Something is rotten under London.
I go to my school bag, where I dumped it not ten minutes before. In those ten minutes, everything has changed. To think I had considered – even for a moment – giving up being a detective! I take out my notebook and flip it open. I turn to a new page and write …
LONDON IS POISONED.
Night has fallen and I’m in my room, sitting on the bed with the skylight open. I’m mending the rip in my school skirt by torchlight while listening to the radio. I’m supposed to be asleep, so the volume is turned right down, the speaker close to my ear. Every couple of minutes I change station, but they’re all saying the same thing.
‘Red algae have spread through …’
‘The water supply of London has been infected by …’
‘The slime, described by Richard in Islington as “like something out of a horror movie” …’
I listen to it all. When the skirt is mended, I set it to one side and look up through the skylight to the hazy stars. On the breeze I can hear sirens, ringing around London like a headache. Every so often a helicopter passes, but whether they’re police or television crews, filming the city from above, I can’t tell. All around me, London is in crisis.
And me?
I’m grounded.
As I lie perfectly still, there is a battle raging in my head. On one hand, I’m terrified by the threat – the threat that someone will come for Dad. On the other hand (I’m not too proud to admit it) I’m excited! The incident with Professor D’Oliveira is a real case, a big case – why else would someone threaten me? I remember the sheet of newspaper that I had found on the professor. I take it out and unfold it. There is a small story – barely two paragraphs – about London water pollution.
… Scientists confirmed today that the quality of London’s water had declined in the last week, but refused to speculate about the origin of the pollution. While current levels of pollution are not dangerous for human consumption …
Well, it’s definitely dangerous for human consumption now. And this story was written yesterday – before the crisis hit. Had Professor D’Oliveira known something about this beforehand? Now there was talk of quarantining London to stop the algae from spreading to the rest of the country, even the rest of the world.
I have my notebook in my hand, and I flip back between the two pages I’d written on that day – HIT-AND-RUN and LONDON POISONED. The more I think about it, the more I feel the two have to be connected. I can’t see how yet; it’s just an intuition, a hunch. I put the notebook down, but the words are still there, flashing in the stars above my skylight, back and forth until they get jumbled up –
HIT-AND-RUN LONDON POISONED
HIT-AND-RUN LONDON POISONED
HIT AND POISONED LONDON RUN
So could the hit-and-run have something to do with the crisis? I take out the professor’s card and read it again. Then I take down my dictionary and look up ‘hydrology’ – The branch of science concerned with the properties of the earth’s water.
Finally, I take out my pen and write –
The polluted water seems to be coming from underground, not from the reservoirs north of London. Who would know more about the workings of underground London than a professor from the Royal Geographical Society, who specialises in hydrology, the study of water?
It’s a flimsy connection, I have to admit – but doesn’t Poirot often act on a suspicion, a hunch, an unproven fancy? I need to know more.
And there is my dilemma. If I want to know more, I’ll have to talk to Professor D’Oliveira, and in order to do that I’ll have to leave the house. I’d be disobeying not just Dad, but the man who had attacked me as well. I can’t be sure that he will go through with his threat, but I also can’t assume that he won’t. I lie here while all this is going through my mind, until a voice on the radio catches my attention. It’s a reporter, just out of a conference held by the Metropolitan Police.
‘At the moment, there seems little hope that the situation can be easily resolved. Fresh water – the lifeblood of the city – has stopped pumping around London. The heart of the capital has stopped, and this crisis will continue until someone finds a way to restart it.’ He takes a breath, and even with the volume down I can hear how shaky he sounds. ‘Right now, London needs a miracle.’
Poirot is sitting in a chair on the other side of the room in near darkness. His green eyes are shining like a cat’s.
‘London needs a miracle,’ he repeats, tutting softly. ‘Mon dieu.’
‘I could get into trouble,’ I say to him.
‘Ah, Mademoiselle Oddlow – trouble is all around. But heroes are rare.’
I turn off the radio and get out of bed. It’s no good waiting for a miracle – somebody needs to act.
‘Thanks, Hercule.’
He rises from his chair and bows goodbye. ‘It is my pleasure.’
Someone might be watching me leaving the house, so I need a disguise. Thankfully, I’ve spent plenty of time preparing for this. I look through my wardrobe for a minute before settling on my outfit of choice – a white T-shirt, lace-up shoes and baby-blue medical scrubs. If I’m going to the hospital, I might as well look like a nurse.
The scrubs are loose fitting – nice in the hot weather, but I know I can’t go out like this – I put on a knee-length navy trench coat and a matching floppy hat. I look in the mirror, checking everything over, then decide that my hair is too recognisable. I replace the hat with a wig of honey-blonde hair and look again. Now I doubt even Dad would recognise me in the street. I’m roasting, though.
Disguise complete, I step up on the bed and hoist myself out of the skylight. I sit on the roof for a moment. There’s a breeze, but it’s still warm. When I’m ready, I shuffle forward, down the slope of the roof, until I come to the edge. There’s a rustle as my feet brush the leaves of the oak tree below. Putting one leg over, I feel around for the right branch.
I find my foothold and – with a deep breath – push into space.
The craggy tree is there to meet me, and I grip on to the trunk until I find my bearings. I start to climb down, finding old footholds, trying to be quiet. By the bottom, I’ve turned a half spiral round the tree, so its trunk is between me and the house. I peer round and can see the kitchen light on. Dad is hunched over the table, talking on the telephone. Before he can turn and see me, I steal across the garden lawn and out through the back gate.
Hyde Park is dark. I move quickly, jumping at every rustle, every shadow. Before I reach the gates, a fox leaps out in front of me and I almost cry out. It scampers off, and I take a moment to compose myself. In another minute I come to the north edge of the park. The traffic ahead reassures me – when there are other people around I’m less scared that someone will drag me into the shadows.
I come out opposite Lancaster Gate underground station. My mobile is back in my room, so I cross the road