Sharna Jackson is an award-winning author and curator who specializes in developing socially engaged initiatives for children across culture, publishing and entertainment. She was recently the artistic director at Site Gallery in Sheffield and was formerly the editor of the Tate Kids website. Sharna’s debut novel High-Rise Mystery received numerous awards and accolades, including the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize for the Best Book for Younger Readers. Sharna lives on a ship in Rotterdam in the Netherlands.
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To those of us who follow the clues – not the rules.
Apologies in advance for any rambling because my voice and hands are truly trembling, my mind is moving fifty thousand miles a minute and, honestly, I’m troubled and a little conflicted. I can’t admit this to Josie and/or Wes, or say any of this out loud anywhere near their ears or other body parts, but . . . I’m excited? I’m considerably more thrilled than chilled and that’s not acceptable, is it? Not at a time like this, or . . . maybe ever? I shouldn’t be thinking about writing right now, but it’s impossible not to.
Because this is a real story.
Let’s set the scene, shall we? I’m outside the Elgin in Notting Hill – Mumsie’s second home – on this warm Thursday August evening. I’m gazing through the glass, into the pub, watching my friends and fellow investigators hover around the adults – or let’s call them what they really are at this stage, suspects – as they clutch pale ales in tight fists, long, drawn faces with wide bloodshot eyes. Give one of them an Oscar for outstanding acting right now because someone absolutely did this – but who? Which one?
Could it be the ambitious new curator – the person who arranges exhibitions? What about that quiet art handler,
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the guy who actually hangs the paintings? It could be the wannabe artist, couldn’t it? Or maybe his super-rich and successful ex-wife wanted him dead? We can’t rule out the desperate girlfriend at this stage either, can we?
Even if she is my mother.
I’m looking at each one of these could-be-culprits in turn, staring into their souls for their motives – their ‘whys’ and their ‘hows’, and I suppose I must be smiling, grinning even, as I’m doing so, because I’ve just caught Wes’s eye and he’s shaking his head and pursing his lips.
Busted.
He knows I’m loving this. That’s his signal – and my sign it’s time to be as serious as the situation we face.
Deep breaths, Margot Anderson. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You can do it; you can be empathetic and normal, can’t you? Yep, I can. I’ll choose my words and watch my tone. Sometimes I struggle doing both and it gets me into deep trouble. Honestly, I think that’s why I like stories more than real life. In my stories I can be anywhere in this world – or others – and my characters never get mad with me and I can always change the ending. But this story? This ending? This one might be out of my hands . . .
Let’s start at the beginning, like most stories do. There’s been a terrible turn of events, but it’s brought the Copseys a brand-new case – our last case maybe, but let’s not focus on that now. Instead let me introduce you to our victim.
Teddy, Theodore Wyndham, my mother Verity’s new boyfriend, died – and when I say new, it’s very new, like
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literally it’s been a month, she said, so she barely knew him. He died! About an hour ago, in his gallery, right in front of us. Now, Mumsie says a lot of things – half her utterings make no sense and the other half I barely believe because, well, honestly, I think Mumsie loves Merlot and any other type of wine more than me, but – BUT – Mumsie thought Teddy was going to propose to her tonight. Yep, he was apparently planning to go down on one knee, but instead he slumped down dead at her feet. Sad stuff really, tragically poetic. Teddy was apologetic in what turned out to be his final moments too. He croaked out a final ‘sorry’ and then . . . you know, Xs for eyes. Mumsie was right about one thing. She said Teddy was deadly serious about art, and, well . . . look.
And you know what? I did look – very closely. So when I said he ‘died’, I wasn’t telling the whole truth – I was keeping you in suspense because . . .
Deady Teddy was killed! On purpose. And one of the adults did it; I just know it.
I must give you some backstory, because context matters, doesn’t it? My friends and I came to London from Luton because, eurgh, I really might actually have to go to high school here and live with Mumsie again in this new house of hers. I wasn’t planning on thinking about that, though. The plan was to enjoy the final days of school-holiday freedom and go to Notting Hill Carnival – Wes’s dream.
