Read Online The Top Secret Diary of Davina Dupree by SK Sheridan - Free Book Online
Authors: SK Sheridan
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explain the new developments to her. We wanted to ask her to go straight to the police station, even if her friend Hugh Broderick was on holiday, and CONVINCE the police about the art robbery. If she didn’t answer again, we’d have to try and tell Arabella’s parents. Things had gone far enough.
But we didn’t have time to do any of this. Just as we walked underneath a very long piece of ivy, two pairs of hands shot out from behind a pillar that holds part of the hanging garden in the air, and clamped themselves over both our mouths. We were then dragged backwards for what seemed like half an hour, our feet bumping over the wet grass, until we reached Croaka’s car. Pike opened one of the back doors and told us to climb in or there would be trouble. So we did, we honestly didn’t have much of a choice.
I thought they’d take us to Bunker 37, but instead, Croaka drove for ages and ages with Pike next to her, while we rattled around in the back of her stinking car with no seat belts to protect us from her TERRIBLE driving. Around us, there was mouldy food stuck to the seats, old drink bottles rolling around on the floor and half a burger falling out of a plastic box between us that slopped on to me when she screamed round a corner. Honestly Diary, it smelt so disgusting I nearly threw up.
Eventually we arrived somewhere – at first I didn’t have a clue where – in the dark. Croaka’s car clock said it was half eleven at night. They told us to get out, took Arabella’s iPhone out of her pocket and made sure I didn’t have one, then frog-marched us towards a large, modern looking building. (They didn’t find you, Diary, as no one thought of looking behind my shawl.) Most of its walls seemed to be made from shimmery glass and it was very wide.
Anyway, with Croaka holding on to me and Pike clutching Arabella, we climbed up an enormous flight of steps at the front of the building towards a large, glassy door, lurching from side to side like a group of drunk old men.
‘I know what this place is,’ I whispered across to Arabella as I stared through the door. ‘I recognise it now, I’ve seen it in one of Carrie’s art books. It’s the National Gallery of Art and Design. They’ve got a painting of a field by Claude Monet, Carrie’s favourite artist, hanging in the entrance hall. Look.’
‘Well done, Detective Davina,’ Croaka sneered, grabbing my arm even tighter. ‘This
is
the National Gallery of Art and Design and for one night only, it belongs to me and Jacinta. It was easy to get the director, Mr Cerise, to move the date of the Annual Egmont Art Show. I just phoned him up and explained that Mrs Fairchild, the head at Egmont, was desperately ill with only a few weeks to live and really wanted to see one last art show before she died. Jacinta phoned him up separately, pretendin’ to be Mrs Fairchild’s doctor and confirmin’ everything I’d told him. He said, “Oh poor Mrs Fairchild, she’s always been such a great supporter of the arts,” and agreed at once. Easy as pie, when you know how.’
‘You’re not nice,’ Arabella said. ‘Fancy saying something like that about Mrs Fairchild. I hope she goes on living for one hundred more years at least.’
‘Quiet, you little worm,’ Pike snapped.
‘You do realise,’ I said. ‘That when Mrs Honeysuckle our housemistress comes round to check we’re all in bed, she’ll realise we’re not there and call the police.’
‘You do realise,’ mimicked Croaka. ‘That we’ve already told Mrs Fairchild you were both very keen to help us put up the art display at the National Gallery, bein’ such incredibly arty pupils. They’re not expectin’ you back at Egmont until late tomorrow evenin’ and by then it’ll be too late.’ I swear she let out a real cackle at that point.
‘Too late for what?’ Arabella asked.
‘Oh, you’ll find out.’ Pike jeered.
By then we were all soaked by the splattering rain. Croaka took a pearly white card
But we didn’t have time to do any of this. Just as we walked underneath a very long piece of ivy, two pairs of hands shot out from behind a pillar that holds part of the hanging garden in the air, and clamped themselves over both our mouths. We were then dragged backwards for what seemed like half an hour, our feet bumping over the wet grass, until we reached Croaka’s car. Pike opened one of the back doors and told us to climb in or there would be trouble. So we did, we honestly didn’t have much of a choice.
I thought they’d take us to Bunker 37, but instead, Croaka drove for ages and ages with Pike next to her, while we rattled around in the back of her stinking car with no seat belts to protect us from her TERRIBLE driving. Around us, there was mouldy food stuck to the seats, old drink bottles rolling around on the floor and half a burger falling out of a plastic box between us that slopped on to me when she screamed round a corner. Honestly Diary, it smelt so disgusting I nearly threw up.
Eventually we arrived somewhere – at first I didn’t have a clue where – in the dark. Croaka’s car clock said it was half eleven at night. They told us to get out, took Arabella’s iPhone out of her pocket and made sure I didn’t have one, then frog-marched us towards a large, modern looking building. (They didn’t find you, Diary, as no one thought of looking behind my shawl.) Most of its walls seemed to be made from shimmery glass and it was very wide.
Anyway, with Croaka holding on to me and Pike clutching Arabella, we climbed up an enormous flight of steps at the front of the building towards a large, glassy door, lurching from side to side like a group of drunk old men.
‘I know what this place is,’ I whispered across to Arabella as I stared through the door. ‘I recognise it now, I’ve seen it in one of Carrie’s art books. It’s the National Gallery of Art and Design. They’ve got a painting of a field by Claude Monet, Carrie’s favourite artist, hanging in the entrance hall. Look.’
‘Well done, Detective Davina,’ Croaka sneered, grabbing my arm even tighter. ‘This
is
the National Gallery of Art and Design and for one night only, it belongs to me and Jacinta. It was easy to get the director, Mr Cerise, to move the date of the Annual Egmont Art Show. I just phoned him up and explained that Mrs Fairchild, the head at Egmont, was desperately ill with only a few weeks to live and really wanted to see one last art show before she died. Jacinta phoned him up separately, pretendin’ to be Mrs Fairchild’s doctor and confirmin’ everything I’d told him. He said, “Oh poor Mrs Fairchild, she’s always been such a great supporter of the arts,” and agreed at once. Easy as pie, when you know how.’
‘You’re not nice,’ Arabella said. ‘Fancy saying something like that about Mrs Fairchild. I hope she goes on living for one hundred more years at least.’
‘Quiet, you little worm,’ Pike snapped.
‘You do realise,’ I said. ‘That when Mrs Honeysuckle our housemistress comes round to check we’re all in bed, she’ll realise we’re not there and call the police.’
‘You do realise,’ mimicked Croaka. ‘That we’ve already told Mrs Fairchild you were both very keen to help us put up the art display at the National Gallery, bein’ such incredibly arty pupils. They’re not expectin’ you back at Egmont until late tomorrow evenin’ and by then it’ll be too late.’ I swear she let out a real cackle at that point.
‘Too late for what?’ Arabella asked.
‘Oh, you’ll find out.’ Pike jeered.
By then we were all soaked by the splattering rain. Croaka took a pearly white card
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