The Danger Game Read online

  For Teeny – you have a special place in my heart.

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  About the Author

  1

  It was just gone three thirty on a cold and wet Friday afternoon when Kendal Price came up to me and said he’d like a quiet word. I’d just finished a double period of PE – half an hour’s fitness training, another half-hour of football practice, followed by two twenty-minute seven-a-side games. I was covered in mud, tired out, and although I was still dripping with sweat, the icy wind blowing across the playing fields was beginning to bite into my bones. So all I wanted to do just then was get into the changing rooms, get out of my muddy football gear, and have a quick shower. And that’s exactly what I told Kendal when he caught up with me just outside the changing rooms and said he wanted to talk to me about something.

  ‘Just let me get changed first, OK?’ I told him, rubbing my arms. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

  ‘Now would be better,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll only be ten minutes. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No,’ he said simply, ‘it can’t.’

  If it had been anyone else, I probably would have stood my ground. ‘If you want to talk to me,’ I would have said, ‘you’ll just have to wait.’ But this wasn’t anyone else, this was Kendal Price.

  Kendal is the kind of kid that every school has – the all-round superstar who’s naturally brilliant at everything. Captain of the school football and cricket teams, a straight-A student, sophisticated, popular, attractive. The teachers all love him, and constantly hold him up as a ‘shining example’ to the rest of us. The girls all love him because he’s tall, blond, and handsome. And the boys all love him (or envy him, at least) because he’s not only really good at football and cricket, but he’s tough and courageous too, both on and off the field. So even though he’s a straight-A student who’s loved by all the teachers – which normally might make him a prime target for bullying – no one ever messes with Kendal Price. Not if they know what’s good for them anyway. In fact, Kendal’s such an all-round superhero that even the genuinely hard kids – the ones who claim to hate his guts – go weak at the knees in his presence.

  Personally I’ve never really had any strong feelings about him either way. I don’t worship the ground he walks on, but I don’t despise him or envy him either. He is what he is, and he does what he does, and as long as that doesn’t affect me, I’m really not that bothered. Mind you, having said that, I’m pretty sure that if Kendal had come up to me last term and asked if he could have a quiet word with me, I probably would have been just a tiny bit thrilled.

  But a lot can change in a few short months, and so much had happened to me during the summer holidays that I was a completely different person now. My world had been turned upside down, my outlook on life changed for ever, and I’d found out the hard way that most of the stuff we spend our time worrying about doesn’t actually mean anything at all.

  So when Kendal approached me that afternoon, I wasn’t thrilled or overawed or flattered. I didn’t care that merely by talking to me he was boosting my reputation and making me look cool. I couldn’t have cared less about ‘looking cool’. That kind of stuff just didn’t mean anything to me any more.

  So why didn’t I tell Kendal that if he wanted to talk to me he’d just have to wait?

  Because I was curious, that’s why. And curiosity was one of the things that still meant something to me.

  Questions: Why on earth did the almighty Kendal Price want to talk to me? What could he possibly want? And why was he so insistent on talking to me before I went into the changing rooms?

  Questions had kept me going through my recent summer of hell, and I wasn’t going to stop asking them now.

  2

  ‘I’m sorry about your mum and dad,’ Kendal said. ‘It must have been really hard for you.’

  It had been four months since my parents had died in a car crash, and I’d got so used to condolences now that my response had become automatic – a nod of acknowledgement, and a look that said, ‘Thanks, I appreciate your kindness.’

  Kendal’s initial reaction was the same as most people’s – a sombre nod back, followed by an awkward silence. I let the silence hang in the air and gazed out over the playing fields. We’d crossed over to a bench at the edge of the little car park in front of the changing rooms, and from where we were sitting I could see all the way across to the girls’ changing rooms on the other side of the school grounds. There were three full-size football pitches, another area marked out for five- and seven-a-side games, and a running track that wouldn’t be used now until next year. A fine November rain was drifting across the fields, and a few kids in wet and muddy football gear were hurrying back to the changing rooms, desperate to get out of the cold.

  Kendal was still wearing his football kit too – he’d just finished playing for the Under-15s in a match against a visiting French school – but although he was just as sodden and caked in mud as everyone else, it didn’t seem to bother him at all. Or if it did, he was really good at hiding it.

  ‘You’re not living at your old place in Kell Cross any more, are you?’ he asked casually.

  I looked at him, slightly surprised that he hadn’t changed the subject. Most people, once they’ve offered their condolences, quickly start talking about something else. But, as I’ve already said, Kendal wasn’t like most people.

