The Plot Thickens Page 11

  ‘No,’ said Friday. ‘I’m not riding a bicycle on a flat surface, let alone in a forest, with so many trees to slam into. I’ll come back up.’

  But this was easier said than done. Friday soon realised why there was a flying fox to bridge the escarpment. The rock face was dangerously difficult to climb. She walked back and forth trying to figure out the best route, but there simply wasn’t one.

  ‘I think you’re going to have to go back to school and get assistance,’ said Friday.

  ‘Really?’ said Melanie. ‘Okay. But would it help if I tossed this rope down to you?’

  ‘What rope?’ asked Friday.

  ‘There’s a neatly coiled rope right here at the top of the escarpment,’ said Melanie. ‘One end is tied to the tree.’

  ‘Throw it over,’ said Friday.

  ‘Do you want me to untie it first?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘No!’ cried Friday. ‘Throw the loose end down. This must be the way our suspect climbs back up.’

  ‘Oh, how clever of him,’ said Melanie, ‘and of you for figuring it out.’ She tossed the loose end to Friday.

  It was still a challenging climb, but with all the added upper body strength from so many burpees half-walking and half-pulling herself up, Friday was soon at the top.

  ‘So, do you know who did it?’ asked Melanie as Friday caught her breath.

  ‘No,’ said Friday, ‘but I know how we can figure it out.’

  Chapter 17

  Heartbeat

  Twenty minutes later, Friday and Melanie had met up with the Headmaster and taken him down to the PE staff room. Mr Fontana wasn’t there when they arrived.

  The PE staff room was organised but cluttered. Cricket bats rested against the wall, waiting to have their handles replaced or their timber oiled, various pads were stacked on a chair for their velcro to be mended, and piles of paperwork for various sporting schedules and transport arrangements lay littered across Mr Fontana’s desk. The room smelled faintly of sweat and ageing leather.

  ‘The art vandal has struck again,’ observed Friday.

  ‘What?’ said the Headmaster.

  Friday pointed to the poster on the wall. It showed Jesse Owens launching into a sprint at the 1936 Berlin Olympics.

  ‘What about it?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that Jesse Owens didn’t have a mobile phone,’ said Friday.

  The Headmaster looked closer. There was definitely a smartphone in Jesse Owens’ hand. In his runner’s pose, it even looked as if he was holding the phone to his ear.

  ‘Is that why you’ve dragged me down here?’ demanded the Headmaster. ‘You know I prefer to have as little to do with the physical education program as possible.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ observed Melanie.

  ‘I know how we can find out who’s been cutting holes in the perimeter fence,’ said Friday.

  ‘Does it have something to do with sport, then?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘In a way, yes,’ said Friday. ‘Or, rather, sport at an unusual time.’

  The Headmaster rolled his eyes. ‘Please don’t talk in riddles. Just explain what’s going on.’

  ‘We know that the hole was cut in the fence between 7 pm at night and 7 am the following morning,’ said Friday.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the Headmaster. ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it’s starting to get dark at 7 pm,’ said Friday. ‘Dinner is served at 6 pm. So, at 7 o’clock, most students are winding down: finishing off assignments, reading, getting ready for bed.’

  ‘Clearly not our culprit,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Friday. ‘Not only are they going for a walk – then cutting through a fence, which would be strenuous enough – they are going for a long and difficult bike ride in the dark.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ demanded the Headmaster.

  ‘Their heart rate would be peaking,’ said Friday. ‘And it would be at a sustained peak for a long time.’

  ‘Oh, I know where you’re going,’ said Melanie.

  ‘I don’t,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘All the students are wearing fitness trackers,’ said Friday, holding up her wrist.

  ‘You’re not,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ agreed Friday, realising how silly the gesture was. ‘But I’m the only one – well, me and Epstein.’

  ‘He smashed his with a brick when he thought no one was looking,’ explained Melanie.

  ‘Why?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘He’s a teenage boy,’ said Friday. ‘It’s part of every boy’s journey to manhood to act out in rebellion against a father figure in some way. You know, the classic Oedipal thing.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t asked,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘All the other students are wearing trackers,’ continued Friday. ‘They measure steps taken, staircases climbed and heart rate. Which means all we have to do is check the data and see which student had a heart rate at a sustained high for forty minutes last night.’

  ‘Those trackers can really tell you that?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘All the information is collected here, on Mr Fontana’s computer.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ said the Headmaster. ‘If I’d known the technology was available, I’d have installed the students with trackers years ago. Show me the data.’

  Friday went over and sat down by the computer. It was on, but it was password-protected.

  ‘We’ll have to wait for Mr Fontana in order to get his password,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Or we could guess it,’ said Friday. ‘All we have to do is get into Mr Fontana’s mind and think as he would think so we can imagine what password he would choose.’

  ‘Try “burpee”,’ said Melanie. ‘He loves those.’

  Friday typed in ‘burpee’ but it failed.

  ‘Tigers,’ suggested the Headmaster. ‘That’s his favourite football team.’

  Friday typed in ‘tigers’ but again access was denied, and this time a warning message came up saying she would get just one more attempt before she was locked out.