Tonight, though, our very first night here, we were at Teddy’s gallery, the Wynd, for a private view of the work
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of some super-secretive street artist called Trik, and, my gosh, did we get one. A tricky, sticky private view to murder. The adults aren’t saying that though, the M-word, not in front of Josie, Wes and me – but let’s think about it. Your left ear doesn’t just start trickling blood if you’ve had a heart attack, does it? After you were sent awful artistic hate mail earlier that day and the house opposite your house – Mum’s house actually – was covered in suspicious spray paint before your exhibition opened?
To me that’s stacking up suspiciously. Someone wanted Teddy to stop, to be a permanent still life. To me, as a proud member of the crime-solving Copseys, that’s evidence, a case we must accept – even if Wes and Josie don’t believe it’s real. Yet.
They’ll see.
They think I’m spinning a story, weaving a web to distract myself from the impending disaster that is my life. I can see why they’re saying that – it does make some sense; it is in character for me – but this time, they’re wrong. Mostly. We’re good sleuths, great even. We have a history of solving mysteries back in Luton, getting into all our neighbours’ business and sorting it out, so why stop now? We must get started; there’s not a second to waste – we only have until Sunday evening before Wes and Josie go home, and I might have to stay here forever.
No, our story does not end like this. Teddy’s story cannot end like this.
We’re going to solve his murder. We have to. It’s what we Copseys do.
Thursday 21 August
1Earlier that day, around four, before all the murdering and arty blackmail happened, Wes stepped backwards off the pavement on to the street and twisted his brown curls. I knew exactly what he was going to say next.
‘This is downsizing to you? Downsized where? This is the biggest house I’ve ever seen in real life!’ He nudged Josie. ‘Innit?’
Josie closed one eye to the sun and looked over at him. ‘Yeah, it’s pretty big –’
‘Pretty big? Jo, stop playing – it’s got four floors!’
‘Five, if you count the attic,’ I said, looking past the grey paint round the heavy navy-blue door, up to the black-tiled roof. 33 Ladbroke Gardens was a nice house, and the area is awesome; there’s nothing wrong with Notting Hill. It just wasn’t a patch on our old place in Hammersmith, right by the Thames, where I grew up, or the house on Copsey Close where I live with my dad
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now. This was a house – a fine one for sure – it just wasn’t my home. Yet.
33 Ladbroke Gardens was a random Mumsie purchase, a very ‘her’ thing to do. Mumsie loves making massive life choices on the flip of a coin, without thinking about the consequences to her, or to me. She thinks it makes her seem carefree, spontaneous and cool, but I beg to differ.
She’s the opposite.
‘Five freaking floors – that’s three more than Primark in Luton, that is.’ Wes chuckled and wagged a pointed finger at the house, starting at the bottom. ‘Ten windows. Ten! And that’s just the front!’
‘Yes, that’s a lot,’ said Josie. ‘But we just drove past Buckingham Palace and –’
‘Buckingham Palace? ’ he spat. ‘Be a serious person. That’s a palace – the clue’s in the name. That’s not a real house, is it? Where people we know live?’ He turned to me. ‘Where people we know will live.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. ‘I know you love us, Margot, and you’ll miss us – I’ll think about you once in a while, I promise.’
‘Wow, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Generous, but I don’t know if I’m definitely moving –’
‘You are,’ said Josie quietly. ‘Loads of your stuff is already here.’
I sighed. ‘True – but that’s just stuff. Just old journals and some clothes I’m about to grow out of. Stuff can be moved back easily; it’s not like it’s going to space, is it? Also, I haven’t even been inside the house myself yet. I
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might not like it – if I don’t, I’ll just come back on the train with you.’
Wes and Josie glanced at each other quickly, then Wes looked down at the concrete. They didn’t believe me.
‘I don’t like this either,’ Josie continued. ‘The thought of you leaving Luton? I hate it. But . . .’
‘But what?’ I asked, already knowing what was coming next – a mini therapy session from Doctor Google herself.
‘You need to begin to accept it, Margot. Accepting difficult things is important; it helps you move forward, to grow, to develop as a person – that’s what I read anyway.’
Wes shook his head. ‘You need to leave the internet alone, Josie. Vodafone need to vote you off the island somehow. Anyway, look – let’s focus on real life now, on this big bougie house, on the Carnival route, in the best city in the world apparently. After Luton.’
