Flowerdew, and you are both about to sell me your company. How’s that for a fun day?’
‘Thought I’d find you here.’
Itch nodded without looking up. He didn’t want company, but Lucy had already sat down; the beach-hut door gave a little as she settled against it. They sat in silence watching the crashing surf. It would be high tide soon, and the larger waves covered them with a fine spray of salt water.
‘How long have you been here?’ said Lucy.
Itch shrugged.
‘You’re shivering – let me get—’
‘I’m fine,’ said Itch, and Lucy watched the sea some more.
‘Give me two minutes . . .’ She ran back to the car park. She reappeared with two steaming polystyrene cups and handed one to Itch. ‘Cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Car-park café’s finest.’
‘I don’t like tea,’ Itch said, but took the scalding cup anyway.
‘You do now,’ said Lucy. ‘H 2 O plus tea leaves plus heat equals . . . er, feeling better. Something like that, anyway.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
They sat in silence again.
‘My dad liked it here,’ said Lucy. ‘He brought me here several times. He loved the surf, the beach – the whole thing.’
‘And this is where he gave me the 126,’ said Itch. ‘Just the one rock. From that satchel he had.’ They both smiled at the memory and were silent again. Itch squeaked the lid from the cup and sipped some of the tea. He pulled a face and Lucy laughed. ‘It really is disgusting, you know,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know. But it’s hot, so drink it anyway.’
‘OK – thanks, Mum . . .’
Lucy put her hand on his arm. ‘Listen, Itch, I know you were close to Mr Watkins. I’m so sorry. He was a great teacher.’
‘The best,’ said Itch. ‘And he’d still be alive if I hadn’t started this whole thing.’
‘You can’t think like that, Itch—’
‘Yeah, well, I
do
think like that,’ he snapped. ‘I do think like that because it happens to be true. If I hadn’t taken the 126 to school, none of this would have happened.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Lucy. ‘But why were you into this element-hunting in the first place?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Why are you an element hunter? Who started it?’
‘Er, my dad gave me a book—’
‘So it’s your dad’s fault, then. Who got him into it?’
‘My grandad said—’
‘So blame him, then.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lucy. ‘But Mr Watkins died because someone sent him a parcel bomb—’
‘I think we all know who did it.’
‘OK . . . Watkins died because Flowerdew sent him a parcel bomb. And you. And the CA. But he did it. It’s his fault and no one else’s.’
‘Maybe,’ said Itch. ‘Maybe.’ He sipped and winced again. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll have a teacher like him again. He always listened, Lucy. He was always . . . there. Always the same. Stood up for us against Flowerdew. And Shivvi. That beating he took from her is the reason he—’
‘Stop,’ said Lucy. ‘You’re doing it again.’
Itch’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and answered it. ‘OK, see you in five.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘That was Mum. The police want to talk to me. And I have to go to the police station as the press are outside Jack’s place. My dad’s on his way.’
‘Have you caught him?’ said Itch as two police officers walked into the interview room. ‘Have you caught Flowerdew?’ He and his father had been sitting at a plain wooden table, but he had jumped up as soon as the door opened.
‘I’m DCI Abbott – Jane Abbott.’ A woman with shoulder-length grey-flecked hair smiled briefly at Itch. ‘And this is DCI Underwood . . .’ An overweight man with glasses and a beard nodded. Itch wanted to say that he didn’t look like a policeman but thought better of it. They all shook hands.
‘You must be Nicholas Lofte?’ said Abbott.
Nicholas nodded.
‘Now, then . . .’ She turned to Itch. ‘Have we caught who?’
Itch looked at his father,
‘Thought I’d find you here.’
Itch nodded without looking up. He didn’t want company, but Lucy had already sat down; the beach-hut door gave a little as she settled against it. They sat in silence watching the crashing surf. It would be high tide soon, and the larger waves covered them with a fine spray of salt water.
‘How long have you been here?’ said Lucy.
Itch shrugged.
‘You’re shivering – let me get—’
‘I’m fine,’ said Itch, and Lucy watched the sea some more.
‘Give me two minutes . . .’ She ran back to the car park. She reappeared with two steaming polystyrene cups and handed one to Itch. ‘Cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Car-park café’s finest.’
‘I don’t like tea,’ Itch said, but took the scalding cup anyway.
‘You do now,’ said Lucy. ‘H 2 O plus tea leaves plus heat equals . . . er, feeling better. Something like that, anyway.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
They sat in silence again.
‘My dad liked it here,’ said Lucy. ‘He brought me here several times. He loved the surf, the beach – the whole thing.’
‘And this is where he gave me the 126,’ said Itch. ‘Just the one rock. From that satchel he had.’ They both smiled at the memory and were silent again. Itch squeaked the lid from the cup and sipped some of the tea. He pulled a face and Lucy laughed. ‘It really is disgusting, you know,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know. But it’s hot, so drink it anyway.’
‘OK – thanks, Mum . . .’
Lucy put her hand on his arm. ‘Listen, Itch, I know you were close to Mr Watkins. I’m so sorry. He was a great teacher.’
‘The best,’ said Itch. ‘And he’d still be alive if I hadn’t started this whole thing.’
‘You can’t think like that, Itch—’
‘Yeah, well, I
do
think like that,’ he snapped. ‘I do think like that because it happens to be true. If I hadn’t taken the 126 to school, none of this would have happened.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Lucy. ‘But why were you into this element-hunting in the first place?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Why are you an element hunter? Who started it?’
‘Er, my dad gave me a book—’
‘So it’s your dad’s fault, then. Who got him into it?’
‘My grandad said—’
‘So blame him, then.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lucy. ‘But Mr Watkins died because someone sent him a parcel bomb—’
‘I think we all know who did it.’
‘OK . . . Watkins died because Flowerdew sent him a parcel bomb. And you. And the CA. But he did it. It’s his fault and no one else’s.’
‘Maybe,’ said Itch. ‘Maybe.’ He sipped and winced again. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll have a teacher like him again. He always listened, Lucy. He was always . . . there. Always the same. Stood up for us against Flowerdew. And Shivvi. That beating he took from her is the reason he—’
‘Stop,’ said Lucy. ‘You’re doing it again.’
Itch’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and answered it. ‘OK, see you in five.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘That was Mum. The police want to talk to me. And I have to go to the police station as the press are outside Jack’s place. My dad’s on his way.’
‘Have you caught him?’ said Itch as two police officers walked into the interview room. ‘Have you caught Flowerdew?’ He and his father had been sitting at a plain wooden table, but he had jumped up as soon as the door opened.
‘I’m DCI Abbott – Jane Abbott.’ A woman with shoulder-length grey-flecked hair smiled briefly at Itch. ‘And this is DCI Underwood . . .’ An overweight man with glasses and a beard nodded. Itch wanted to say that he didn’t look like a policeman but thought better of it. They all shook hands.
‘You must be Nicholas Lofte?’ said Abbott.
Nicholas nodded.
‘Now, then . . .’ She turned to Itch. ‘Have we caught who?’
Itch looked at his father,
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