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“I think I know who killed that boy.”

“The President of China’s son?” Jake said, his wide eyes going even wider.

“Yeah. Him and other kids too,” I said, shaking my head. “So, I need you to hack into their diary. I’ve tried, but it’s got really good security.”

Jake looked a little disappointed. “Well, that’s too easy. Come on up.”

“This one thing and then you’re out of here. Do you understand me, Scott?” Rosalie said, opening the bar hatch. “I don’t want you dragging Jakey into whatever mess you’ve got yourself into.”

I placed my hand against my heart. “I promise. I get these details and I’m gone.”

Jake tugged on my sleeve and I followed him through the door behind the bar.

I hadn’t been back here in all the time Rosalie and Jake had lived at Bailey’s. There was a narrow set of stairs leading up to a large living room. Compared to the chaotic decor downstairs, this place was what my mother liked to call shabby chic. There was a tatty yet comfy looking sofa, scattered with pastel cushions. Rugs of all styles covered the old floorboards, making a patchwork of colours. A bunch of purple flowers in an old teapot sat on a large wooden table, which had been painted pale blue. There was only one word for this place, and that was written in large white, wooden print blocks on one of the shelves. Home.

“My room’s through here,” Jake said, leading me out of the living room and into a small bedroom. Jake had clearly decorated this place himself. A big metal ‘stop’ sign was pinned behind his bed, which itself looked like it was made out of scrap metal. And a light by the side of his table was made out of an old set of traffic lights. He flicked it on and it shone all three colours at once, giving the room a warm glow. It was almost as messy as my room at home.

“Whose diary do you need hacking?” he said, pulling up a car seat chair next to his metal desk. There were three computer screens on his desk, and each one flickered into life with the push of a button.

“A woman called Francesca Goodwin.”

Jake flexed his fingers over his keyboard and started to type. Like watching any Shifter at work, it was a weird series of jarring movements, as each choice was wiped out and replaced with a new option. Jake, who’d never been the best fighter or the best Mapper, excelled when it came to anything technical.

“She’s got some pretty hefty security set up,” Jake said, his voice sounding distant. “Weird for just a diary.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to find it still?”

“Please, who do you think…?” Jake said, and didn’t bother finishing. His fingers had stopped moving. “I’m in.”

“Jake, you are amazing. Just tell me what she’s up to over the next few days.”

“Wow.”

“Wow, what? What, wow?” I said.

“No wonder she didn’t want anyone accessing her files. Looks like she has the personal details of some pretty big cheeses. The Prime Minister. The President of America. Even Vladimirovich.”

“Who’s that?”

Jake broke free from his focus to give me a disappointed glance. “Like the richest man in the world! She’s going to a party with him tomorrow.” He pointed at the calendar on the screen where under tomorrow’s date Frankie had pinned a link to the launch of an art exhibition.

“I think it’s about time I brushed up on my culture, don’t you Jake?”

“Can I come?” he said,

“I’m sorry, Jake. I get you in trouble, your sister will have my balls for earrings. And it’s bad enough having one girl angry with me.”

“But things are so boring,” he said, spinning around in his chair.

“Boring is good. Boring is safe.”

“Rosalie wants me to leave ARES, you know? To go to a normal school. With normal kids.” He scrunched his face up, like the idea was revolting him.

“Jake, maybe one day you won’t think normal’s so bad after all. I tell you, I would do anything for a spot of normal about now. And besides, you live above the coolest club in London. That’s hardly normal, is it?”

“I guess. But what’s the point in having this power to get myself out of trouble, if I don’t go and get
into
some trouble?” He looked at his hands, as if they were the source of his Shifting ability.

“I don’t know, Jake. To help out friends when they need it?” I ruffled his hair again.

He pushed my hand away and straightened his fringe. Seemed he was too old for hair ruffles.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said.

A chugging sound started and a moment later three sheets of white paper spat out from Jake’s printer. I picked up the printout of Frankie’s diary, folded it up and slipped it in my pocket.

