The Case of the Exploding Loo

  Rachel Hamilton studied at Oxford and Cambridge and has put her education to good use working in an ad agency, a comprehensive school, a building site and a men’s prison. Her interests are books, films, stand-up comedy and cake, and she loves to make people laugh, especially when it’s intentional rather than accidental. The Case of the Exploding Loo is her first novel, and she is currently working on a second.

  www.rachel-hamilton.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2014 Rachel Hamilton

  Illustration © 2014 The Boy Fitz Hammond

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Rachel Hamilton and The Boy Fitz Hammond to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London

  WC1X 8HB

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-47112-131-9

  EBOOK ISBN 978-1-47112-132-6

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  www.simonandschuster.com.au

  For my family, who put up with a lot

  Contents

  1 WACKY SCIENTIST WIPED OUT BY TOILET BLAST!

  2 Three Weeks Later . . .

  3 Smoking Shoes

  4 Turquoise iPods

  5 Suspects

  6 Theories

  7 The Importance of Names

  8 Film Footage

  9 Missing

  10 Lies

  11 Talking Shoes

  12 Blood Stains

  13 Grim Statue

  14 Under Surveillance

  15 Poster Boy

  16 Picking Sides

  17 LOSERS’ Routine

  18 Guinea Pigs

  19 Cleverness

  20 Mental Conditioning

  21 Spying

  22 Breaking Rules

  23 Spy Cameras

  24 Missing Girl

  25 Interrogation

  26 Bad Guys

  27 Police

  28 Locked Doors

  29 It’s Starting

  30 Enemies

  31 Rescue Attempt

  32 The Great Leader

  33 Stage Magician

  34 Disposable People

  35 Newsflash

  36 What Was Supposed To Happen?

  37 Kazinsky Electronics

  38 Case Closed

  AFTER THE END

  1

  WACKY SCIENTIST WIPED OUT BY TOILET BLAST!

  I collapse on to the sofa and stare at the newspaper headline.

  Wiped out?

  WIPED OUT?

  Dad hasn’t been “wiped out”. He’s gone missing, that’s all. The reporter changed the facts to make a toilet-paper joke. That’s just rude.

  No wonder everyone thinks something horrible has happened to Dad. The newspapers have been yelling about his disappearance in SHOUTY CAPITAL LETTERS ever since the portaloo exploded forty-eight hours ago.

  I screw up the article and throw it across the room. But it’s too late; it’s already been copied and pasted in my brain. (I’m like Dad’s all-in-one printer that way. If I scan something once, it’s stored in my memory forever. Dad says it’s because I have a photographic memory. Smokin’ Joe Slater and the School Toilet Trolls say it’s because I’m a mutant freak girl. I prefer Dad’s theory.)

  Controversial scientist and renowned TV personality, Professor Brian “Big Brain” Hawkins, vanished when an unexplained portaloo explosion shook Lindon’s annual Christmas market yesterday afternoon. The top neurologist’s smoking shoes were all that remained after the blast rocked the temporary toilet facilities in Lindon town centre . . .

  Mum stamps on the novelty Christmas rug, pounding Santa’s face underfoot, screaming, “I want to see those shoes NOOOOOW!!!”

  Policeman Number PC2746 tries to calm her down. “I’ll look into that for you, madam,” he says.

  But Mum’s not listening.

  I decide not to listen to him either. Mainly because he’s still asking the same dumb questions about what Dad was doing in the toilet in the first place. Um, hello?

  I cover my ears against Mum’s screams and join my stroppy big sister by the Christmas tree. I’m careful not to stand too close, because Holly’s response to Dad’s disappearance is to kick everything within reach. That’s fine when it’s not me she’s kicking. But it usually is.

  For the moment, she’s taking out her fury on the wall beneath the fake-snow-covered bay window. With each kick, she scowls more ferociously at the pack of photographers outside churning up mud in the front garden.

  Dad will be mad when he sees the mess they’ve made of the lines in the lawn. He only mowed it last week. No one else on the street keeps on mowing through Christmas. Dad says it’s all about “standards”. Holly says it’s all about being obsessed with stripy grass.

  “We have to do something, Know-All.” Holly gives the wall an extra-violent kick. Her voice sounds muffled. My hands are still over my ears.

  “The name’s Noelle.” I protest out of habit but I don’t hate my nickname. It’s definitely better than Mutant Freak Girl. Although Dad says it’s good to be a freak when normal people are idiots.

  The provocative Professor is best known for his public declaration, “Stupidity is a sickness that should be treated”. Only last week, the wacky scientist claimed to have discovered a cure.

  The newspapers shouldn’t call Dad “wacky”. He’s not wacky, he’s a genius. This is the man who invented “Knife and Fork Fans (For Cooling Hot Food)” and “Gutter-Powered Water Cannons (For Use against Burglars (Who are Scared of Water))”.

