There had been no sign of the Count in the cyan case, but had he been lurking behind the scenes? Had he been the one pulling the strings?
LOOSE END THREE: the Cyan.
Which just left Ruby’s most recent case – the one that had begun with a pair of missing canary-yellow shoes. It was the shoes that had led them to uncover the whole plot, and eventually locate the invisibility skin, stolen to order by a cat burglar named Claude Fontaine, hired by their old friend Lorelei von Leyden. Ruby had recovered the skin and returned it to the Department of Defence, but she had known as she crouched on the rooftop that night that the invisibility skin was not the whole story. With hindsight, it was clear that the skin had been stolen in order to perpetrate another crime.
The real trophy had been the 8 key. A coder key belonging to Spectrum boss LB, which became useless to anyone as soon as it was known to be missing, since all it took was the press of a button to deactivate its functions. The only part of it that seemed to be in any way interesting was the Lucite tag attached to it, and this was only of interest to LB since it had once belonged to Bradley Baker, legendary Spectrum agent and LB’s long-dead sweetheart.
So why had the Count strived so hard to obtain it? Why risk incarceration for a key that would be deactivated as soon as it was discovered missing? A key therefore that would never unlock one single Spectrum door, not one file, not one secret?
And the bigger question: since the key had been locked away inside a DOD safe room, protected by LB’s own code, how had Claude got to it? Had someone from the DOD or even Spectrum given him inside information? Investigations were of course being conducted – Ruby didn’t have to be told this to know it was so. She thought that was probably why no new code-breaking cases had been landing on her desk; activity had been suspended pending security clearance. So was Hitch likely to be ‘on vacation’ with his ‘mother’ at this time of high alert? Answer: not a chance.
LOOSE END FOUR: the key. What’s the link?
She paused before writing,
Beats me.
She didn’t know what else to write, except for the one thing she didn’t want to write: has a bad apple found its way into Spectrum, or is someone in Spectrum rotten to the core? Someone I know? Someone I trust?
She sat back and exhaled a weary breath. ‘Where the Sam Hill are you Hitch, and why can I never find you when I need you?’ The question, muttered aloud, roused her trusty husky dog and he ambled over and licked her hand, a display of loyal affection Ruby was grateful for.
‘Come on Bug, let’s you and me go get a snack, how about that, huh?’
The dog began to wag his tail. Ruby wriggled out of the beanbag and the two of them exited the room and went quietly on downstairs.
When she arrived down in the kitchen she fetched a dog treat from the pantry and fed it to Bug. Then she opened the refrigerator to see a large glass of green with a note pinned to it written in Spanish:
It was undoubtedly from Consuela.
If I wanted to wind up with dog breath – no offence Bug – then I would. She wasted no time in pouring it down the sink, trying not to breathe in the kale smell.
Mrs Digby had made her a small fish pie. Ordinarily Ruby would have been pleased (Mrs Digby made a good fish pie), but due to her earlier encounter with fish heads she decided she might give it a miss. Instead she sliced some bread, dropped it in the toaster and waited in silence for it to toast. She thought about Hitch again and where he might be – was he part of some investigation into the 8 key or had he been kept out of it too? How did people so good at keeping secrets investigate other people who were equally good at keeping secrets?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the pop of the toaster and just like that one of her questions was answered.
THE MESSAGE WAS GRILLED INTO THE TOAST, the words clear but edible, an advantage to any hungry spy looking to cover her tracks. The fax toaster was Spectrum issue and, while useful, some might feel it had its downsides – not everyone wanted to be contacted about work assignments at 8pm when they had just popped into the kitchen for a snack. But then Ruby Redfort wasn’t everyone.
She spread the toast with mayonnaise (the Redforts were out of butter), stuck it between her teeth and pulled on her waterproof coat. Rain was due anytime soon – that’s what they kept saying, though it was the wind that had the city in its grip.
Then she headed out into the dark to Greenstreet subway station. The train journey wasn’t a long one, but even so Ruby was frustrated with herself for forgetting to bring her book. So instead of reading she stared at her reflection in the dark window. Someone had stuck a sticker to the glass. It was of a boss-eyed cartoon kid licking its chops – on the tongue were the words: It’s On the Tip of Your Tongue.
There was also part of a newspaper discarded on the ledge behind the seat, its headline mirrored in the glass:
She picked it up and continued to read:
THIS YEAR’S HALLOWEEN PARADE BIGGER THAN EVER!
Mayor Abrahams, keen to make himself popular before the mayoral elections, had decided that there should be a special televised Twinford Halloween parade in Harker Square. The meteorological service thought this unwise due to the recent violent gales and predicted torrential rain, but Mayor Abrahams was not to be deterred:
“No little rain shower is going to dampen Twinford’s spirits!”
Ruby’s friends, Red in particular, were keen to make a big impression, costume-wise. There had been a lot of talk but so far no decision on what ghoulish theme they would all be adopting.
She resurfaced at Crossways, the subway stop just northeast of the Village and not so far from the Twinford River. On Broker Avenue traffic was heavy no matter what time of day or night, and to traverse meant dodging cars. The Dime a Dozen 24-hour supermarket was her destination: brightly lit with fluorescent tubes, the aisles signed with giant cardboard numbers suspended from the ceiling.
Aisle 17 held canned vegetables and jarred baby food on one side, chilled goods in tall refrigerators on the other. She didn’t immediately spot Hitch. He was browsing chickpeas: a tall, good-looking man, wearing an elegant raincoat over a dark suit.
In his hand – only slightly marring the look – was a Dime a Dozen paper bag.
‘Been doing some shopping?’ she said.
‘You’re only three minutes and forty seconds late, good going kid,’ he said.
‘Isn’t this a bit inconvenient?’ said Ruby. ‘I mean, having to walk through a store every time you want to reach Spectrum?’
‘On