Max fell asleep at the long, scrubbed table in the school’s kitchen before he’d finished his meal. Fergus Jackson left him where he sprawled, threw an old multicolored blanket from his study over the boy and let him be.
He’d been relieved when Max had volunteered to take part in the Dartmoor exercise when an older boy could not compete due to an injury, because Max Gordon had started behaving erratically. His temper was short, his attitude often sullen. Jackson knew teenagers got like that: all part of “growing into your skin” is what he told them. But this was something different. Max was carrying a burden, and he wasn’t sharing it. It was probably something to do with his injured father.
Sayid Khalif and Max were as thick as thieves, but Jackson’s questioning of Sayid had yielded nothing to explain Max’s recent behavior. And Jackson suspected that Max Gordon had not shared whatever was bothering him with even his best friend.
“Get your elbows off the table, bog rat!” A boot kicked the chair and Max tumbled onto the floor. He rolled instinctively, protecting his head, and quickly found his balance.
Baskins!
The older boy grinned-it was what he would have done to his best mate, Hoggart, if he’d been there instead of Max. But Hoggart’s parents had dragged away their protesting son to spend time together on a stupid holiday, on a beach somewhere abroad where there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to do. Baskins had managed to avert a similar fate with his family and had opted to spend the half-term at Dartmoor High, where at least there were enough boys remaining for seven-a-side.
“Don’t bog rats’ mothers teach them table manners?” Baskins teased as he raided the fridge, foraging for breakfast.
Sometimes when you open your mouth and say something, the warning bells don’t ring loudly or quickly enough. Baskins just about managed a look of regret before Max’s lunge took the heavier boy rolling across the kitchen floor. Pans clattered. The big milk jug on the table couldn’t resist gravity and shattered on the stone floor. A chair splintered.
Max straddled Baskins’s chest, twisting his rugby shirt in a double grip that threatened to choke him. Baskins was stronger than Max, but he couldn’t kick free. Giddying splodges of light blurred his vision. He was starting to black out. Spittle rattled in his throat; his eyes were bulging. He hit Max on the side of the head with his fist. It made no impression.
Max Gordon was going to kill him!
Fergus Jackson burst in, grabbing one of Max’s arms as Mr. Roberts, the sports master, held the other.
“Max! Enough! Let go, Max!” Jackson shouted. For a moment, they could not loosen his grip, and Max shot a look at him, which sent a shudder through Jackson. Something other than rage and intent glinted in Max’s eyes-it was as if a wild animal had been snared and was about to fight for its life.
Then Max eased his grip slightly, Jackson’s commands breaking through his blinding haze of anger. Between them, Jackson and Roberts hauled Max off the gasping boy.
Max crouched, ready to attack. Jackson was scared. He had never seen Max behave in such an uncontrolled, aggressive manner. No one moved; then Roberts put himself between Max and Baskins, a warning hand raised.
“Enough!” Roberts shouted.
“Max,” Jackson said more quietly. “Max, it’s all right, boy. It’s all right.” They could see Max physically relax and come out of whatever zone he’d been in. He nodded.
“Sorry, Baskins,” he said dutifully, but the look he gave Baskins as he left the room allowed no doubt in anyone’s mind that the fight had been stopped just in time.
“What did you say to him?” Jackson asked.
“Nothing, sir. Well, I just gave him a poke to wake him up and asked if his mother hadn’t taught him any manners.” He pulled a face. “I forgot about his mum.”
Max walked down the corridor with Mr. Jackson. He really hadn’t wanted to apologize, but his parents’ influence and his own sense of shame pushed those feelings aside. His dad had always told him that only unthinking thugs attacked without provocation. Baskins mentioning his mum seemed perfect justification to Max, though he knew it wasn’t. Besides, he hadn’t wanted to let Mr. Jackson down.
“Apology accepted,” Mr. Jackson said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“All right. Well, you know you can whenever you wish.”
Max nodded.
Mr. Jackson pulled a coat from a long row of hooks. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”
Max grabbed his jacket and followed Mr. Jackson, who had already pulled open the side door to the cobbled yards at the back of the school. It was ear-nippingly cold, but the various outbuildings broke the wind’s direct assault.
“I want to tell you something, Max, and I don’t want to be interrupted while I do so.”