  ‘Star jump?’ suggested Melanie.

  ‘Fitness?’ suggested the Headmaster.

  ‘I don’t think we’re on the right track,’ said Friday. ‘We’re not really tapping into Mr Fontana’s mentality. He’s simpler than that.’

  ‘How much simpler can you get than “star jump”?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘Statistically, the most commonly used password,’ said Friday, ‘is “password”.’

  ‘But that’s just stupid,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Then that could be it,’ said Melanie.

  Friday typed in ‘password’. There was a pause as the computer processed the command, then the home screen flicked up. The fitness tracker program was in the top right corner of the desktop. Friday double-clicked on the icon.

  A large spreadsheet opened up. There were 350 students at the school, which meant there was a lot of data. But it was all conveniently collated in graph form. Friday clicked on the ‘Heart Rate’ icon, then selected the data from Tuesday. She scrolled across to 8 pm on the horizontal axis. Now it was just a question of scrolling through the long list of students. As Friday had surmised, almost the entire student body had a very low heart rate at that time. Melanie’s was the lowest of all.

  ‘Did you slip into a coma?’ asked Friday, impressed that her friend could still function with such low blood pressure.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Melanie. ‘But sometimes it’s hard for even me to tell.’

  As she continued to scroll through, Friday noted that Binky had an elevated heart rate for twenty minutes.

  ‘He’s working on his squats,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m not sure what that means. But I think it’s got something to do with going to the weights room and lifting heavy things every night to make himself stronger.’

  ‘That fits,’ said Friday, ‘because his heart ra
te is elevated but he hasn’t taken many steps. You’d need at least seven hundred steps to get from the school to the perimeter fence.’

  ‘Keep scrolling down,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘We’re almost through all the students,’ said Friday. ‘The list started with year 7 and now I’m down to year 12.’

  ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?!’ yelled Mr Fontana.

  The Headmaster stood up. He had been bending over alongside Friday to look at the screen, so Mr Fontana had not been able to see him from the doorway.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t realise it was you,’ said Mr Fontana.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Sorry to disturb you. We just needed to access your data to deal with a disciplinary matter. Someone’s been sneaking out of the school grounds. We’re using the fitness tracker data to figure out who.’

  ‘You are?’ said Mr Fontana. He looked shocked. ‘But isn’t that a violation of student privacy?’

  The Headmaster looked at Mr Fontana as if he had two heads. ‘Students don’t have privacy,’ said the Headmaster. ‘They only use privacy to get up to wickedness, and I won’t have any of that.’

  ‘I don’t think this is appropriate,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘It’s a breach of trust.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Mr Fontana,’ said Melanie. ‘None of the students trust you.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Friday, her finger frozen over the computer mouse.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘We’ve found the culprit,’ said Friday.

  ‘We have?’ asked the Headmaster. ‘Who is it?’ He checked his watch. ‘The timing is perfect. I can call the parents and suspend the blighter and not be late for dinner.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as that,’ said Friday, as she swung around in the swivel chair to face Mr Fontana. ‘Because the only person with an elevated heart rate at that time was not a student – it was Mr Fontana.’

  Mr Fontana looked startled. He glanced at the fitness tracker on his wrist, and covered it with his other hand as if that would somehow hide his guilt.

  ‘What?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘It makes sense,’ said Friday. ‘Only someone superbly fit would think that zip-lining off an escarpment and mountain-bike riding in the dark through a forest would be an efficient way of getting from A to B.’

  Mr Fontana smiled a little. Even though he had been caught out, he always did enjoy it when people noticed that he was superbly fit.

  ‘And Mr Fontana would have access to heavy duty metal-cutting machines,’ said Friday, ‘because on weekends he is a volunteer firefighter.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ asked Mr Fontana.

  ‘You flick light switches on with the back of your knuckles,’ said Friday. ‘That’s something firefighters are taught to do, to avoid electrocution in water-soaked buildings.’

  ‘But where was he going?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘And why was he wearing ladies’ shoes?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I was not!’ declared Mr Fontana.

  ‘No,’ said Friday, ‘he was wearing smooth-soled shoes, the imprint looked like a lady’s high heel. But men’s shoes can look like that, too.’

  ‘What sort of men’s shoes?’ asked the Headmaster. He had never worn anything other than the most boring brogues himself.

  ‘A dancing shoe,’ said Friday. ‘It can’t have been a tap shoe, or the plates would have left an imprint. So perhaps some sort of Latin dancing footwear. Salsa or tango?’

  Mr Fontana hung his head in shame. ‘They’re for the tango.’

  ‘You did all this to go tango dancing?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘I suspect there is more to it than that,’ said Friday. ‘That was a seriously nice mountain bike stashed out there in the forest. They can cost up to two or three thousand dollars. That’s an expensive hobby – unless you have another hobby that you can use to pay for it.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘I’m saying that Mr Fontana has been sneaking out of the school every Tuesday night to teach a tango-dancing class in Stratham,’ said Friday.

  ‘He’s been moonlighting!’ exclaimed Melanie. ‘And literally by moonlight.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘I did it for the extra cash. And also because I really do love to dance.’