‘Luton’s a town,’ said Josie, cutting in. ‘The clue’s in the name of the football team . . .’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ said Wes with a wave of his hand. He turned to me. ‘What’s really the problem here, Margot? Make it make sense.’
I’ve been trying to, but Wes just doesn’t get it, not really.
He sees the ‘nice’ things I have – the huge house, the ‘cool’ clothes, the photos of holidays from faraway places – but he doesn’t know how it feels to be lonely, a bit . . . empty sometimes. When I moved to Luton last summer after Mumsie and Dad got divorced, I was finally, finally having a good time. I had it all – real friends, real fun – all away from my mum. I existed in a calm, safe
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space with my dad. Those were the things that mattered, to me at least.
Josie and Wes were just my neighbours at first, then we became best friends and Copseys – a group that Josie started that autumn. We did good things for good, worthy reasons, but we quickly turned into a mysterysolving trio, which was much better, way cooler and a great source for stories. The plots were plotting, believe me.
But I’m not just friends with them so I can write a novel about them when I’m older, even though I might – I’ll defo give them different names and a cut of the money. I do love them, truly. Josie has been generally lovely. She was a bit miffed about her younger brother being born, though, which at eleven years old was very embarrassing, but understandable, I suppose. I don’t know. I personally would love a sibling – the more characters the better. Wesley, my favourite moany mini-Marcus Rashford, has been calling me a spy for twelve whole months because I turned up, took notes and then things started getting exciting. It’s not true, but I wish it was – my reality is unfortunately way more normal. I’m just a girl standing in front of her new house (possibly), ready to wear a fake smile for the long weekend (begrudgingly) and enjoy Carnival for Wes (somehow).
‘Margot?’ I could hear Josie’s concern loud and clear. ‘You all right?’
Wes laughed. ‘Girl, you know she ain’t. Margot’s never been all right. Not one day in her life. Look at her
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face – she’s throwing herself a silent pity party. “Wah, wah, wah, poor little me in my big rich house.” ’
I laughed too; I couldn’t help it – even though I was still a bit sad inside. Like I said, Wes doesn’t get it. ‘Shut up, I’m fine.’ I looked at him. ‘But you’ll see what I mean.’
‘I won’t if you don’t knock on the door and get us in, will I?’ he replied. He looked around the street with his hands on his hips. ‘So this is Notting Hill, eh? So fancy, but . . .’
‘But what?’ asked Josie. ‘There’s already a “but”?’
‘Nah, not a “but” – an observation. There’s a lot of graffiti and boarded-up windows for such a bougie neighbourhood,’ Wes said with a shrug. ‘Unexpected.’
‘It’s very expected actually,’ said Josie in that way she does, slightly smug yet sweet. ‘I looked it up before we left.’
Wes nudged me and rolled his eyes. ‘Course she did. Go on then, Goog-girl. Out with it.’
She smiled. ‘First of all, you know I don’t just google stuff. I do all kinds of things on the internet.’
Wes raised an eyebrow. ‘Like what?’
She sighed. ‘I don’t know – I play games, find out facts –’
‘So, googling?’ said Wes.
‘No! I also do things . . . like looking at webcams from far-flung places,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen Tokyo, Madrid, New York – it’s like going on holiday without leaving the house.’
‘You’re tapped,’ he said and laughed.
‘Anyway,’ said Josie, rolling her eyes. ‘Those are
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hoardings for the Carnival, aren’t they? To protect the houses in case the celebrations get out of hand.’
‘I thought you’d know that, Wes,’ I said, smiling. ‘Since you’re such a Carnival fan and everything.’
He shrugged. ‘It never crossed my mind, not even once. Makes sense, though.’ He reached for his phone in his pocket. ‘And the graffiti on those . . . what did you call them? Hoardings? Yeah, they’re great for doing art on, aren’t they? I mean, look at that –’ he pointed directly across the street at what looked like a ginger-and-white spray-painted fox with red Xs for eyes. ‘That’s lit!’ He took a photo and put his phone back in his pocket. ‘You know my mum makes murals and things like that? Remember I told you?’
