Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman

would blow over, probably.
    â€˜I’m an industrial chemist,’ typed Mr Didot. ‘Your dad asked me to check up on the sprays he was using. It is very hard because the chemical companies do not want to answer my questions. I am spending many nights on the Internet.’
    I looked at Mr Didot’s bloodshot eyes. Either he was telling the truth or he’d been lying awake worrying like guilty killers do on videos.
    â€˜Last week I went to Australia,’ typed Mr Didot, ‘to talk to the TV people. To tell them they cannot accuse your dad without more proof. They wouldn’t listen to me. They wouldn’t even let me switch my computer on. I did not want the whole trip to be a waste. So I went to your mother’s Australian grave to pay my respects. With her favourite food. It is a custom in my family.’
    I’ve known some pretty good liars in my time. Darryn Peck, for example. He had the whole school fooled when he claimed it wasn’t him who let off the starting pistol in assembly.
    But he didn’t fool me.
    I looked hard at Mr Didot. He looked back at me steadily with sad, gentle, concerned, bloodshot eyes.
    I wanted him to be lying.
    I wanted to have found Mum’s killer.
    But deep in my guts I wasn’t sure. His hands hadn’t wobbled guiltily once while he was typing.
    I let Mr Didot put me back in the car to drive me to Mr and Mrs Bernard’s. I felt sick and numb with disappointment.
    As we drove past the sausage shop, Mr Rocher came running out carrying a sort of meatloaf wobbling on a plate.
    Mr Didot stopped.
    Mr Rocher tried to hand me the plate through the window.
    Suddenly I couldn’t stand it.
    I leaped out of the car, pushed past Mr Rocher and ran. Along streets. Across squares. Down alleyways.
    Finally I found Mum’s cemetery.
    The grass on her grave is soft against my face.
    But it’s not making me feel better. The longer I lie here, the worse I feel.
    It’s not fair.
    I just wish everyone would stop being so nice to me and tell me who killed my mum.

If you want to find out the truth, play a mouth­organ in a cemetery, that’s my advice.
    I started playing mine to cheer myself up. And to let Mum know I wasn’t beaten.
    I can only play part of one tune. Dad taught me ‘Waltzing Matilda’ on the plane over, but we’d only got halfway through when the flight attendant took the mouth-organ away and locked it up till we’d landed.
    I was sitting next to the grave, sadly playing half of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ for about the sixth time, when a small black dog ran up and sat in front of me. It gazed up, panting happily.
    I stopped playing.
    The dog jumped up and barked.
    It wouldn’t stop. I decided to try and distract it so I started playing again.
    The dog sat down and listened contentedly.
    Despite everything that had happened, I started grinning. A French dog that liked ‘Waltzing Matilda’. Weird. Trouble was, every time I grinned I had to stop playing and every time I stopped playing the dog started barking.
    After a while I realised someone was standing behind me, watching.
    I stood up.
    It was an old bloke, even older than Grandad. He was so frail, his clothes looked like they were propping him up.
    He was smiling.
    â€˜Her favourite tune,’ he said, nodding towards the dog. At least I think that’s what he said. ‘I play the record for her all the time at home.’
    I stared at him.
    Not because it’s unusual to play records to dogs.
    Because he was speaking with his hands.
    â€˜You speak sign,’ I said. Then I stuffed my hands in my pockets. I hate it when they embarrass me by saying really obvious things.
    The old bloke’s smile faded. ‘When I was very young there was a battle near our house. A banana exploded too close. It blew up my ears.’
    Some of his hand-movements were a bit different to the ones I know, but I got the gist. I was pleased to see his