“Thanks, Jake.”

“See ya, Scott.”

Jake spun back around and faced his computer. I wanted to stay and talk to him, maybe hang out like we used to, but I didn’t have the time.

I left the room and headed back downstairs. The club was starting to fill up, and the music was on full blast.

Rosalie was buzzing around the organising staff. She stopped when she saw me and walked over.

“You done?” Rosalie said.

“Done. Thanks, Rosalie. I appreciate it.”

She made a huffing noise that made her nostrils flare. “Do you have a message for Aubrey, if I happen to see her?” Rosalie said.

Where could I begin? “Tell her I meant everything I said that night. That I’d rather die than hurt her. Tell her it wasn’t me; that I’m going to stop the person who did this and I’ll put everything right. And tell her that I love her. And that I’ll never stop loving her, even if she never speaks to me again.”

“I think that last bit will be better coming from you. But I’ll tell her the rest.”

“OK. And thank you,” I said.

“Just don’t get yourself killed before you have a chance to tell her, OK?” Rosalie said, picking a bit of loose thread off my sleeve.

“I’ll try.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

The Victoria and Albert Museum shone as if it was on fire in the drizzling rain. A huge projection of an abstract image rippled across the façade, turning the building a deep red, and spotlights illuminated the dark clouds overhead. Large signs outside advertised the exhibition that was opening tonight:
Interference – Quantum Photography
.

Queues of people wearing long coats over their smart clothes walked up the steps and disappeared inside the double doors. I could already hear the chatter of a crowd over the sound of Kensington traffic whizzing past. The party was in full swing. I just had to find a way in.

One of the bouncers on the door looked my way, watching to see what I was up to. I considered just walking in, blagging my way as a guest. But I looked at my ragged jeans and trainers and decided that probably wasn’t going to work.

A white van with “Delacroix Catering” painted on it was parked in the side road, and black-aproned waiters were emptying its cargo into the rear doors of the museum. One of them slipped on the wet pavement.

“You drop that bloody tray and I will personally shove these cocktail sticks up your arse,” a man I assumed was Delacroix shouted, shaking a handful of wooden sticks at the waiter.

Well, I’d seen it in enough movies. It was worth a go.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “The agency gave me the wrong address.”

Delacroix looked me up and down. “Well, hurry up then. Get your apron. Can’t stand around here all night.” He threw a black apron in my face. I slipped it over my head and wrapped the strings around my waist. The chef looked at my trainers and sighed. “You’re washing up. And bring those glasses.” He pointed at a cardboard box. I picked it up and heard a gentle clinking from inside.

“Right, that’s the lot. Come on then.” He slammed the boot of the van closed and stormed off towards the entrance.

I hefted the box and followed him inside.

The first gallery we passed through was filled with Buddhist sculptures. Golden crossed-legged figures and stone carvings of men on horses lined the walls. I carefully manoeuvred the box of glasses, worried I’d knock something off a plinth. The next room was lined with white marble statues that looked like figures out of Greek or Roman myths: muscular men wrestling snakes and impossible creatures. In the low light they looked as if they were waiting to jump off their stands and go to battle.

This led into the cafe. Huge stained-glass windows let in light from the garden outside and the ceiling was painted with gold flowers and swirling patterns. I’d been in here once with Mum and Katie, when Mum decided we needed educating about something or other. We’d only got as far as having a cup of tea in here and buying a postcard from the shop.

“You going to stand around all night?” Delacroix said.

“Where do you want the glasses?”

“In the kitchen! Seriously, agency staff these days. Oi, you! Where do you think you’re going with those oysters?” he shouted at another guy walking towards the party with a white polystyrene box.

I followed the trail of catering staff into the kitchen and placed the box of glasses on the side. Everyone was bustling about, chopping vegetables and placing lumps of meat in steaming copper pans. The kitchen doors swung open and a girl dressed in a black skirt, white shirt and the same black apron as me came in.

“More champagne glasses. These greedy buggers are knocking it back like it’s going out of fashion. I’ve gone through a whole crate already,” she said.