I nodded. Of course I remembered. Ella, Wesley’s mum, was the best. Creative, cool and chill – all the Cs. Sometimes, more than a few times, I wished she was my mother, but we can’t all be so lucky and blessed, can we? If I really was moving here, I would miss her so much – probably more than Wes. I made a note to tell him that later if he started to work my nerves.
‘You know what?’ Wes said, standing tall. ‘No more buts. I love it here – it’s a bit of me. If you won’t live here, I will.’ He walked up the seven stone steps towards the glossy front door, gripped the brass door knocker and tapped it against the wood. ‘I don’t know about you, Josie, but I’m ready to meet Mumsie. Adopt me, Mumsie!’
He put on a super-posh voice when he said ‘Mumsie’.
I joined him on the top step. ‘You don’t want that, and I do not talk like that.’
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‘You do a bit, and it’s fine,’ said Josie from just behind us. She put her hand on my shoulder. ‘We’re Copseys, remember? We don’t discriminate – it would go against our code. Point four: be a true ally and –’
‘Be a friend and support everyone,’ I muttered, as the front door swung open. ‘I’ll do my best, but I don’t know . . .’
Mumsie stood in front of us in her brightly coloured striped socks, blue jeans and crisp white shirt. Her blonde hair was no longer long but shorn into a short sharp bob just below her ears. She looked classy, chic, different. Maybe she was different too? On the inside as well as out? Her green eyes widened when they met mine.
‘Hello, darling. I cannot believe you’re actually here, that you all made it! I’m so delighted, truly.’ She clutched her chest with her right hand, a thing she does when she’s trying to be sincere.
‘You’ve cut your hair.’
She swung her head for effect, narrowly missing the door. ‘I did. Do you like it?’
I nodded. I did.
‘Teddy says I look graceful.’ She waved her hand. ‘But enough about that.’ She tilted her head towards her shoulder and looked at my friends. ‘Josie Anderson and Wesley Evans.’ Her hand returned to her chest. ‘It is my honour to meet you, finally. Margot likes to keep me caged up and far away from her friends, so it’s a dream to host you this weekend – the first of many, hopefully.’ She glanced up at me and rolled her eyes playfully. ‘Please, let’s not stand outside all day – come in, come in!’
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My friends grinned with delight and stepped past her into the hall. Mumsie outstretched her arms. ‘Welcome home, Margot,’ she said pulling me into a hug. As she sniffed my hair, I smelled wine on her breath.
It turns out Wesley was right. Mumsie was indeed full of it – she hadn’t downsized at all. 33 Ladbroke Gardens was huge. It was one of those houses that looks thin from the front, but inside it’s really deep and stretches back further than you think. I hated to admit it, so I wouldn’t do this out loud – internal monologue only – but it was a really nice place, on the surface at least. I paused for a moment, loitering in the lobby. My friends were already in the living room, getting to know my mum, so I took a moment to get to know the house. I glanced up at the high ceiling as I slowly unbuckled my sandals on the herringbone-wood floor. I was kneeling, eye level with a side table that was topped with a tottering pile of letters and packages. There was only one thing to do. I couldn’t help myself. I stuck out my finger and pushed the pile over. As they tumbled to the ground, I got a good look at them.
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‘Everything all right out there, Margot?’ Mumsie called from the living room.
‘Yep, fine,’ I replied, not looking up. Some letters, boring-looking ones, were addressed to Verity Anderson, but other packages, bigger, more exciting colourful ones, were for Theodore Wyndham. Teddy. Teddy lives here? I thought. Already?
I sat back on my heels. Mumsie hadn’t said anything about this, and I could feel the unmistakable prickling on the back of my neck. A furious feeling was rising. So not only was I expected to live with a strange mother but also a potentially strange stranger too? A duplicate dad? A faux father? A pretend papa?
This is why Mumsie and I have problems.
When I stood up my hands automatically rolled into fists. I tried not to stomp into the living room, I swear.
Mumsie was throwing her head back and laughing when I walked into that beige room. ‘Please, it’s Verity – call me Verity,’ she said, her rainbow feet tucked underneath her. She reached down next to her and picked up her strategically placed wine glass and brought it to her lips. She took a sip, smiled a satisfied, contented smile and settled into the corner of the cream-coloured sofa. I stared at her.