  He’s been helping me with my inventions too. And he was once voted “Smartest Man on TV” by TV WOW! But people will forget all the good stuff because they can’t tell the difference between the truth and the news. I can. My memory holds a lot of information all at the same time, so I know what’s true and what’s not true. Even if it’s in the newspaper.

  Holly puts up a swear finger at the photographers and yanks the curtains shut.

  “What?” she says, tugging my hands away from my ears. “Am I supposed to just stand here and let those paparazzi papa-rat-finks take pictures of Mum screaming at the top of her lungs?”

  “Why do people say that?” I ask. “Why at the top of her lungs? Does the air we need for screaming rise? Like hot air? Maybe we could do an experiment to—? Ow!”

  Holly punches my arm, making her knuckles sharp and pointy so it hurts more. Her face is red and damp but she can’t be crying. Holly never cries.

  “Stop being so . . . so . . . you.” Holly shoves her hands in her hair and growls when they get stuck in her curls. “Mum’s in bits and you’re planning your next experiment? You’re as bad as Dad . . .” Her chin quivers and she pulls her right hand free to dead-arm me again. “What’s he playing at, Know-All? You’re his favourite. He’d have told you if he was going anywhere. Everyone’s saying he’s d—”

  “Disappeared,” I inter
rupt, worried Holly might go for a different “d” word.

  Asked about the likelihood of finding Professor Hawkins alive, a spokesman for Lindon Police said: “We haven’t ruled out the chance and will continue to work towards that end.” However, a source close to the case says, “The police are assuming the Professor was killed in the explosion. They just want to find out how it happened.”

  “Dad’s fine,” I say. “Just missing. You know what he’s like. He’s probably working on some big invention and has forgotten the time.”

  “Forgotten the time? For two whole days?” Holly splutters. “Don’t be daft. What about the leather lace-ups they found in the burnt-out portaloo?”

  “What about them? They only prove that Dad’s shoes were in the toilet when it blew up, not that Dad was. The shoes are a red herring.”

  I know all about red herrings from reading detective stories. Red herrings are fake clues put in place by writers and bad guys to stop you guessing what’s really going on. One of the most common is the mysterious death with no identifiable body – or, as I call it, the “Dead Herring”.

  Dad isn’t dead. This is all part of a cunning plan. He’s a Dead Herring. Dead Herring Dad.

  There must be a hundred reasons why a man might leave his shoes in an exploding toilet and then vanish without a trace. I only need to find one.

  2

  Three Weeks Later . . .

  • Number of theories the police have come up with to explain Dad’s disappearance = 27

  • Number of intelligent theories the police have come up with to explain Dad’s disappearance = 0

  Our local police are not displaying the dedication to crime-fighting I’ve come to expect from watching CSI: Crime Scene Investigation on TV. They certainly don’t solve as many crimes.

  The person who’d be best at figuring out what happened during that toilet explosion is the person who disappeared in the middle of it.

  Dad.

  Dad is famous for finding solutions – often to problems the world doesn’t even know it has. Not everyone agrees with his ideas, but no one can deny he has them.

  What everyone does agree with is TV WOW!’s declaration that Dad is ‘good TV’. Unfortunately, being ‘good TV’ seems to mainly involve winding up everyone else on the programme until they start yelling at you.

  He winds Holly up too.

  He doesn’t wind me up though – he’s too busy helping me. That’s why I miss him. With Dad gone, I have to google stuff instead of just asking him for the answer, Mum has to kidnap the milkman whenever a light bulb needs changing, and Holly has no one left to argue with – except me. And I don’t like it. It’s a painful business arguing with Holly. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.

  So I’ve decided to help the police by taking over the investigation.

  I begin in ICT, on our first day back at school after Christmas, by googling “spontaneous human combustion”. That’s the police’s latest theory:

  Spontaneous human combustion describes the burning of a human body without an apparent external source of ignition. There have been about two hundred reported cases worldwide over a period of around three hundred years.

  “Two hundred divided by three hundred. Two over three. Two-thirds,” I race down the corridor to maths. I always travel around school at speed because a moving target is harder to hit. “How can two-thirds of a person explode per year?” I wonder aloud as I step into the classroom.

  “Easier to think of two people exploding every three years,” my maths teacher, Ms Grimm, suggests.

  Either Ms Grimm has hearing like a super-bat or she’s paying far too much attention to what I have to say.

  “Sit down. Books out,” she barks. “Tell me, Hawkins, have the police made any progress with their investigation into your father’s explosion?”

  I shake my head, partly to say “no”, partly to say “I can’t believe you’re asking me about this”. There are some things you don’t want to discuss with your scary maths teacher. But there’s no special treatment for kids with missing dads at Butt’s Hill Middle School.

  Holly and I got the end of last term off, straight after the explosion, but I suspect that was because the head didn’t like reporters hanging around the school gates, taking photos of Butt’s Hill students smoking, smooching and sneaking out to buy chips.

  “No progress at all? What are these policemen doing?” Ms Grimm curls her lip. “You’ll need your brain in gear if you want to find out what happened, Hawkins. No more silly questions. Start thinking. You’ll never win a Nobel Prize if you can’t apply all that information in your head to real-life situations.”