“Er, here!” I said, peeling open the lid of the box I’d carried.

I pulled out a couple of glasses and showed them to her.

“Well, come on then. Get them on a tray and fill em up. We don’t want them causing a riot if they run out of
Cristal
.” She shoved a black rubber tray into my chest.

If this was what a normal job was like, I was starting to regret leaving ARES. I filled the tray with glasses and she did the same, topping each one off with bubbling golden liquid.

“It’s Prosecco,” she whispered to me. “But they won’t know any different.”

I laughed like I knew what she meant and picked up the tray. It slipped in my hand and the glasses nearly fell over.

“First time, hey?” she said.

I gave a weary shrug and the glasses rattled. “Yeah.”

“Well, don’t look so nervous. They don’t bite. Much.”

She cackled to herself, scooped the tray up onto one hand and carried at shoulder height. I followed her through the swinging doors and towards the reception hall.

I’d only gone a few steps when a red-faced man, wearing a tuxedo that looked at least two sizes too small, stopped me and took two glasses. He knocked the first one back and waved the second in my direction. “Cheers,” he slurred.

“That was Lord Cuthbert,” the waitress said, as I caught up with her. “He pretty much owns Scotland. Some big oil baron. But watch yourself around him. He’s got a thing for cute boys.”

I tried not to blush at the compliment as we pushed forward and into the party proper.

The circular entrance hall was even more impressive than the exterior. Hanging from the huge domed ceiling was a massive tangle of blue and green glass. It reminded me of Thomas Jones’s rainbow song. Where would her father be now? Watching over Aubrey from afar? Or stalking me, to make sure I finished the job. I looked around for a tall man with shabby hair and piercing eyes. But there’s no way he’d have been allowed in here. There were maybe three hundred people, all milling about and dramatically air kissing each other as they drifted from group to group. No one seemed to be actually looking at each other. Instead, they were scanning the room, as if waiting for someone more interesting to turn up. A string quartet was playing in one corner, but I could hardly hear them above the chatter.

The waitress squeezed her way through the people, stopping every now and then to offer a guest another glass. I followed her, scanning the room for any sight of Frankie. I caught a glimpse of a woman with long, sun-kissed hair. But when she turned around to gather a man with long dreadlocks into an embrace, I saw she was nearing eighty, with eyebrows that had been plucked out and drawn back on, and thin, purple lips. I turned away as she popped a large prawn into her mouth. And saw Hamid.

It was strange to see him without his mirror twin. He was standing on his own in the corner looking uncomfortable. I didn’t blame him. The guests didn’t bother to hide their disgust as they stared at his deformed head. Some even gathered around him and pointed, as if they were looking at a living art exhibition. He shouted at them in angry Arabic before pushing through the group. They gasped in mock shock and laughed as if it was all part of the show.

A man waved me over with two fingers, demanding another glass of champagne, and I shoved the whole tray into his hands. He shouted after me, but I didn’t stop to look back. I wasn’t going to take my eyes off Hamid because he would lead me to Frankie.

He walked around the edge of the crowd, brushing his hand along the carved walls, keeping his head down and turned away from the partygoers. I stayed as far back as I could without losing sight of him. Not that it was hard. There weren’t too many kids at the party, let alone ones who looked quite as distinctive as Hamid. He left a trail of shocked onlookers as he pushed through, many of whom were still staring his way as I caught up. I wanted to shout at them for being so shallow. Only, the truth was, I’d been a lot worse when I’d first seen him and his brother.

Hamid kept glancing up, and I wasn’t sure if it was just my paranoia, but it looked as if he was following someone too. Ahead of Hamid, a man was barging his way urgently through the crowd. I couldn’t be sure from behind, but he looked like the same man I’d run into earlier, the oil Lord with the wandering hands. He was swaying back and forth in a way that I was pretty sure had nothing to do with the gentle music that was playing. He tripped out of the double doors and into the gardens outside. Hamid followed him. And I followed Hamid.