Max waited. Jackson looked as though he was about to break bad news. “One of our ex-pupils died a few days ago. His name was Danny Maguire.”
Max had to fake it: “Sorry to hear that, sir.” He listened as Jackson recounted the visit by the MI5 impostors. Was Max in trouble? Was there any connection between Maguire, these men and Max? Did he know anything about drug smuggling? Max denied all knowledge of anything Jackson asked him. Telling the truth might hinder his investigation into what had really happened to his mother-and why Maguire had died.
“And you have received nothing in the post from Maguire?”
“Like what, sir?” Max said, hoping Jackson might know something more.
“I don’t know. Anyway, I shall be speaking to the police about this matter, so think hard and long about whether there is anything that might tell us who those men were. I’m not at all sure what’s going on. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but I want you to stay in school for a couple of weeks.”
“Like a prisoner, sir?”
“Only until I have some answers. I appreciate that your life is not how you would like it to be, but you have good friends here, and I hope you know that all the staff, myself included, hold you in the highest regard.”
Max nodded. There was no denying that Dartmoor High had become his home. There was nowhere else for him to be.
Mr. Jackson put a fatherly arm on the boy’s shoulder. “If I can arrange it, would you like to speak to your father on the phone?”
He was surprised to see a look of doubt touch Max’s face. The boy idolized his father.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” He knew he had to speak to his dad soon-in fact, he really needed to see him-but he was dreading it.
“I’ll see what I can do. All right, Max. Off you go.”
Max’s dad had endured mind-wrecking torture at the hands of a madman in Africa. The fist of trepidation thumped into Max’s stomach at the thought of challenging his own father, who had become a stranger with only fleeting moments of recognition of his son. Max would confront him to dig out the truth from his mind, as a firefighter digs through the rubble to save a victim’s life. Max needed to know everything about his mother’s death.
He left Mr. Jackson wandering around the courtyard. He was obviously thinking about matters-he seemed impervious to the cold.
Max headed to Eagle House’s common room. Some of the boys were playing computer games. He could hear the electronic crackle of gunfire and the hoots of joy as the boys made a “kill.” It all felt so phony. After what Max had been through in the past, having experienced real violence where people had done their best to kill him, Max couldn’t bring himself to play anymore.
The boys had noticed this and just thought he was going through some sort of rough time. Except Sayid. The common bond he and Max shared was that each had experienced the terror of real gunfire, the swirling confusion of attack and the heart-crushing loss of a loved one. As Max came across the room toward him, Sayid was wedged into a window seat reading a book, but was now distracted by the leaden sky that had sunk lower across the high ground. The forecast was for snow.
“Hello, mate,” Max said quietly, pushing himself into the narrow space next to Sayid.
“You all right?” Sayid asked.
“Yeah. Just a bit strung out-one thing and another. Sorry if I’ve been a bit of a pain.”
“Easier having a tooth out than being around you these last few weeks.”
“You want a written apology?”
“That’d do, yeah. Sure you’re OK?”
Max nodded. “I need your help.”
Sayid didn’t know whether to smile or cry. Helping Max could be bad for your health-but he really wanted to be back in his best friend’s confidence after these weeks of him being withdrawn and uncommunicative. Despite the conflicting thoughts, he realized he was already nodding.
The day Danny Maguire died, Jasmina Dhokia had run down the escalator to catch her train for work. Her usual bus was delayed by roadwork, and she was not familiar with the Underground station. She took a wrong turn, realized her mistake and went back just in time to see her train move smoothly away.
The deserted platform was a lonely place. Fingers of cold air sneaking out of the tunnel tugged at her coat. She wished she could be home with her family, where it was warm and dry and people laughed and smiled more easily than they did here. But this country had been good to her and she was grateful. She was very fortunate to have a good-paying job that allowed her to send money back to help her family. Curiosity made her pick up the small padded envelope that lay on the edge of the platform near the mouth of the tunnel. It was already stamped. Someone must have dropped it. She tucked it into her shoulder bag. She would post it as soon as she could, as she trusted someone else would do if she had dropped an envelope.
Like her own letters, this one might be carrying words of love between a parent and a child.