  Ms Grimm talks about winning prizes a lot. She’s anti-stupid, just like Dad.

  I search my memory for information on Nobel Prizes:

  Every year since 1901 the Nobel Prize has been awarded for achievements in physics, chemistry, physiology or medicine, literature and for peace.

  “You don’t need to worry,” I say as the rest of my class stampede into the cold, grey classroom and dive for the seats near the radiator. “There’s no Nobel Prize for maths.”

  But I think about Ms Grimm’s words. What if I have all the information I need to solve Dad’s disappearance inside my head and I just need to apply it?

  “Seating plan,” Ms Grimm bellows at the radiator-huggers.

  Everyone scuttles to their proper seat. You don’t mess with a woman who looks like she was made from the unwanted parts of several bodies – not all female and possibly not all human.

  Everyone at Butt’s Hill is scared of Ms Grimm, including the head, who has given her the biggest office in the building even though she only works Monday mornings and Friday afternoons. No one knows what Ms Grimm does for the rest of the week. Before the explosion I made a pie chart to show the percentage of students supporting each of the most popular theories:

  The figures are a bit out of date now as I’m too busy getting my head round Dad’s possible spontaneous combustion to think about Ms Grimm’s second career. Plus, I’m starting to think we’ve all got it wrong and she’s a private investigator. We’ve only been back at school for one day and she’s already asked me about the police enquiry three times.

  I round up my two-thirds of a spontaneously combusting person to make a whole one. But that still means, of approximately fifty-six million people in the world who died last year, only one spontaneously combusted.

  My first clue:

  CLUE 1

  It is statistically unlikely Dad spontaneously combusted.

  Pleased with the progress of my investigation, I glance up at the whiteboard. It’s Science Week, so Ms Grimm has asked how we’d calculate the lowest percentage of a mixture of gases in the air needed to create an explosion if ignited.

  I’ve seen this kind of problem somewhere before. I rack my brain for the memory.

  Got it! It was on Ms Grimm’s whiteboard one morning, after she’d been teaching Gifted and Talented Club the night before.

  I put up my hand.

  “Hawkins?”

  “You could use Chair Mixing,” I say. A few people snigger as Ms Grimm pulls her this-student-is-an-idiot face.

  I close my eyes so I can fix the memory of the whiteboard in my mind and read the words written on it:

  “Chair Mixing – Divide the fraction of the total volume of each gas by its lower explosive limit to get the partial lower explosive limit of the mixture.” I ignore the yawns and vomiting noises from the back of the class. “Then sum all the partial lower explosive limits and take the inverse of that sum to get the net lower explosive limit of the mixture.”

  “Perfect,” Ms Grimm nods. “Le Chatelier’s mixing rule.”

  “Er . . . yes. That.” Someone must have rubbed out a few letters on the whiteboard.

  “Everyone else get that?” Ms Grimm asks the class.

  The vomiting noises stop and someone at the back protests, “We’re only Year Eight, Miss.”

  “So is Hawkins.�
�

  “Yeah, but she’s a mutant, Miss.” Smokin’ Joe leans forward, releasing a mouldy stench of stale cigarettes, cat wee and sweaty armpits. “Seriously, Freak Girl, where do you get this stuff? It’s creepy.”

  Creepy? Me? This, from the boy who spends his free time hanging out in the boys’ toilets, smoking cigarettes with the Toilet Trolls.

  “Ms Grimm wrote it on the . . .” I tail off as I realise what I’m saying.

  CLUE 2

  Ms Grimm was calculating how to make things explode a week before Dad’s portaloo blew up.

  Can it be a coincidence? Is she the one responsible for the exploding loo? Is that why she keeps asking about the police? To find out how close they are to rumbling her?

  Maybe the pie chart for Ms Grimm’s second career should look more like this:

  3

  Smoking Shoes

  I will be redirecting my investigation towards Ms Grimm shortly. But at the moment I’m too busy worrying about Mum. Aunty Vera says Mum’s coping badly with Dad’s disappearance. Aunty Vera’s got it wrong. Mum’s not coping badly – she’s not coping at all. Now she’s stopped screaming and yelling, all she does is lie on the sofa hugging stuffed Santas and staring into space.

  The Santa-hugging is particularly disturbing. It’s been three weeks since Christmas and Dad would have made us pack the Christmas things away by now, declaring, “A tidy house is a happy house.”

  He said that a lot. “Maintaining a tidy home is the best way for someone of average intelligence to keep on top of things,” he’d tell Mum, patting her on the head. “I know you try your best, dear, but if you kept the laundry room in better order you might remember to iron my boxer shorts.”

  Post-explosion Mum has given up tidying. And ironing. And . . . well . . . everything really, except eating curry and lying on the couch.

  This is having a worrying side effect. I don’t spend a lot of time looking at Mum’s bum, but I can’t help noticing it’s fast approaching the width of the sofa. It has also taken on the sofa’s square edges.