brilliant. He came first in maths. He was so clever, he passed all his exams without even reading the questions. After he left school, he invented the pocket calculator – which was just as well, because he made so much money he needed a pocket calculator to count it.”
“McDougal Industries.” Now I knew where I’d heard the name. McDougal had been in the newspapers. The man was a multi-Mcmillionaire.
“When did you last see him?” I asked.
“It must have been on prize-giving day, about ten years ago,” Tim said. “He went to university, I joined the police.”
Tim had only spent a year with the police but in that time the crime rate had doubled. He didn’t often talk about it but I knew that he had once put together an identikit picture that had led to the arrest of the Archbishop of Canterbury. He’d been transferred to the mounted police but that had only lasted a few weeks before his horse resigned. Then he’d become a private detective – and of course,
he
had hardly made millions. If you added up all the money Tim had ever made and put it in a bank, the bank wouldn’t even notice.
“Are you going?” I asked.
Tim flicked a cornflake towards his mouth. It disappeared over his shoulder. “Of course I’m going,” he said. “Maybe McNoodle will offer me a job. Head of Security on Alligator Island.”
“Crocodile Island, Tim.” I picked up the invitation. “What about me?”
“Sorry, kid. I didn’t see your name on the envelope.”
“Maybe it’s under the stamp.” Tim said nothing, so I went on, “You can’t leave me here.”
“Why not?”
“I’m only fourteen. It’s against the law.”
Tim frowned. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
“I will tell.”
“Forget it, Nick. McStrudel is my old schoolfriend. He went to my old school. It’s my name on the envelope and you can argue all you like. But this time, I’m going alone.”
We left King’s Cross station on the morning of the 9th.
Tim sat next to the window, looking sulky. I was sitting opposite him. I had finally persuaded him to swap the first-class ticket for two second-class ones, which at least allowed me to travel free. You may think it strange that I should have wanted to join Tim on a journey heading several hundred miles north. But there was something about the invitation that bothered me. Maybe it was the letter, written in ink the colour of blood. Maybe it was the name – Crocodile Island. And then there was the money. The invitation might have sounded innocent enough, but why was McDougal paying Tim £1,000 to get on the train? I had a feeling that there might be more to this than a school reunion. And for that matter, why would anyone in their right mind want to be reunited with Tim?
I was also curious. It’s not every day that you get to meet a man like Rory McDougal. Computers, camcorders, mobile phones and DVD players … they all came stamped with the initials RM. And every machine that sold made McDougal a little richer.
Apparently the man was something of a recluse. A few years back he’d bought himself an island off the Scottish coast, somewhere to be alone. There had been pictures of it in all the newspapers. The island was long and narrow with two arms jutting out and a twisting tail. Apparently, that was how it had got its name.
Tim didn’t say much on the journey. To cheer him up, I’d bought him a
Beano
comic and perhaps he was having trouble with the long words. It took us about four hours to get to Scotland and it took another hour before I noticed. There were no signs, no frontier post, no man in a kilt playing the bagpipes and munching haggis as the train went past. It was only when the ticket collector asked us for our tickets and Tim couldn’t understand a word he was saying that I knew we must be close. Sure enough, a few minutes later the train slowed down and Tim got out. Personally, I would have waited until the train had actually stopped, but I suppose he was
“McDougal Industries.” Now I knew where I’d heard the name. McDougal had been in the newspapers. The man was a multi-Mcmillionaire.
“When did you last see him?” I asked.
“It must have been on prize-giving day, about ten years ago,” Tim said. “He went to university, I joined the police.”
Tim had only spent a year with the police but in that time the crime rate had doubled. He didn’t often talk about it but I knew that he had once put together an identikit picture that had led to the arrest of the Archbishop of Canterbury. He’d been transferred to the mounted police but that had only lasted a few weeks before his horse resigned. Then he’d become a private detective – and of course,
he
had hardly made millions. If you added up all the money Tim had ever made and put it in a bank, the bank wouldn’t even notice.
“Are you going?” I asked.
Tim flicked a cornflake towards his mouth. It disappeared over his shoulder. “Of course I’m going,” he said. “Maybe McNoodle will offer me a job. Head of Security on Alligator Island.”
“Crocodile Island, Tim.” I picked up the invitation. “What about me?”
“Sorry, kid. I didn’t see your name on the envelope.”
“Maybe it’s under the stamp.” Tim said nothing, so I went on, “You can’t leave me here.”
“Why not?”
“I’m only fourteen. It’s against the law.”
Tim frowned. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
“I will tell.”
“Forget it, Nick. McStrudel is my old schoolfriend. He went to my old school. It’s my name on the envelope and you can argue all you like. But this time, I’m going alone.”
We left King’s Cross station on the morning of the 9th.
Tim sat next to the window, looking sulky. I was sitting opposite him. I had finally persuaded him to swap the first-class ticket for two second-class ones, which at least allowed me to travel free. You may think it strange that I should have wanted to join Tim on a journey heading several hundred miles north. But there was something about the invitation that bothered me. Maybe it was the letter, written in ink the colour of blood. Maybe it was the name – Crocodile Island. And then there was the money. The invitation might have sounded innocent enough, but why was McDougal paying Tim £1,000 to get on the train? I had a feeling that there might be more to this than a school reunion. And for that matter, why would anyone in their right mind want to be reunited with Tim?
I was also curious. It’s not every day that you get to meet a man like Rory McDougal. Computers, camcorders, mobile phones and DVD players … they all came stamped with the initials RM. And every machine that sold made McDougal a little richer.
Apparently the man was something of a recluse. A few years back he’d bought himself an island off the Scottish coast, somewhere to be alone. There had been pictures of it in all the newspapers. The island was long and narrow with two arms jutting out and a twisting tail. Apparently, that was how it had got its name.
Tim didn’t say much on the journey. To cheer him up, I’d bought him a
Beano
comic and perhaps he was having trouble with the long words. It took us about four hours to get to Scotland and it took another hour before I noticed. There were no signs, no frontier post, no man in a kilt playing the bagpipes and munching haggis as the train went past. It was only when the ticket collector asked us for our tickets and Tim couldn’t understand a word he was saying that I knew we must be close. Sure enough, a few minutes later the train slowed down and Tim got out. Personally, I would have waited until the train had actually stopped, but I suppose he was
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