  ‘I live with my nan and grandad now,’ I told him.

  ‘How’s that going?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  He nodded thoughtfully, giving the impression that he was genuinely interested in my welfare, but it wasn’t hard to see through him. I might possibly have believed him and been grateful for his care and concern if he’d offered it four months ago, but he’d barely even looked at me before today, let alone spoken to me or shown any interest in my personal circumstances, so I was pretty sure he had an ulterior motive. His pretence didn’t actually bother me that much. I was just intrigued to find out what he was really after.

  ‘Your parents were private investigators, weren’t they?’ he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘My mum and dad ran a private investigation business called Delaney & Co.’

  ‘What’s happened to the business now?’

  ‘My grandad’s taken it over.’

  ‘Right. . .’ Kendal said, doing some more thoughtful nodding. ‘So you’re still involved in the investigation business yourself?’

  I sighed. I’d had enough of this now. I looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about, Kendal? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m getting really cold o
ut here.’

  He was momentarily taken aback by my frankness, but he quickly recovered his composure. ‘All right, look,’ he said, ‘before I tell you anything, I need you to promise me that you’ll keep it to yourself. It’s really important that none of this goes any further.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re going to tell me, do I? I mean, for all I know, you might want to confess to a murder or something.’

  Kendal smiled. ‘That’s not very likely, is it?’

  ‘Even superstars are capable of murder,’ I said, grinning at him.

  I thought he might take offence at that – he probably wasn’t used to being mocked about his status – but, to his credit, he took it pretty well. I don’t think he liked it very much, but he didn’t make a big deal of it or anything. He just gave me one of those condescending looks that adults use when they think you’re being childish. Which might sound a bit odd, given that Kendal wasn’t an adult. But although we were both the same age – fourteen years old – there was no doubt that in lots of ways Kendal was years ahead of me. He was much taller than me, for a start – at least five feet ten – and he was also a lot hairier. Hairy legs, hairy arms, hairy upper lip, sideburns. His voice was deep, his face rugged and knowing, and he had an air of self-confidence about him that I could only dream about.

  Compared to Kendal, I was just a child.

  Which was the kind of thing that used to bother the hell out of me.

  But not any more.

  ‘All right,’ Kendal said in a businesslike manner, ‘how about this – you give me your word that you’ll keep quiet about this conversation unless I tell you something that puts you in a legally compromising position. Is that acceptable?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  He gave me a look, making sure I was taking him seriously, and then he finally started telling me what it was all about.

  3

  The petty thieving from the boys’ changing rooms had started in October, Kendal explained. The first time it had happened was at an Under-14 football match between our school – Kell Cross Secondary – and Barton Grammar, our biggest rivals. Then a couple of weeks later it had happened again during an Under-15 game against Seaton College.

  ‘To be honest, we didn’t take it very seriously at the time,’ Kendal said. ‘Partly because the items that went missing didn’t have any great value, and partly because the kids who owned them weren’t even sure they had been stolen.’

  ‘What kind of stuff was going missing?’ I asked.

  Kendal frowned. ‘Well, that’s the weird thing. The first time it was a graphic novel, and the next time it was a hat . . . you know, like a baseball cap. That was it. No money was taken, no mobiles or watches or anything. Just a comic book and a hat. So, like I said, we didn’t really give it much thought—’

  ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Mr Jago and me. I mean, the kids reported it to Mr Jago first, of course, and then he told me about it.’

  John Jago was the senior PE teacher. As well as being in charge of all the school’s sporting activities, he personally coached the football and cricket teams from Under-14 level upwards. He was obsessed with the sporting reputation of the school, and he spent a lot of time working with the most gifted athletes. Kendal was one of his protégés, and he treated him like a trusted lieutenant.

  ‘Anyway,’ Kendal went on, ‘when the thieving started again straight after the half-term break, and it quickly became more frequent, we realised we had to do something.’

  ‘Was the same kind of stuff being taken?’

  He nodded. ‘A book, a scarf, another hat . . . it still happens mostly when we’re playing another school, but earlier this week a kid’s belt went missing during a normal games period.’

  ‘Any thefts from the girls’ changing rooms?’

  ‘Nothing’s been reported.’

  ‘The changing rooms are locked when they’re not being used though, aren’t they? I mean, we can’t get in until someone’s keyed in the entry code.’

  ‘Yeah, and the code’s changed every day.’

  ‘What about the door inside that connects the home and away dressing rooms?’

  ‘Unless there’s any reason for it to be opened, it’s always kept locked. Mr Jago has a key, and there’s a spare one in the headmaster’s secretary’s office.’

