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  The woman looked confused. “Who wrote what?” she asked.

  “This,” said the officer, holding up the single piece of paper.

  “I don’t know. What is it?”

  The officer stared at the woman for a moment, trying to work out if she was playing games with him, but she didn’t react.

  “I’ll read it to you,” said the officer. “ ‘To whom this may concern. The person delivering this letter is Dulcia Genever. Your records should show that she is wanted for a number of crimes, including the attempted murder of Sir Bentley Jones and Prime Minister Edward Banks. I, her son, helped her to escape from Holloway Prison yesterday. You will now find that her mind is completely blank—I’m sure the people involved will understand what I mean—and that she is no longer a threat to society. I was forced into carrying out my mother’s plans. I am now being cared for by relatives who know nothing of what happened. You can be assured that, with Dulcia Genever in your custody, the threat to anybody is gone. Yours sincerely, the son of Dulcia Genever.’ ”

  The woman looked blankly at the officer.

  “Are you Dulcia Genever?” the officer asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The officer lifted the hatch on the counter and stepped out into the waiting area. Before Dulcia had a chance to react, the officer had grabbed her wrists and placed handcuffs on them.

  “Dulcia Genever, I am arresting you on suspicion of absconding from prison. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  Dulcia Genever looked up at the police officer.

  “Where am I?”

  The officer sighed. “I guess my lunch is going to have to wait. Come with me,” he said, leading Dulcia Genever away. Vacant and confused, she shuffled timidly behind him, completely incapable of understanding that she was now going to be spending the rest of her life behind bars.

  • CHAPTER ELEVEN •

  The prime minister closed the door of his study and turned to face Sir Bentley.

  “Are you sure?”

  Sir Bentley nodded. “I’ve just been down to the station. It’s her.”

  “Has she said anything yet?” asked the prime minister.

  “She’s talking, but . . . it’s not her. Her mind is completely wiped. Empty.”

  “Inferno?”

  “Yes, Basic Inferno. Nothing else has been put in her mind. It’s completely blank. I didn’t even need the Myers Holt pupils to confirm it. You could spot it a mile away—the woman knows nothing.”

  “So, what do we do? Can we charge her?”

  “Yes—there were hundreds of witnesses. We don’t need a confession to prove anything. We have the weapon she stabbed John Walker, one of our security guards, with, and just to check, we ran the fingerprints down at the station. It’s a match.”

  “So that’s it? It’s over?”

  Sir Bentley nodded.

  The prime minister considered this as he poured one drink for himself and another for his friend and former schoolmate. “Well, Bentley, I think this calls for a quiet celebration.”

  Sir Bentley took the glass, clinked it against the prime minister’s, and sipped.

  “What about Myers Holt?” asked the prime minister. “What do you want to do? The children were enrolled to sort out this mess—if it’s all finished with, do you want to close the facility?”

  “I was hoping to keep it open, if you agree,” said Sir Bentley. “We can go back to the way it was in the old days—but with the benefit of knowing the mistakes that were made.”

  “You want to use the children’s Ability to help with police cases?” said the prime minister, checking.

  Sir Bentley nodded. “It is very useful.”

  “Yes, I can imagine it is. It’s just that . . .” The prime minister put his glass down on the cabinet and looked up at Sir Bentley. “Bentley, we cannot have a repeat of what happened when I was a pupil nor of what happened at the Antarctic Ball. It could have been worse, I know, but there’s no taking away from the fact that a boy died that night. To be honest, I still can’t believe we managed to keep it out of the papers.” He paused for a moment and then sighed. “I understand how useful the Ability is and the good that can come out of it, but I just can’t have any more blood spilled. If you can give me assurances of that, then I agree.”

  “You have my word,” said Sir Bentley.

  “Very well, then,” said the prime minister after some thought. “To the future of Myers Holt,” he said, raising his glass.

  “To Myers Holt,” said Sir Bentley. The glasses clinked, and the two men took a sip, both relieved that the nightmare had ended.

  • CHAPTER TWELVE •

  Chris and his friends celebrated the recapture of Dulcia Genever with a midnight feast under the moonlit Dome. For the first time in a long time, he slept soundly, knowing that the twin brother of the boy he had killed was now safe and happy and being cared for by relatives. To make matters even better, Ms. Lamb had, after three days of Chris polishing her boots and counting out sacks of small change, tired of the dunce corner—or perhaps she had just run out of ideas for punishments—and he had been allowed to return to his desk. Not only that, Hugh Valedictoriat had left permanently for personal reasons—Chris hoped it had nothing to do with him—and Sir Bentley, at the insistence of everybody (nobody, it seemed, had taken much of a liking to Boo Boo the bear), had decided not to hire a replacement. All in all, it had been a good week, filled with swimming, picnics, and interesting lessons. He had even had a long chat with Miss Sonata, who had been horrified to hear about his mother’s relapse over the holidays and had promised that she would take it upon herself to make sure more help would be made available for her.

