Barney didn’t like lies. There was something untidy about them.
‘Barney, great. Catch this. Oh, nice catch.’
In the doorway of the Soar family kitchen, Barney looked down at the plastic sword he’d just caught. Jorge, striding towards him, was holding a matching weapon. There was a thin film of moisture on his fair skin and his cheeks were bright pink. The green dye had been washed from his hair. ‘I just need to practise a couple of moves,’ he said, taking a defensive, swordsman’s pose directly in front of Barney. ‘Harvey was helping me but he’s not much good at fencing.’
On a stool at the counter sat Harvey, holding a freezer bag of ice to his forehead. Like his brother, he was pink in the face. He was also a little red around the eyes and his bottom lip looked swollen, the way it did when he was cross or upset. The boys’ mother, Abbie, was stirring a casserole dish on the worktop.
‘Your brother was doing fine till you stabbed him in the eye,’ she said. ‘Can you put the swords down now, please?’
Jorge barely acknowledged her. ‘Five minutes. I just need to get this move right. OK, Barney, I come at you like this, you lift your sword up to meet mine and then we hold them together while we—’
‘Jorge, there is no room in here.’
Barney had a choice: defend himself against the sword sweeping down towards him or be slashed across the face. With an apologetic look at Abbie, he blocked Jorge’s move. Jorge danced back, feinted left, then struck at him hard from the right.
‘There’s as much room in here as on the stage – oh, nice. How did you know I was going to do that?’
‘Saw it in your eyes,’ said Barney.
Jorge froze, the sword hovering just in front of Barney’s chest. ‘Straight up?’ he asked, his blue eyes looking searchingly into Barney’s. Over Jorge’s shoulder, Barney could see both Abbie and Harvey watching them.
Barney shrugged. ‘Probably just a lucky guess,’ he said.
Abbie left the counter. With an effort, she wrenched Jorge’s sword off him. ‘Before someone gets hurt,’ she said, holding her hand out for Barney’s sword but continuing to talk to her oldest son. ‘Now I’m going to check on Nan. Tea in ten minutes.’
The boys waited until the door was closed. Then, without looking, Jorge gave a massive leap backwards and landed on the kitchen counter. ‘So what’s the plan tomorrow night then, Barney?’ he asked.
Since when had it been his plan?
‘It’s not my plan,’ he said. ‘I’m not even sure I can get the key to the boat.’
Jorge shrugged. ‘So we break a window. Send Hatty in to open it up. She’s tiny.’
‘We can’t do that,’ said Harvey. Barney gave him a grateful smile. If they broke a window, he’d have to pay for the replacement, sneaking the money into his dad’s wallet somehow. Anything else just wouldn’t be fair.
‘Harvey says you’ve been studying the murders since the first boy went missing,’ said Jorge. ‘That you’ve got all sorts of theories about who the killer is and how he gets them.’
‘A few,’ Barney admitted.
‘So what we should do is visit all the murder sites,’ said Jorge. ‘See what they have in common, work out why he’s choosing them.’
The kitchen door opened and the boys’ grandmother appeared. She was easily the tallest of the family, a giant of a woman with bobbed white hair and big blue eyes. Her make-up always looked like she’d put it on in a dark room with a very shaky hand. As a young woman she’d been a dancer, Barney had seen photographs of her in costumes that seemed nothing but feathers and sparkles. She nodded at Barney and patted Jorge on the head, but her eyes didn’t quite meet those of any of the boys. She made for the sink and rinsed out the glass she’d been carrying. In her wake, she left the same stale, sweet smell that always seemed to follow her around.
‘We don’t know where the murder sites are,’ said Barney, keeping his voice low, although he knew the old lady didn’t hear too well. ‘Just where the bodies are being left.’
Jorge smiled. ‘True. Still, be fun to look though.’
18
RIGHT, PHOTOGRAPHS OF Mum, where would they be? Barney was in his dad’s study, knowing he had an hour at most. The room was lined with bookshelves. His dad taught eighteenth- and nineteenth-century literature at King’s College and sometimes Barney thought every book printed in those