Where the land rose in the fold of hills, the Range Rover nestled against a tor’s slabs of precariously balanced granite. Black sheen against black rock. At first glance, the big 4?4 would be indistinguishable from the boulders around it. In the distance, Dartmoor High was shrouded by the confused mist and rain, but the wet tarmac that ribboned its way around the vales and rock outcrops was still visible.
Drew looked through binoculars. “Nothing. What a place to send your kid to school. If it were me, I’d hate my parents for the rest of my life,” he moaned. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Stop complaining,” Stanton said quietly, keeping his gaze on the view through the windscreen.
“A good whine makes me feel better,” said Drew.
Stanton was silent. They’d give it a few more hours. Then, if it was obvious that Maguire had not sent Max Gordon any information, they could call it a day. He checked the radio signal: it was clear and strong. Who knew how long it would be before someone found the listening device they’d planted in Jackson’s study when he’d left the room to attend to that injured kid? He had already heard Jackson speak to the nursing home inquiring about Gordon’s father. Then he gave instructions to another teacher that he was to bring the post directly to him when it arrived.
“Kid on a bike,” Drew muttered, binoculars still clamped to his eyes.
“Is it Max Gordon?”
Drew looked at the photograph they had stolen from Max’s room, then, concentrating on the figure in his lenses, said, “Nah!” He snorted. “He probably is away like Jackson said. This looks like a boy making a break for it! I know I would. Place looks like a Victorian prison.”
Sayid pedaled his mountain bike as fast as he could. Stinging rain pecked his face. It was six kilometers to the nearest road junction that bisected the moor. An ancient stone clapper bridge straddled a turbulent stretch of the river there. By this primitive drover’s crossing was the Packman’s Horse, a pub popular with seasonal holidaymakers. It was a rough-and-ready place where walkers could take their dogs and riders could tether their horses while their owners enjoyed a warming drink.
Just like the postman.
Max sat reading a book, eyes skimming pages as his MP3 player’s music rattled around his brain at the same time. Neither engaged him. They didn’t have to. Tucked into the pages of his book were the last photographs he had of his mum-half a dozen pictures taken in different areas of the rain forest.
Max was considering what to do next. Besides trying to find connections to Danny Maguire, he wanted to confront his dad. Why did Max’s heart still harbor the terrible accusation made against his father? Perhaps it was because he knew that Tom Gordon had different sides to his character. There was the strong, kind man, passionate about ecology and making sure that the people who harmed it were brought to justice. But Max knew that as a younger man, before he’d become an explorer-scientist, he had been trained as a hardened soldier. Max had to admit there had been times when he’d been scared on their holidays together off the beaten track. His father had averted frightening situations by using his courage to confront violent people. He had pulled a gun against pirates when they sailed in the Indian Ocean, had shot up their engines and left them floundering in shark-infested waters. Facing drunken men spoiling for a fight in Greece, he had talked them out of attacking his family. He seemed to have the ability to close the door on fear and become almost another person.
So who was Max’s real dad? Snow began to tumble. The book and music were forgotten. Out of the dreamlike storm, the small red postal van appeared.
“Anything?” Drew asked, shoving a stick of chewing gum into his mouth.
Stanton pressed his earpiece. “They’re shuffling stuff. Letters. Jackson is moaning about junk mail. He’s asking if that’s everything … if there’s anything for the Gordon boy. The other teacher’s in there with him. Says no. That’s it. OK. Now he’s telling him to take everything to the mailroom and make sure the kids get their letters.”
Drew looked at Stanton and shrugged. “Well? If the dead kid didn’t get to send anything, it’s all hunky-dory. Let’s get back to London. I can’t stick all this fresh air.”
Stanton was less impatient. Maybe they should wait out the day. But what was the point? If Maguire had sent anything before he died, it would have been delivered by now, and nothing Jackson had said suggested it had. Drew was right. Job done. Time to go back.
Something wasn’t right, though, and Stanton didn’t know what it was. He nudged the hood out onto the narrow tarmac, but his thoughts were still held by this Max Gordon. He hadn’t laid eyes on the boy, so why did it bother him so much? He swung the Range Rover across the hillside and felt it tilt as it angled downward. It righted itself as the wheels found the path. Snow sluiced off the windscreen.
“Look out!” Drew shouted.