‘What?’ she asked with a whisper.
I didn’t answer. She knew.
‘Oh, that’s sparkling water,’ she said, waving her hand. ‘Mostly.’
‘I’m sure,’ I said flatly. I joined my friends on the sofa opposite her.
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Wes laughed. ‘I see where you get it from now, Margot.’ He sat back and snuggled in.
Mumsie and I answered in unison. ‘What do you mean?’
‘See!’ said Wes. ‘I knew they’d be alike!’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Josie. She looked at Mumsie. ‘Wes was talking about the first-name thing – Margot always calls our parents by their first names –’
‘And we thought it was well weird,’ Wesley interrupted. ‘At first.’
‘We just weren’t used to it, is all,’ Josie added.
Mumsie cocked her head at me. ‘You’re right – Margot is a lot like me.’
‘I don’t think so.’ I really didn’t.
Mumsie laughed. ‘She simply doesn’t want to admit it.’
Wes grinned at me, an eyebrow raised, then turned to her. ‘Tell me . . . Verity,’ he said, trying her name on like a tight pair of trainers. ‘How are you and Margot alike?’
Wes wanted to troll me today? I see.
Mumsie took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’d say we’re both curious – we like to try new, different things.’
Josie nodded her agreement.
‘You know, we put ourselves in very strange situations, just to, you know, feel something.’
Wesley laughed. ‘That’s well you.’ He clapped his hands together in delight. He was enjoying this far too much.
Mumsie looked over at me and her lips began to tremble slightly before she spoke. ‘We like to change our minds on
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a whim too.’ Her voice dropped to a low whisper. ‘Don’t we, Margot? You are moving in, aren’t you?’
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Here we go.
This move, what Mumsie was doing now, is what I call ‘trying it’. Trying to make me feel guilt or sympathy or sometimes, usually, a blend of both. I got that term from Wes and it fits. The room felt a bit tense, and Wes looked sorry for bringing it up, and good, so he should.
‘We’ll see, Mother,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Like you say, we both put ourselves in strange situations to feel something. Don’t we?’ I sat forward on the sofa and wore a fake smile. ‘Tell us about . . . Teddy. He gets post here. Does he live here?’
Wes nudged me. ‘You writing a story or is this for your diary?’ he muttered.
‘Why not both?’ I whispered back with a shrug.
Mumsie put her glass down and rubbed her chest. She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Margot,’ she said, her tone deadly serious, ‘Teddy is . . . everything. Yes, I know, I know – I’ve only known him a month, but I can just feel it. Look, I’m not young – I’m double twenty-one, plus one – so I know.’
Josie smiled. ‘Interesting maths.’
‘So he lives here?’ I pressed.
‘Well, not really – but he stays here a lot; he has some things here,’ she replied. ‘I have such a good feeling about him, Margot.’
‘But what do you feel you know about him?’ I asked.
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‘Well, I know that he has an incredible gallery. I know that he treats me like a princess, and –’ she sighed with delight – ‘and I know he’s the one. I cannot wait for you to meet him.’
I could wait. I knew I didn’t have a good feeling about Teddy. Why was he living here? Too soon, too much.
‘I love art,’ said Wes, breaking into my thoughts. ‘My mum’s a good artist – she paints.’
Mumsie clapped her hands together. ‘Perfect – mention it to Teddy and perhaps he can, you know, help her with an exhibition or something?’
Wes grinned. ‘Really? That would be ace!’ He looked out of the window. ‘What does Teddy think about all the graffiti and stuff around here?’
Mumsie’s eyes crossed. ‘He loves it. He loves Carnival. All of it. You know, you’re going to be so happy you stayed here. You’ll get a front-row seat on all the action without having to leave the house.’
‘It’s so cool!’ said Wes, barely containing his excitement. ‘I will leave the house, though, if you don’t mind. I want to see the sights and smell the food. Gah, I love it here.’
Mumsie laughed. ‘I love that you love it. Ooh!’ she said, her face lighting up. ‘Here he is now!’
