Free The Hangman's Lair by Simon Cheshire Page A

silence.
    ‘OK,’ I said in a low voice. ‘You keep it, Harry. But if that’s what you decide to do, I’ll have no choice but to let Mrs Penzler know what’s been happening. She’s just over there, marking homework.’
    Harry’s snake-eyes slid from me to the nearby classroom and back again.
    ‘Is opening that diary really worth the trouble you’ll get into?’ I said. ‘Are you willing to risk the consequences, for a diary that’s got nothing in it but people’s birthdays and a few reminders? That’s all it contains, isn’t it, Amy?’
    ‘Yes, er, that’s all,’ said Amy hastily. ‘That’s all. But I want it back. I’ll never remember another birthday if I don’t have it.’
    Harry stared at me, like a leopard staring at its prey, wondering when to pounce. ‘You’re lying,’ he growled.
    ‘Am I?’ I whispered. ‘Are you going to take that chance?’
    For a second, I really thought he was going to slam the locker shut and send us all packing. But then he reached in, picked the diary up and flung it carelessly at Amy.
    She caught it mid-spin. Immediately, she pulled out a small key from her blazer pocket, opened the diary, and started to tear out the pages. She ripped them into tiny shreds, dumping the lot into the waste paper bin that stood just inside the entrance to the classroom. Then she took a carton of orange juice from her bag, ripped off the top and soaked the shreds into a sticky pulp.
    ‘How are you going to remember people’s birthdays now?’ asked Kelly.
    Amy dropped the empty carton into the bin. ‘Thank goodness for that. That’s one mistake I won’t be making again.’
    Harry’s face flushed through half a dozen shades of purple fury. ‘You were lying,’ he spat.
    ‘You really think I’d go to all this trouble for an appointments book?’ I said.
    Paul approached Amy, his feet shuffling uneasily and his eyes looking everywhere except straight ahead. ‘Amy, I’m sorry, I really am.’ He handed her the money he’d got from Harry. ‘This is the very least I owe you, as well as an apology.’
    ‘Yes, well,’ said Amy, ‘I, er, shouldn’t have been so rude to you.’
    Mrs Penzler’s voice boomed from inside the classroom. ‘You six! Don’t you have homes and after-school clubs to go to? Off you go! Chop chop! Don’t make me come out there!’
    We all headed off down the corridor, Harry stomping along in a cloud of suppressed rage. He jabbed me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t get too smug, Smart,’ he hissed. ‘The day’s coming when I’ll get my own back on you. And it’s coming sooner than you think.’
    He marched on ahead. I smiled to myself. ‘Oh, Harry!’ I called, before he stormed out of sight. ‘Don’t forget our deal. I’ll expect those books in the morning? OK?’
    He looked daggers at me for a moment, then stalked away, muttering under his breath.
    I walked home, making plans to sit in my Thinking Chair and write up my notes on the case. It was only when I arrived at my shed that I remembered I’d left its entire contents strewn across the lawn. Oh, I thought. Better get to work.
    Case closed

C ASE F ILE T WELVE:
     
W HISPERS FROM
THE D EAD

C HAPTER
O NE
    A DULTS CAN BE STUPID. I mean really, seriously dum-dum stupid. They fight over the most ridiculous things, they invade each other’s countries and they make TV shows containing no jokes or car chases.
    It’s the weird things they’re prepared to believe which baffle me most: they read horoscopes, buy celebrity gossip magazines and listen to weather forecasts. You’d think they didn’t have a molecule of common sense between them.
    In my files are notes on a case I’ve labelled Whispers From the Dead. It’s a perfect example of how, sometimes, adults have to be saved from their own utter idiocy. It all started a couple of days after the events described in Diary of Fear.
    Since the previous weekend, I’d taken everything out of the garden shed, my Crime HQ. I’d chucked away a few