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you!’
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘Bigger battery pack, better electronics, touch screen. You’ve seen the Whitehouse Connect-U-Fast III, my latest invention? Thingummy over in Mrs Whatsit’s class has got one
and he swears by it.’
    ‘He swears at it,’ I said. ‘It hardly fits in his pocket.’
    ‘Yeah, but it’s a good phone,’ said Muddy. ‘Goes six weeks between charges.’
    ‘Who needs six weeks’ talk time?’ I said. ‘Unless you’re trekking up the Amazon. And then you wouldn’t get a signal.’
    ‘You never know!’ protested Muddy. ‘You might need it for whatever investigation you’re on right now! What investigation are you on right now?’
    I gave him a brief summary of events so far. I missed out the bit about the security forces. Telling Muddy that spies were involved would be like letting a toddler eat its own weight in
sugar.
    ‘Are you free this weekend?’ I asked. ‘In case I need your help on something technical?’
    ‘This would be at the Regal?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Saturday?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Susan Lillington?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘No way.’
    ‘Why? What’s wrong with Susan Lillington?’ I asked.
    ‘Nothing whatsoever,’ said Muddy, ‘on a normal day. Saturday is her birthday.’
    ‘Oh! She didn’t tell me that,’ I repeated.
    ‘These friends she’s having over are all girls.’
    ‘Oh! She didn’t tell me that,’ I said.
    ‘They’re having a girlie sleepover.’
    ‘Oh! She didn’t . . . What? What?’
    ‘Izzy told me,’ said Muddy. ‘And you’ve just invited yourself along, have you? Hmm, good luck with that, then.’
    He handed me back my phone. I was too shocked to move.

 
    C HAPTER
F OUR
    B Y F RIDAY AFTERNOON, THE ICY swirls which had been circling the town for days finally descended into a
thick covering of snow. Everything outside took on an eerie, artificial look. In the winter half-light, the streets seemed lit only by the reflections off the snowy pavements. People stepped
carefully, taking care not to slip, huddled tightly into overcoats and scarves.
    The Regal Hotel was a broad, three-storey building on the long, straight road which glanced off the eastern edge of the town. It had been built in the middle of the eighteenth century as a
coaching inn where travellers going north and south across the country could stop and change horses.
    The hotel was set out in a kind of giant U-shape, with the bottom of the ‘U’ formed by the narrow front section facing the street and the two sides forming a large central courtyard.
Two hundred years ago, this paved courtyard would have been filled with wooden coaches and ladies in long skirts. And probably quite a lot of horse poo, come to think of it. That Saturday, however,
it was the site of tastefully arranged pots forming an ornamental garden – a garden covered in snow.
    It was dark by the time I arrived. Orange lamps on short poles shone a distinctly creepy glow over the small area marked Staff Car Park that I crossed on my way into the building, my
wellies crunching against the snow. With a smile, I noticed that my footprints were the only marks at this end of the car park, except for a set of widely-spaced, striding steps which led into the
hotel from a battered old purple van.
    Entering through the shiny glass doors that faced the road, I felt like a caveman suddenly transported into the twenty-first century from a frozen wasteland. Inside, the place was blissfully
warm, cheerfully bright and so thickly carpeted that you couldn’t hear a single footstep.
    Signs on the opposite wall pointed visitors either to the left for the hotel’s restaurant, La Splendide, or to the right for the hotel’s reception. I went right.
    Being the depths of winter, it was low season for the hotel and there were relatively few guests.
    Susan and several other girls, including Izzy, were gathered by the reception desk. Izzy was in her normal out-of-school gear – all chunky rings, bright colours and glittery