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Authors: Simon Cheshire
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fringes. The
girls and I exchanged a criss-cross of ‘hello’s and ‘hi’s.
‘Saxby, is it?’ said the tall, smartly dressed woman behind the reception desk.
‘This is my mum,’ explained Susan. ‘Mel. She’s on duty at the front desk all evening.’
‘Hello, Susan’s mum,’ I said. ‘Um, I do just want to make it clear, I don’t do girlie sleepovers. I’m here in my official capacity as brilliant schoolboy
detective. I’m undercover. I’m going home as soon as possible. I don’t do girlie sleepovers.’
Mel gave me the same blank look Susan had given me at school. ‘Right,’ she said slowly. ‘OK.’ Something in her expression said, ‘Yes, you’re every bit as odd
as I expected’. She brightened up with a snap and said, ‘Why don’t you all wait in the administration office until the last two arrive?’
Behind the reception desk were two offices, one marked Administration and the other marked Supervisor . Into the admin office we trooped. It was a large, cluttered room with one
desk against the wall close to the door and another two over by the window. Through the window’s slatted blinds, I could see the hotel’s big, snow-covered courtyard, and beyond that the
other ‘arm’ of the hotel’s U-shape with an enormous window.
‘That’s the restaurant,’ said Susan. ‘We’ll be going over there to eat in a little while.’
‘Your dad works here too, doesn’t he?’ I asked, watching a fresh drifting of snow glide gently down outside.
‘Yes, he’s the restaurant’s chef,’ said Susan. ‘He’ll be cooking our dinner tonight. He used to be in the police, years ago, but Mum kept worrying that one
day he’d come home with a bullet wound. Then one day he came home with a stab wound and she made him quit. I think he prefers cooking.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said with a smile.
‘Pressies!’ announced Izzy. There was a sudden flurry of ribbons and wrapping paper and female activity.
Earlier in the day, I’d considered not bringing a birthday present with me, because I wanted it to be absolutely clear that I don’t do girlie sleepovers. However, it would have been
rude not to. So I added my small parcel to the pile.
While the girls were oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing all over the place, I took a look around the office. There were cardboard boxes stacked here and there, and a couple of scribbled-on flip charts.
Above me hung a projector – exactly the same sort of thing as we had in our classroom at school. That and the flip charts told me that this room must be used for staff training.
Izzy appeared at my shoulder. ‘Aww, are you feeling a bit of a spare part?’
‘Pack it in,’ I muttered.
At that moment, a man wearing a Regal Hotel sweatshirt came clattering into the room. His hair was yanked back into a ponytail and he had a beard which looked like a small mammal clinging to the
underside of his face. He had a laptop under one arm and was hobbling along with the help of a grey metallic walking stick.
‘Hello, Mr Beeks,’ said Susan.
‘Oh, yes, happy birthday, Susan,’ he replied with a nod.
Ah, Bryan Beeks! The maintenance man who was my reason for being here in the first place.
‘Thanks,’ said Susan. ‘We’ll be out of your way soon, we’re just waiting for another two to arrive.’
Luckily, I hadn’t mentioned any details of my investigation to Susan, beyond what I’d told her at school. She had no idea that I was keeping a close eye on this guy.
I was struck by Mr Beeks’s voice. It was distinctively deep, and he had a noticeable Geordie accent. Whoever it was at the hotel who was the ‘reliable source of information’
the texter had mentioned, I was now fairly sure they wouldn’t have mistaken Beeks’s voice for anyone else’s. So far so good.
‘You’ll have to be out of here soon, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Beeks. ‘I’ve booked this room all evening, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to get done. I’ve
let it pile up a
girls and I exchanged a criss-cross of ‘hello’s and ‘hi’s.
‘Saxby, is it?’ said the tall, smartly dressed woman behind the reception desk.
‘This is my mum,’ explained Susan. ‘Mel. She’s on duty at the front desk all evening.’
‘Hello, Susan’s mum,’ I said. ‘Um, I do just want to make it clear, I don’t do girlie sleepovers. I’m here in my official capacity as brilliant schoolboy
detective. I’m undercover. I’m going home as soon as possible. I don’t do girlie sleepovers.’
Mel gave me the same blank look Susan had given me at school. ‘Right,’ she said slowly. ‘OK.’ Something in her expression said, ‘Yes, you’re every bit as odd
as I expected’. She brightened up with a snap and said, ‘Why don’t you all wait in the administration office until the last two arrive?’
Behind the reception desk were two offices, one marked Administration and the other marked Supervisor . Into the admin office we trooped. It was a large, cluttered room with one
desk against the wall close to the door and another two over by the window. Through the window’s slatted blinds, I could see the hotel’s big, snow-covered courtyard, and beyond that the
other ‘arm’ of the hotel’s U-shape with an enormous window.
‘That’s the restaurant,’ said Susan. ‘We’ll be going over there to eat in a little while.’
‘Your dad works here too, doesn’t he?’ I asked, watching a fresh drifting of snow glide gently down outside.
‘Yes, he’s the restaurant’s chef,’ said Susan. ‘He’ll be cooking our dinner tonight. He used to be in the police, years ago, but Mum kept worrying that one
day he’d come home with a bullet wound. Then one day he came home with a stab wound and she made him quit. I think he prefers cooking.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said with a smile.
‘Pressies!’ announced Izzy. There was a sudden flurry of ribbons and wrapping paper and female activity.
Earlier in the day, I’d considered not bringing a birthday present with me, because I wanted it to be absolutely clear that I don’t do girlie sleepovers. However, it would have been
rude not to. So I added my small parcel to the pile.
While the girls were oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing all over the place, I took a look around the office. There were cardboard boxes stacked here and there, and a couple of scribbled-on flip charts.
Above me hung a projector – exactly the same sort of thing as we had in our classroom at school. That and the flip charts told me that this room must be used for staff training.
Izzy appeared at my shoulder. ‘Aww, are you feeling a bit of a spare part?’
‘Pack it in,’ I muttered.
At that moment, a man wearing a Regal Hotel sweatshirt came clattering into the room. His hair was yanked back into a ponytail and he had a beard which looked like a small mammal clinging to the
underside of his face. He had a laptop under one arm and was hobbling along with the help of a grey metallic walking stick.
‘Hello, Mr Beeks,’ said Susan.
‘Oh, yes, happy birthday, Susan,’ he replied with a nod.
Ah, Bryan Beeks! The maintenance man who was my reason for being here in the first place.
‘Thanks,’ said Susan. ‘We’ll be out of your way soon, we’re just waiting for another two to arrive.’
Luckily, I hadn’t mentioned any details of my investigation to Susan, beyond what I’d told her at school. She had no idea that I was keeping a close eye on this guy.
I was struck by Mr Beeks’s voice. It was distinctively deep, and he had a noticeable Geordie accent. Whoever it was at the hotel who was the ‘reliable source of information’
the texter had mentioned, I was now fairly sure they wouldn’t have mistaken Beeks’s voice for anyone else’s. So far so good.
‘You’ll have to be out of here soon, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Beeks. ‘I’ve booked this room all evening, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to get done. I’ve
let it pile up a
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