  ‘Any signs of forced entry?’

  ‘We haven’t found any.’

  ‘No broken windows or forced latches?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have the police been informed?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Kendal just looked at me, as if the answer was obvious.

  ‘The Twin Town Cup?’ I said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  The Twin Town Cup is a school football tournament that takes place every two years. Four teams from Barton – the town where I live – take on four teams from the two towns that Barton is twinned with: Wetzlar in Germany and Rennes in France. The venue for the tournament changes each time it’s played, and this year Kell Cross was hosting it for the first time. It was a pretty big deal for the school, with all kinds of sponsorship and press coverage and stuff, and the teachers and administration staff had been working on all the travel and accommodation arrangements for months. The tournament lasts for almost two weeks. In the first week, the eight teams are split into two groups of four and each team in the group plays the other three once. The top two teams in each group then progress to the knockout stage – which, in effect, are the semi-finals – and the winners of the semi-finals go on to play each other in the final.

  Today’s matches had been the concluding games in the group stages. The semi-finals were being played on Monday, and the final was on Wednesday. By beating the French team this afternoon, Kell Cross had finished top of their group and were playing the runners-up from the other group in the semi-final.

  ‘We don’t know who’s responsible for these thefts,’ Kendal told me. ‘It could be a pupil at Kell Cross, it could be someone from outside the school. Until we know for sure, we’d prefer to deal with it ourselves rather than calling in the police.’ He looked at me. ‘I mean, imagine how embarrassing it would be for the school if the police showed up and arrested someone in the middle of a Twin Town Cup game. We’d never live it down.’

  ‘Why don’t you just put a guard on the changing-room doors?’ I suggested. ‘Two teachers, or two Year 12s, one on each door at all times. Then no one can get in.’

  ‘That’s precisely what we’ve been doing. But it hasn’t made any difference.’

  ‘Stuff’s still going missing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How the hell are they getting in?’

  ‘That’s what we want you to find out.’

  4

  I was planning on going round to Delaney & Co’s office as soon as I’d got changed anyway, so I started telling Kendal that I’d talk to my grandad and his partner, Courtney Lane, about the changing-room thefts when I got there.

  ‘I don’t know how busy they are at the moment,’ I said, ‘so I can’t promise they’ll be able to do anything straight away—’

  ‘That’s not what we want,’ Kendal said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We want to keep this as quiet as possible. If we hire anyone on an official basis, it’s bound to get out sooner or later.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘We were hoping that you could do it.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You said you were still involved with the investigation business, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, yeah . . .’

  ‘Do you know enough about it to look into the thefts yourself?’

  I thought about that for a while, mulling over what the job might entail and whether I was capable of doing it myself or not. It didn’t take me long to reach a decision.

  ‘Yeah,’ I
told Kendal. ‘I don’t see any reason why I can’t do it.’

  ‘And you’d be OK with a verbal contract?’

  I shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘Confidentiality guaranteed?’

  ‘I’d need to discuss the job with my grandad and his partner.’

  ‘But no one else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about payment? We’d prefer to keep any financial transactions off the books, but I’m sure we can work something out.’

  ‘I don’t want any money,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Well, that’s very good of you—’

  ‘All I want is a written promise from all my teachers that I’ll get excellent grades this year.’

  Kendal looked at me, his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

  ‘Joke,’ I said, grinning.

  He sighed, shaking his head. ‘Yeah, very funny.’

  I was beginning to realise that despite his all-round magnificence, the one thing Kendal didn’t have was a sense of humour.

  ‘Have you discussed with Mr Jago how you want me to go about it?’ I asked him.

  ‘We decided it was best to leave the practical details to you, but Mr Jago thinks it’d be a good idea to include you in the Under-15 team for next week’s matches. That way you’ll always be around when the games are taking place, which should make it easier for you to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘He wants me to play for the Under-15s?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Kendal said, amused by the look of disbelief on my face. ‘Don’t you think you’re good enough?’

  ‘I know I’m not good enough.’

  I wasn’t being modest or anything, I was simply telling the truth. I mean, I like football – both playing it and watching it – but I’m not really any good at it. The only sport I am pretty good at is boxing, but that’s something I do in my own time.

  ‘You’ve played in goal for the reserves a couple of times, haven’t you?’ Kendal said.

  ‘Well, yeah, but only because the regular keeper was injured. I’m nowhere near good enough for the first team.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kendal said. ‘You wouldn’t actually be in the team, you’d just be part of the squad.’