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Authors: Simon Cheshire
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lurking underneath these possibilities: WHERE IS THE COMPUTER?
IF NAT TOOK IT, and has admitted to taking it, why not give it back? Why tell the police he’s hidden it?
IF NAT DIDN’T TAKE IT, how can we account for what his friends have told the police?
There are some important questions to consider about the REASON for the theft:
Question 1: Was someone after the exam answers? Or . . .
Question 2: Did someone just want a nice fancy laptop? Or . . .
Question 3: Is there a less obvious motive involved? Could it be, for instance, that the thief is in debt and is planning to sell the computer on the quiet?
My plan of action should include:
• talking to Nat.
• talking to Dr Shroeder.
• talking to those three friends of Nat’s.
Ah yes! Those friends . . .
WHAT is going on with them? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?
C HAPTER
T HREE
N UMEROUS QUESTIONS SURROUNDING N AT ’ S THREE friends kept preying on my
mind.
What kind of friends would rat on their best pal, anyway? No, I shouldn’t say that. That’s not fair. Suppose I saw one of my friends stealing something: wouldn’t I feel I had
to do the right thing and tell the truth about what I’d seen? Even if it was upsetting to think that my friend would get into trouble?
But . . .
Why was there that strange mismatch (as I mentioned near the end of the previous chapter)? Was there something going on here that I hadn’t accounted for yet?
Or . . .
Could it be that Nat’s friends were making a mistake? Could it be that what they saw was perfectly innocent? What if, following Nat’s declaration of guilt, they had misinterpreted what they saw? That might account for the mismatch.
But . . .
How can you misinterpret seeing someone with a flashy new computer?
I tried to shoo all such thoughts from my mind as I walked over to Mrs Hardyman’s house a little later that day. I told myself that I should concentrate on hearing Nat’s side of the
story, and that I should keep both my mind and my eyes open for clues.
The Hardymans lived only a few streets away from me. Their house was very like mine – rather plain-looking from the outside, a kind of upturned shoebox-shape lined up along the road with a
load of other upturned shoebox-shapes.
‘He’s still in his room,’ whispered Mrs Hardyman. ‘He wouldn’t touch his lunch and I made his favourite – beetroot and pickle sandwich.’
‘I see,’ I said, feeling glad she hadn’t made lunch for me. Then I remembered that on school days she did make lunch for me.
I went up to Nat’s room, knocked and went in. It was at the top of the house, overlooking the tiny garden and the backs of the houses in the next street along.
There was an enormous wipe-board fixed to one wall. All over it, mathematical formulae were scribbled in long, weaving lines. You didn’t have to be a detective to see this guy would
definitely not have the same kind of trouble with long division that I’ve always had!
The rest of the room was what you might call ‘neatly cluttered’ – full of stuff, but not a tip. A laptop bag was propped against the wardrobe and the entire under-bed space was
crammed with books.
Nat himself was sitting at a desk under the window, flicking through a textbook on an e-reader. He had a carefully combed side parting in his hair and his trousers were slightly too short for
his legs. He wore glasses and a plain zip-up cardigan. To be perfectly honest, he looked like a bit of a nerd.
‘Hello,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m Saxby Smart.’
‘’lo,’ he grunted, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘ You are Saxby?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘You’re the detective my mum says she’s hired?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Good grief,’ he muttered. ‘How old are you? Are you even a teenager?’
‘Er, no, not yet,’ I said. I wasn’t quite sure if he thought that was a good thing or a bad thing. Hmm, a bad thing probably, from the look on his face. ‘Don’t
worry,’ I chirped up,
IF NAT TOOK IT, and has admitted to taking it, why not give it back? Why tell the police he’s hidden it?
IF NAT DIDN’T TAKE IT, how can we account for what his friends have told the police?
There are some important questions to consider about the REASON for the theft:
Question 1: Was someone after the exam answers? Or . . .
Question 2: Did someone just want a nice fancy laptop? Or . . .
Question 3: Is there a less obvious motive involved? Could it be, for instance, that the thief is in debt and is planning to sell the computer on the quiet?
My plan of action should include:
• talking to Nat.
• talking to Dr Shroeder.
• talking to those three friends of Nat’s.
Ah yes! Those friends . . .
WHAT is going on with them? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?
C HAPTER
T HREE
N UMEROUS QUESTIONS SURROUNDING N AT ’ S THREE friends kept preying on my
mind.
What kind of friends would rat on their best pal, anyway? No, I shouldn’t say that. That’s not fair. Suppose I saw one of my friends stealing something: wouldn’t I feel I had
to do the right thing and tell the truth about what I’d seen? Even if it was upsetting to think that my friend would get into trouble?
But . . .
Why was there that strange mismatch (as I mentioned near the end of the previous chapter)? Was there something going on here that I hadn’t accounted for yet?
Or . . .
Could it be that Nat’s friends were making a mistake? Could it be that what they saw was perfectly innocent? What if, following Nat’s declaration of guilt, they had misinterpreted what they saw? That might account for the mismatch.
But . . .
How can you misinterpret seeing someone with a flashy new computer?
I tried to shoo all such thoughts from my mind as I walked over to Mrs Hardyman’s house a little later that day. I told myself that I should concentrate on hearing Nat’s side of the
story, and that I should keep both my mind and my eyes open for clues.
The Hardymans lived only a few streets away from me. Their house was very like mine – rather plain-looking from the outside, a kind of upturned shoebox-shape lined up along the road with a
load of other upturned shoebox-shapes.
‘He’s still in his room,’ whispered Mrs Hardyman. ‘He wouldn’t touch his lunch and I made his favourite – beetroot and pickle sandwich.’
‘I see,’ I said, feeling glad she hadn’t made lunch for me. Then I remembered that on school days she did make lunch for me.
I went up to Nat’s room, knocked and went in. It was at the top of the house, overlooking the tiny garden and the backs of the houses in the next street along.
There was an enormous wipe-board fixed to one wall. All over it, mathematical formulae were scribbled in long, weaving lines. You didn’t have to be a detective to see this guy would
definitely not have the same kind of trouble with long division that I’ve always had!
The rest of the room was what you might call ‘neatly cluttered’ – full of stuff, but not a tip. A laptop bag was propped against the wardrobe and the entire under-bed space was
crammed with books.
Nat himself was sitting at a desk under the window, flicking through a textbook on an e-reader. He had a carefully combed side parting in his hair and his trousers were slightly too short for
his legs. He wore glasses and a plain zip-up cardigan. To be perfectly honest, he looked like a bit of a nerd.
‘Hello,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m Saxby Smart.’
‘’lo,’ he grunted, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘ You are Saxby?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘You’re the detective my mum says she’s hired?’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Good grief,’ he muttered. ‘How old are you? Are you even a teenager?’
‘Er, no, not yet,’ I said. I wasn’t quite sure if he thought that was a good thing or a bad thing. Hmm, a bad thing probably, from the look on his face. ‘Don’t
worry,’ I chirped up,
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