  Best of all, Chris now had no fear of his Ability. The anger and anxiety he had been feeling had disappeared the instant he had heard that the boy was well. It didn’t change the fact that he had killed the other boy, and he knew it was something he would remember for the rest of his life, but he was ready to move on. In fact, he thought as he made his way to the classroom with a smile on his face, he was actually looking forward to learning how they would be using their Ability to solve crimes.

  “This is going to be excellent,” said Rex. “I can see the headline already: ‘Rex King, Crime-Solving Superhero.’ ”

  Everybody turned to Lexi, waiting for her to fire back at Rex with a smart comment, but she didn’t say a word.

  “Are you okay?” asked Daisy.

  Lexi looked up, her thoughts interrupted, and saw that everybody was staring at her. “What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit tired—I stayed up last night memorizing all the law books in the library. I think they’ll come in useful when I start working as an agent.”

  “You already are a government agent,” pointed out Philip.

  “Right, yeah. I mean a proper one—you know, like James Bond.”

  “Really, Frizzo, when are you going to stop going on about James Bond? That’s all you’ve done since you came back to school. James Bond this, James Bond that. You should marry him if you love him so much,” said Rex, sounding, Chris thought, a little jealous.

  Lexi’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t love him—I just want his job. And anyway, he’s not even real.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Rex as Lexi walked away. “Lexi and Bond, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s . . .”

  “Rex!” shouted Lexi, turning back, her face flushed in anger.

  Rex shrugged his shoulders. “Only joking. Don’t be so irritable.”

  Lexi glared at Rex, then turned away and stormed off ahead.

  Sebastian turned to Rex. “I can provide you with some advice on the subject of love,” he said as they continued down the corridor. “You appear to have difficulties.”

  “First,” said Rex, stopping in his tracks, “I’m not having any difficulties with anything. Second, and
no offense, Romeo, but I don’t think a twelve-year-old dressed up as a clown is going to know much about how to pick up girls.”

  “Rex! That’s mean!” said Daisy, putting her hand on the arm of Sebastian’s orange suit. “Don’t listen to him, Sebastian. I think you look lovely.”

  Sebastian turned to Rex so that Daisy couldn’t see him, and gave him a wink. “I’m available if you change your mind.”

  Chris laughed as Rex turned a deep shade of red and folded his arms.

  “Come on, hurry up,” said Chris to Rex, rushing out through the doors of the Dome. “He’s only joking with you. Let’s get to class—Sir Bentley won’t be happy if we’re late.”

  Rex huffed and mumbled something under his breath but followed Chris without argument.

  • • •

  “Welcome, everybody,” said Sir Bentley as they all rushed in through the classroom door. “Quickly, to your seats. We have a lot to get through.”

  Chris sat down at his desk and saw that sitting by the wall next to him were Ron and John. Chris could tell, even though he was wearing his sunglasses, that Ron was even more on edge than usual, his knees jiggling nervously and his arms folded stiffly. John, on the other hand, looked more relaxed and not at all uncomfortable, which was strange, thought Chris, given that he was about ten sizes too big for the chair he was sitting in.

  “Hi,” said Chris as he leaned over and pulled out his pencil case from his bag.

  John nodded back at him, but Ron didn’t respond. John pointed with his thumb in the direction of Ron. “He doesn’t like being in a classroom. Bad experi—”

  “Shh!” whispered Ron, nudging John in the side. Sir Bentley cleared his throat.

  Chris turned back to face the front of the class.

  “As you can all see, we have guests today. John and Ron will be joining us—I thought it would be good for them to see the kind of thing you’ll be doing, especially as they’ll be escorting you on your assignments.”

  Everybody except Ron seemed pleased about this.

  “The police commissioner, Sir Neville Loosier, and I have been discussing how best to use your talents, and we have come up with the first set of cases for you to handle. Any questions?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “So, to your first assignment—a robbery.”

  Chris grinned at Philip. This was what they had all been waiting for!

  Sir Bentley picked up a newspaper from his desk and held up the front page for them all to see.

  “This,” he said, pointing to a picture of what was, as far as Chris could tell, a loaf of bread, “is a piece of art created by one of the most sought-after artists of the moment, Kingston Khan.”

  Rex put up his hand.

  “Yes?” said Sir Bentley.

  “It’s a loaf of bread.”

  “Well spotted, Rex. It is, in fact, made of clay. Inside, however, are approximately ten million pounds’ worth of diamonds.”

  “I can’t see them,” said Lexi, squinting her eyes at the picture.

  “No,” said Sir Bentley. “Apparently, that’s what makes it art. The artist calls it . . . hold on, I’ll have to read this”—Sir Bentley turned the paper round and read the caption—“The Guilt of the Rich.”

  “Eh?” said Rex, echoing exactly what Chris and the others were thinking.

  Sir Bentley shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t ask me to explain—I really have no idea. For the purposes of what we’re doing, all you need to know is what it looks like and that it’s very valuable indeed—Khan’s last, um, sculpture, sold for twelve millions pounds. This one was valued in the region of thirty million—though probably a lot more since it won the Kitchner Prize last night—not long before it was stolen from the gallery.”

  “How was it stolen—wasn’t there any security?” asked Chris.