  ‘I thought you were a rugby man,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘You can be both,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘Dance is very good for improving your football footwork.’

  ‘But why did you sneak out and why did you cut holes in my very expensive fence?’ demanded the Headmaster.

  ‘What else could I do?’ asked Mr Fontana.

  ‘Get a bus into town like a normal person,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘You mean, you’d let me teach a tango class in town?’ asked Mr Fontana.

  ‘This isn’t a prisoner-of-war camp,’ said the Headmaster. ‘If you want to pursue a hobby in your own time, that’s your personal business.’

  ‘But I thought I wasn’t allowed to take on a second job,’ said Mr Fontana.

  ‘It’s just a harmless hobby job,’ said the Headmaster. ‘How much can you possibly earn?’

  ‘$750 a night,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘More for private workshops.’

  ‘What?!’ demanded the Headmaster.

  ‘I’m very good at the tango,’ explained Mr Fontana. ‘People travel a long way for my lessons.’

  ‘Then why on earth are you teaching here?’ asked the Headmaster. ‘I’d quit in a second if I could earn that kind of money.’

  ‘I love teaching,’ said Mr Fontana.

  The Headmaster sighed. He patted Mr Fontana on the shoulder. ‘Poor naïve fool. Good for you. You keep teaching the tango in the evenings. You have my blessing – on one condition.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Mr Fontana.

  ‘Please walk out the front gate,’ said the Headmaster. ‘No more damage to the steel fencing.’

  Mr Fontana smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He shook hands with the Headmaster.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the Headmaster. ‘I’m happy for you that your hobby is so lucrative. It means you’ll be able to afford to pay for the fence repairs in full so that the school council won’t have to be notified.’

  Chapter 18

  The Great Unveiling

  It was the morning of the art show. The scaffolding had been taken down during the night and replaced with giant sheets of cloth so that Mr Brecht’s giant mural could be unveiled in front of a full crowd of parents, dignitaries and guests before they went in to start the bidding.

  The Headmaster had a spring in his step for once. Normally he wasn’t seen much about the school grounds. He preferred to hide in his office, eating chocolate biscuits and making decisions in splendid isolation. But for once things were going well, so the Headmaster sauntered about the school enjoying himself by reprimanding students for their untidy clothes and surprising staff by turning up in the doorway of their classrooms and telling them to ‘just ignore me’, knowing full well that was entirely impossible.

  ‘Ah, Barnes,’ said the Headmaster as he spotted Friday walking between classes. ‘I want a word with you.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything,’ protested Friday.

  ‘Exactly,’ said the Headmaster, ‘and I want it to stay that way. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to go into town and watch a double feature or something? I’d buy the tickets and give you extra money for popcorn.’

  ‘But if something goes wrong at the art show,’ said Friday, ‘wouldn’t you want me there to help sort it out?’

  ‘I know that logically makes sense,’ said the Headmaster, ‘but I can’t help feeling that trouble is magnetically attracted to you.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Friday. ‘Magneticism is generated by electric currents and magnetic moments of elementary particles. It’s impossible for a person to be magnetic. Most documented c
ases of alleged “human magnets” actually turned out to be people who simply had sticky skin.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure according to the laws of physics it’s impossible,’ said the Headmaster, ‘and yet according to the laws of probability it always seems to happen. Just behave.’

  The Headmaster strode off, leaving Friday feeling unfairly maligned.

  At 5 o’clock that afternoon the guests started to arrive. A lot of parents were turning up. Very few of them had ever thought their children had any artistic ability, so they were curious to see if being taught by the great Lysander Brecht had any effect. The Headmaster had also invited everyone from the local community. A few free finger sandwiches and some champagne would go a long way to smoothing the ruffled feathers of their neighbours. And feathers did get very ruffled during the course of an academic year. Local residents did not enjoy the constant traffic of runaway students trying to get out, and domestic staff smuggling contraband in. So there was a large crowd milling around in the quadrangle, drinks in hand, waiting for the great unveiling.

  ‘If I could have your attention, please,’ said the Headmaster, standing at the podium at the base of the flagpole. ‘Thank you so much for coming to our event tonight. We at Highcrest Academy have been so honoured to have Lysander Brecht join us for the last eight weeks. I’m sure he has been an inspirational teacher, and our students will remember the experience of working with him for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘I’m sure Travis will remember eating his brie,’ whispered Melanie.

  ‘Mr Brecht, come up here,’ said the Headmaster.

  Friday looked across to see Mr Brecht scowl. The crowd applauded. He reluctantly climbed the few steps to where the Headmaster was standing.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brecht, for sharing your talent with us,’ said the Headmaster, ‘for teaching the students, for arranging this art show and for designing the grand mural, which we are about to unveil. Perhaps you could say a few words.’

  The Headmaster stepped back to allow Mr Brecht his turn at the microphone. Mr Brecht glared at the Headmaster, then turned and glared at the whole crowd. ‘No, I don’t want to make a speech,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘It’s bad enough I’ve had to teach the children; I won’t be a performing monkey for their parents as well.’