. Irvine was asking to speak with Mr. Watchorn. Then she was demanding to speak with Mr. Watchorn’s superior. Then she fell silent while she listened to a voice on the line for a while. Finally, she said, “I’m so sorry,” and replaced the receiver.
    â€œWhat did they say?” Johnny asked, bracing himself for the news.
    Mrs. Irvine took a deep breath. “That journalist … Mr. Watchorn … he’s …”
    â€œHe’s what?” Johnny prompted.
    â€œHe’s dead.” Mrs. Irvine’s face had turned white.
    Johnny could feel the blood draining from his own face and was glad he was sitting down. He was shocked but he was also trying to think. The journalist had run into the park. Presumably he’d gone up to the main gates. That was where the black car had been, the reason he’d gone into the alley in the first place.
    â€œMrs. Irvine?” Johnny asked.
    â€œYes, Jonathan?” A tear was rolling down the Manager’s cheek.
    â€œDid they say how it happened?”
    â€œThey just said a hit-and-run accident outside the park gates. The car that hit him didn’t even stop.” Mrs. Irvine looked as if she might start sobbing at any moment.
    Johnny was wide awake now. Those people in the car were probably after him. If they’d killed the journalist they weren’tgoing to mind doing it again. Who were they? He couldn’t stay here just waiting for the next terrible thing to happen. He had to take control and find out what was going on. He would run away. He would find Clara.

    Johnny was up in his attic bedroom. He hadn’t felt hungry—he rarely did with Mr. Wilkins’s cooking—but he’d still eaten the enormous Sunday roast that was a weekly event at Halader House. He wasn’t sure where his next big meal would come from. He’d left his sports bag in the backyard with Bentley, packed full of all the things he thought he’d need—the games console, his sleeping bag, a spare pair of jeans and some T-shirts, his washbag, parka and some socks and pants. He’d looked up the train timetables for Yarnton Hill online. Now he’d just finished going round all the hiding places in the room and had cobbled together thirty-one pounds and sixteen pence. It was less than he’d hoped. And he hated not taking the box of his parents’ things with him. He’d have to sneak back and get it one day. Halfway through the trapdoor he