The Secret Key. Lena Jones

today …’ I say out loud. ‘But it was OK – he just let me off with a warning.’ I continue, tidying up some clothes. I do this sometimes. Tell Mum about my day.

      I change from my school uniform into my pyjamas, hanging everything on the rails and placing my red beret in its box. What to wear tomorrow? I choose a silk scarf of Mum’s, a beautiful red floral Chinese one. I love pairing Mum’s old clothes with items I’ve picked up at jumble sales and charity shops, though some of them are too precious to wear out of the house.

      Next, I go over to my desk in the corner and unearth my laptop, which is buried under a pile of clothes. I switch it on and log in. People at school think I don’t use social media, but I do. I might read a paper copy of The Times instead of scrolling down my phone, and write my notes with a pen. But I’m more interested in technology than they’d know. You can find out so much about people by looking at what they put online. Of course, I don’t have a profile under my own name. No – online, my name is Felicity Lemon.

      Nobody seems to have noticed that Felicity isn’t real. Several people from school have accepted my friend requests, including all three of the CCs. None of them have realised that ‘Felicity Lemon’ is the name of Hercule Poirot’s secretary, or that my profile photo is a 1960s snap of French singer Françoise Hardy.

      I scroll through Felicity’s feed, which seems to be endless pictures of Sarah Rathbone, Ruth Masters and Brianna Pike. They must have flown out to somewhere in Europe for a mini-break over half-term. They pose on sunloungers, dangle their feet in a hotel swimming pool and sit on the prow of a boat, hair blowing behind them like a shampoo commercial. Despite myself, I feel a twinge of jealousy and put the lid down.

      Rummaging through my satchel, I take out the notebook that I started earlier in the day. I put it by my bed with my fountain pen, in case inspiration strikes in the night – that’s what a good detective does: they note down everything, because they never know what tiny detail might be the key to cracking a case.

      Most of my notebooks have a black cover, but some of them are red – these are the ones about Mum – all twenty-two of them. They have their own place on a high shelf. My notes are in-depth – from where she used to get her hair cut to who she mixed with at the neighbourhood allotments. Every little detail. I don’t want to forget a single thing.

      I look over at Mum’s picture in its frame on my bedside table. She’s balanced on her bike, half smiling, one foot on the ground. She’s wearing big sunglasses, a crêpe skirt, a floppy hat and a kind smile. There’s a stack of books strapped to the bike above the back wheel. The police had blamed the books for her losing control of her bike that day – but Mum always had a pile of books like that. I don’t believe that was the real cause of her accident. That’s not why Mum died. Something else had to be the reason.

      I climb into bed and pull the sheet over me, then take a last look at the photograph.

      A lump rises in my throat. ‘Night, Mum,’ I say, as I turn out the light.

      

      ‘Dad, will you stop letting Oliver walk all over the work surface? It’s unhygienic.’

      I’m trying to wash up the bowl I used for breakfast, but our cat is sitting by the sink and keeps batting my hand with his tail. He’s purring loudly at the fun new game he’s invented. I turn to look at Dad, who is hunched over a bowl at the table. He shrugs and shovels in another spoonful of cereal. He’s running late, as usual.

      ‘I can’t watch him all the time, Agatha.’

      Sighing, I scoop Oliver off the counter. He’s grey, and on the portly side from all the treats Dad feeds him. He causes so much trouble, but he has a special place in my heart. He’s middle-aged in cat years, and his main hobby is sitting – on the work surface in the kitchen, in front of the mirror in the hall or on the threadbare armchair that used to be Mum’s. I suppose he misses her too. When he isn’t sitting, he’s lying down.

      Oliver rubs his face up against my chin and I scratch the soft fur of his neck. I can feel his low, rumbling purr in my chest. I think back to the day I first met him. It was a rainy afternoon, and I was sitting by the fire, reading. Mum had come in through the front door with a cardboard box, which she brought over and set down in front of me.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Why don’t you find out?’ she said, smiling and shaking the raindrops from her hair.

      I opened the wet cardboard box. At first it seemed to be full of nothing but blankets. I looked at Mum, puzzled.

      ‘Keep searching – just be careful.’

      I pulled back the layers of blanket, realising that there was a sort of hollow in the middle of them, like a nest. And there – curled into itself and barely bigger than my fist – was a kitten. My eyes widened with surprise, and I didn’t dare touch the sleeping creature.

      ‘Go on – you can stroke him.’

      ‘Him?’

      ‘Yes, he’s a boy. You’ll have to think of a name.’

      I thought about this for a moment. ‘Why do I have to think of a name?’

      Mum laughed. ‘Because he’s yours.’

      ‘He’s … mine?’

      Something like a shiver passed through me as he opened two huge ink-black eyes and looked up at me.

      Then Mum had put her arms round me from behind and held me while I held Oliver. I closed my eyes.

      The memory was so clear – even though that kitten was fully grown now, Mum was still somewhere behind me, holding her arms round me. He might have been mine, but his heart always belonged to Mum.

      I put Oliver down on the tiles and clear my throat. As I finish my washing-up and dry my hands, Dad brings his empty bowl over to the sink.

      ‘Are you OK, love?’

      I nod and manage a smile. ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘It’s just, you look a bit …’ He puts his head on one side.

      ‘… of a genius?’ I suggest, trying to deflect the attention from myself and clear the lump in my throat, but he doesn’t laugh.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ Dad is more interested in things that grow in soil than things that live in houses, but sometimes he notices more than I expect.

      ‘I’m fine, Dad, really …’

      ‘Really?’ He puts a shovel-sized hand on my shoulder.

      ‘Yes, really, Dad. Now go – get to work before you’re late!’ I reach up on tiptoes and hug him. For Dad, actions make more sense than words. He softens.

      ‘Hold on,’ I say, ‘your collar’s all twisted.’ I sort out his polo shirt and he stands very still, like an obedient child.

      ‘Right – you’ll do,’ I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Off you go.’

      ‘Have a good day, love.’

      Dad goes, and I rush back upstairs to finish getting ready. I brush my teeth and pull on my blazer, brushing my hair until my dark bob shines. I tie Mum’s red silk scarf round my neck like a lucky charm and, finally, put on my tortoiseshell sunglasses – perfect for observing people without them noticing. Next, I pack my satchel – notebook, magnifying glass, sample pots for evidence, fingerprint powder and my second-best lock-picking kit. (My best one has been locked in the headmaster’s shiny desk since yesterday afternoon.)

      Outside,