  “Yes, plenty of it. Unfortunately, there were no cameras where the four finalists’ work was being displayed, but the gallery itself was under heavy security—that’s why we think it must have been an inside job.”

  “What is the definition of this?” asked Sebastian.

  “ ‘Inside job,’ ” explained Sir Bentley, “means that the theft was carried out by somebody who either works for or has help from someone within the premises. The winner was announced at nine o’clock in the evening. The artwork was stolen approximately three hours later. By this time, most people had left, though Kingston Khan and the three runners-up were still in the gallery with a few others, including the gallery owners. Khan’s sculpture and the work of the three other finalists were in another room, which was being guarded by two security guards. One of the runners-up of the prize, Valentino Brick, went in to check on his own piece and was attacked. When he came to, he alerted security, who immediately noticed that the winning sculpture had been stolen and raised the alarm. The guards stationed outside the room claim that they saw nothing, as did the guards at the gallery entrance who had been checking everybody coming in and out. They insist that nobody could have left with it. The police are stumped—the only explanation is that at least one of the guards is lying. Your task will be to interview all the people who were there last night and find out if any of them had anything to do with the theft. Questions?”

  “What happened to the artist? Is he hurt?” asked Daisy.

  “Valentino Brick? Nothing too serious, just a bit of a gash across his head. The police have spoken to him, but all he remembers is hearing a sound and turning around to see a tall man in a black jacket and balaclava. The next thing he remembers is waking up on the floor. He will be there, so you can check to see if there’s anything he saw that he doesn’t remember.”

  “Do they know we’re going to be accessing their minds?” asked Philip, surprised.

  “No, no,” said Sir Bentley. “They all think that they’re being interviewed by the police. Nobody knows anything about the purpose of your visit with the exception of the commissioner. We’re just going to say that you are on a school visit, to the gallery. There are”—Sir Bentley picked up a notebook from the table and flicked through it until he found the page he was looking for—“eighteen people to Mind Access in all, including the four artists: all the people who were inside the gallery at the time of the robbery. So, when you enter these people’s minds, where will you go to find this information? Anybody? Yes, Lexi?”

  “In the Guilt building on Emotions Street?”

  “Possibly. But that, of course, depends on the person feeling guilty about what they did and, sadly, that is not always the case. So, it could be there, but it’s not guaranteed. Any other suggestions?”

  “Calendar Street?” asked Philip.

  “That would make sense except that we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for; nor do we know the exact time. We believe it’s unlikely that the person who committed the robbery will actually be interviewed, so we’re concentrating on looking for the person who helped the thief. Therefore, the only way to be absolutely certain is to have a look in the Crimes and Misdemeanors building on the Road of Significant Events. I’m surprised nobody worked that out.”

  Chris kicked himself for not thinking of this, but up until recently, that was not a part of the mind map that they had spent much time learning about.

  “Where is that building, Chris?”

  “Off People Street, the next right turn after Celebrations Lane.”

  “Good. Once in the building, you should find a filing cabinet labeled ‘Thefts,’ possibly more than one, depending on how busy the person has been, and inside, folders sorted in chronological order relating to individual thefts.”

  “We’re going today?”

  “Yes—time is of the essence in crimes such as these. Now, it’s important for you to be aware that all the employees will have folders with thoughts about the theft. However, most of the memories will be about discussing it or reading about it in the newspapers. We’re obviously only interested in memories that involve either that person stealing the piece or telling
somebody how to do it. Understood?”

  Everybody nodded.

  “Well, there’s not really much more to say. You’ll all be given a report form to fill out for each person you access. You’ll need to complete it even if the person had nothing to do with it—it’s highly unlikely but possible you’ll miss something that is significant to the police investigation team. Yes, Chris?”

  “Are you coming with us?”

  “Unfortunately not. I have work to do. Ms. Lamb will accompany you.”

  Sir Bentley ignored the groans from the pupils. “That’s all. Ron and John will be taking you. What time are they expecting us?”

  Ron’s hand shot up in the air.

  “No need for that, Ron,” said Sir Bentley. “That’s just for the pupils.”

  “Right, of course,” said Ron, quickly lowering his hand. “Midday arrival. Departing Myers Holt at eleven thirty a.m. sharp. Rendezvous at the front door.”

  “Excellent. Well, free time until then, though I’d recommend you all take a moment to run through everything that I said in the lesson—I know you’ll remember it word for word. You can ask Ms. Lamb any questions you think of on the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” they all responded.

  “Off you go, then,” said Sir Bentley, waving them out.

  • CHAPTER THIRTEEN •

  “Don’t go anywhere you’re not supposed to, don’t talk unless you’re spoken to, don’t pick your noses, and do not do anything to embarrass me,” said Ms. Lamb as their new minibus, driven by John, pulled up outside the art gallery.

  “Yes, Ms. Lamb,” they all said dutifully, though Chris couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Philip, who smiled back.

  “I’ll park, then meet you inside,” said John while Ron, who had completed his security assessment of their surroundings, opened up the passenger door to let them all out.

  Chris walked up to the gallery, which, despite it having hosted one of the art world’s most prestigious prizes the night before, was mostly empty, closed on account of the robbery.