Sayid squinted against the snow as it caught his eyelids. His ski beanie was pulled across his ears, and his scarf was tucked up to cover his mouth. Pushing his legs to keep going up the incline and balancing the wheels against the settling snow, he crested the rise with a decent turn of speed. As he angled his face away from the wind-driven flurries, he failed to see the black boulder of a car as it eased down from the sheltering tor and nudged into the road.
He jerked the handlebars away from the looming 4?4 and felt the front wheel slide. Boy and bike separated and crashed down into the snow, skidding along for a few meters until his twisted body thumped into one of the small raised banks that flanked the roads across the moor. His last thoughts were of sliding toward the front radiator grille of the 4?4-a monster’s jaws. The impact on his back knocked the wind out of him. A sudden pain shot through to his chest and darkness closed over his mind.
Drew was already out on the road. He bent down, eased Sayid’s body gently so it lay flat and quickly felt for any broken bones.
Stanton stood next to him, looking left and right. It was highly unlikely any other vehicles would be using this isolated strip of road, but if they did, he would not hear their approach in the snow’s blanketing silence. He stayed alert.
“Is he dead?” he asked Drew.
“No, out for the count.”
Drew was still on one knee and twisted to look back at Stanton. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Both knew there was a decision to be made. The cyclist was obviously a boy from the school. Had he seen them when they’d visited? If he had, would it appear suspicious to him that the men in the Range Rover were hanging around? They couldn’t just leave him, because he or one of the teachers might consider the vehicle driver responsible and report the accident to the police.
Breaking his neck would solve the problem.
It would look like the boy had fallen on the slippery surface and landed badly. Snow was already covering the Rover’s tracks.
“Well?” Drew asked, knowing full well the thoughts they both shared.
The boy groaned.
Stanton shook his head. “Help him up.” And as Drew eased the fallen rider into a sitting position, Stanton righted the bike. It wasn’t damaged.
“You OK now, son?”
Sayid nodded groggily.
“Your bike’s all right. You came over the blind hill like an Olympic skier,” Stanton said, subtly shifting the blame onto the boy. “We didn’t have a chance to see you.”
The man who first helped him put an arm under his shoulder. Sayid recognized the two men, and he didn’t want them staring too closely at his face. His beanie was still intact, and he pushed himself up, getting to his feet. He took his bike from the other man. The snow flurries were now a blessing; he could avert his eyes from their faces as if shielding himself from the wet flakes.
“Sorry I gave you a fright. My fault. I should’ve been more careful,” Sayid said, but thought that he should go one better to make sure the men didn’t suspect he recognized them. “Are you lost? Are you looking for somewhere?”
Drew and Stanton glanced quickly at each other. “The Country House Inn,” Stanton said. “Yeah, we’re lost.”
Sayid settled himself back onto the bike. He mustn’t panic now.
“The Country House Inn? No, I don’t think there’s anywhere called that on this side of the moor. Sorry, can’t help.”
“Not a problem,” Stanton said. He had made up the name. Now he was satisfied. If the kid on the bike had come up with a set of false directions, just to get the men away from him, his suspicions would have been alerted.
They watched a moment longer as the boy’s tires cut a furrow through the snow, then banged their boots clear and climbed back into the 4?4. The wheels creaked over the powder, and they turned their backs on the cyclist and Dartmoor High.
Sayid sped down the final stretch of road, hands tightly gripping the handlebars, desperately wanting to look over his shoulder to see if the men were still there. But he didn’t, because he was scared and did not want them thinking he knew anything, because if they thought he did …
His imagination was running away with him faster than the wheels beneath him. He did a satisfying skidding halt at the bike sheds and didn’t even bother to kick the snow from the mountain bike’s tires. There were more important things to do.
At the pub, he had spun a line to Phil, the postman, about his birthday present from his parents being late, and as this was half-term, he was going to his aunt’s place in a nearby village. Could Phil check for him? The postman had no doubt the boy was from Dartmoor High and obliged him.
Sayid crunched across to the school building. So, if those two men were looking for Max and for the letter Danny Maguire had sent him, they didn’t know how close they’d come to having it in their hands.
There was a satisfying crinkle of the envelope tucked under his arm beneath the jacket.