I could feel my lips pursing as Josie and Wes sat up straight in anticipation, like our head teacher Ms Herbert was about to enter the room. We heard a key in the door, a deep voice muttering about mess and then he, Teddy, lumbered into the living room with his hands filled with post, floppy dark brown hair and a linen navy- blue
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short-sleeved shirt that was unbuttoned way too low for a man of his age, which I guessed to be around fifty. He looked at my friends and me on the sofa, and then over at Mumsie in confusion, like he didn’t know we were coming or indeed who we even were. Josie stiffened next to me. ‘Teddy?’ Mumsie said quietly. ‘You remember my daughter is visiting, don’t you?’
Teddy turned to us, his face shiny, clammy and gross. That navy-blue shirt was pitch black round the armpits from sweat. ‘Margot and friends,’ he said. ‘Right . . . Margot and her friends.’
Teddy put his packages on the sofa and extended a damp hand in my direction. ‘Margot, of course – a pleasure.’ He flashed his bright white teeth, while his dark brown hair stuck fast to his forehead in sweaty clumps. ‘Apologies for my appearance and my attitude.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘He gets so stressed,’ Mumsie cooed behind him.
‘Right, right,’ he said, turning to her. ‘Such a busy day, a big day – final touches on the install, private view tonight.’ He spun round to look at us. ‘You’re all coming along, aren’t you?’
‘Coming along to what?’ I asked.
‘Teddy’s exhibition,’ said Mumsie, rubbing his back, then wiping her hand on her jeans. ‘Of course we’re going; we all are.’
This was the first I’d heard of this. ‘We are?’
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‘You are,’ said Mumsie. ‘We’re a family; we support each other.’
A family? You see what she was doing? Forcing us together. This man wasn’t family. This Teddy fellow was a stranger – I had literally just met him. I glared at my mother and there came that itch at the back of my neck again. She stared back, sipping from her glass. We were locked in a silent scrap, it seemed. One I wanted to win.
Teddy looked at her, then at me, then at my friends. He raised an eyebrow at Wes, who, in return, gave him a slight shrug.
Teddy spoke up slowly and carefully. ‘I . . . erm . . . just popped back to see if there was any post. I was expecting something – but you three are a much better delivery.’ He laughed awkwardly at his frankly terrible pun. So did Mumsie; she looked away from me and beamed up at him. She went to take another sip from her wine glass but found it empty. ‘I need a top-up.’ She looked at Wes and Josie, then me. ‘Ginger beer?’
We nodded.
She kissed Teddy on the cheek. ‘Beer beer?’
Teddy winced away from her. ‘It’s too early for all that, darling,’ he muttered snappily under his breath. ‘It’s barely the afternoon – water will be fine. Thank you.’
Mumsie looked stunned for a second and she stared into his eyes. She blinked once, twice, shook her head, then smiled. ‘Be right back,’ she trilled.
I didn’t like her drinking at this time, or at any time,
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but I certainly didn’t like the way Teddy had spoken to Mumsie. I sat forward and cleared my throat to find my sweet voice. ‘It’s so nice to meet you, Teddy,’ I lied through gritted teeth.
‘And you, Margot!’ he replied brightly, switching up his tone. ‘I’ve heard so much about you – I almost feel starstruck to meet you in person.’ He was probably lying too, but I let that one slide; I liked the compliment. He pushed his post to the edge of the sofa, sat down and began looking through it.
‘Do you often get letters sent here?’ I asked. ‘Do you live here?’
His mouth dropped open to answer, but before he did Mumsie came back into the room with a tray of drinks.
‘Thanks,’ he said, reaching for his water. She popped the tray on the coffee table and as Josie and Wes were sipping their drinks, Mumsie and Teddy sat opposite us. Mumsie made sure she was sitting as close to him as possible without curling up catlike in his lap. Teddy began to inch away from her as he rifled through his post, until he ended up at the edge of the sofa, crushed between her and the armrest. He inspected a thin brown tube, then smiled at us. ‘This one looks exciting!’
‘It does,’ said Josie. ‘Open it!’
‘Yeah!’ said Wes. He turned to me and lowered his voice. ‘This is like a well-weird Christmas.’
I laughed; it was.
Teddy unpeeled the thick tape from round the tube, pulled off a white cap at one end and shook it until its
