The Black Phone Read online

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 The Crying Girl

  Chapter 2 Text Crime

  Chapter 3 Three Texts

  Chapter 4 No Pressure

  Chapter 5 Suspect One: Cheat

  Chapter 6 Suspect Two: Hard Man

  Chapter 8 Hopelessly Devoted

  Chapter 9 Suspect Three: Princess

  Chapter 10 Trending

  Chapter 11 Closing In

  Chapter 12 Who Did It?

  Chapter 13 Answers

  Chapter 1

  The Crying Girl

  Frankie was pushing Seb home from school when they came across the crying girl.

  She was sitting on the kerb, just round the corner from Seb’s house. Her head was in her hands. Her long blonde hair shook as sobs shuddered through her body.

  Frankie halted and Seb applied the brake on his wheelchair.

  The girl was Tara Adamski, a Year 7 student like they were. She was American, and she had been at Seb and Frankie’s school since September.

  Tara was the most beautiful girl Seb had ever seen. She was tall and tanned, and had spectacular teeth, as white and even as chewing gum pieces. Her accent was thick and slow and sweet, like golden syrup.

  He’d been a little bit in love with her from the day she arrived. He wasn’t sure she even knew he existed. But he was happy to admire her from a distance. Now here she was, crying her eyes out in the street.

  “Tara?” he said.

  She looked up. Even though her face was puffy and streaked with tears, it was still lovely enough to take Seb’s breath away.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh Seb,” Tara sniffed. “Darn it, I wish you hadn’t seen me like this. It’s nothing. Just… dumb stuff.”

  “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’ to me,” Frankie said. “What’s going on?”

  “You homesick?” Seb asked.

  “No, it ain’t that,” Tara said. “I mean, sure, I miss all my friends back home. But we keep in touch. It’s not so bad.”

  “So, why are you crying?”

  “You can tell us,” Frankie added. “We’re good listeners.”

  “I know.” Tara wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. “I know about you guys. Ford and Keane. You’re, like, detectives, right? You solve mysteries, right wrongs, do good.”

  Seb felt a burning glow of pride. Tara Adamski had heard of him! She knew what he did!

  “That’s us,” he said. “If you’ve got a problem, Ford and Keane can help. Missing jewellery, lost pet, stolen wallet, strange goings-on next door – you name it, we solve it. Once Frankie and I are on the case, we won’t stop until we’ve owww!”

  Frankie had just rapped him sharply on the head with her knuckles.

  “Why did you do that?” Seb complained.

  “Tara doesn’t want to hear you blah-blah-blah-ing on about what we do. She wants to talk. Don’t you, Tara?”

  “Yeah,” Tara said. “Yeah, I do. That’s why I was waiting here, as a matter of fact. I was hoping you two would come along. ’Specially you, Seb. Everyone says you’re smart, a regular Einstein.”

  Seb preened.

  “And I could really do with some help,” Tara went on, looking imploringly at Seb. “It sounds crazy, but somebody’s after me. They’ve got it in for me. I think they might even want me dead!”

  Chapter 2

  Text Crime

  In the Annex at the back of Seb’s house, Seb and Frankie listened while Tara explained.

  “It started a week ago,” Tara said. “I got this text, see, on my cell. My mobile, as you Brits say. Unknown caller. The text said…”

  She started trembling.

  “It’s OK,” Seb soothed. “Take your time.”

  “Why don’t I just show you instead?”

  Tara fished her mobile from her pocket. It was a top-of-the-range smartphone. Its jet black shell was smattered with clear-coloured crystals, like stars in the night sky. She scrolled through her inbox and selected a message.

  Seb read the text, with Frankie peering over his shoulder.

  u r a stuk up yank cow. every1 hates u. y don’t u just die?

  “Nice,” said Frankie.

  “That was only the first,” said Tara. “It’s way from being the worst.”

  “How long have they been coming?” Seb asked.

  “The past ten days or so.”

  “And how many have there been in all?”

  “About twenty so far, I guess.”

  “Can I look at them?”

  “Sure. Any text that isn’t listed under someone’s name, just a number, that’s one.”

  Seb inspected the messages. The sender hated Tara with a passion. He – or she – called her awful names, described her as stupid and ugly, and made ominous-sounding threats.

  One of the texts said Tara should go back to America and stop stinking up Britain. Another wished that she would have a terrible car accident and be scarred for life. Yet another talked about how it would be great if she could do everyone a favour and just kill herself.

  Seb was shocked. How could anybody write such things? And what’s more, about a girl as dazzling as Tara Adamski?

  “You’ve gone to the police, of course,” he said.

  “My mom and pop insisted,” Tara said, nodding. “Waste of time. The cops said, not their problem. A school matter.”

  “So you took it to Mrs Broomfield?” Frankie said. Mrs Broomfield was the headmistress.

  “Uh-huh,” said Tara. “That was a big fat bust too. It’s obvious it’s somebody at school sending the messages, but she was all like, ‘What am I going to do, punish everybody?’ She told me to try the cops.”

  “Police say it’s the school’s problem, school says it’s the police’s.” Seb sighed hard. “Typical.”

  “Did you try calling back on the number?” Frankie asked.

  “Uh-huh,” said Tara, nodding. “Nobody picked up.”

  “They’re probably just using that phone to do the bullying,” said Seb. “Bought it specially for that purpose.”

  “So that’s why I’ve come to see you guys,” Tara said. “I reckon you’re my last hope.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Frankie said.

  “Find this creep,” Tara said forcefully. “Find him and get him to stop. I don’t think I can stand it much longer. I can’t sleep. I’m scared to check my phone. I feel like everyone at school’s staring at me, glaring at me. I… I’m even beginning to think maybe I would be better off dead. You know, if folks hate me that much…”

  She started to cry again. Seb wheeled himself over to a shelf and grabbed down a box of tissues. Everything in his Annex was the right height for a 12-year-old in a wheelchair. The whole room had been built with Seb’s disability in mind, from the extra-wide doorway to the specially designed computer desk.

  He handed Tara the box of tissues. She took it gratefully and blew her nose.

  Even her nose-blowing, Seb thought, was attractive.

  “Don’t say things like that,” he told her. “This rat-bag wants you to feel worthless. He’s getting his kicks making you doubt yourself. The only way he’ll win is if he sees you give in.”

  “Seb’s right,” said Frankie. “We know what we’re talking about. We’ve both of us been there.”

  “You have?” said Tara.

  “Oh yeah. I’ve been given stick ’cause I’m big and mixed race and don’t have a dad. Seb, ’cause he’s in a wheelchair. There are bullies out there who’ll pick on you for whatever reason – you look different, you speak different – anything. Don’t let them grind you down.”

  “This person’s scaring you,” said Seb, “he’s making you miserable, but he can’t really hurt you. All he’s got is words.”
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  “But what if it isn’t just words?” said Tara. “What if he gets bored of texting and tries to make it, you know, physical?”

  “That’d be something else. But we’re not there yet, and Frankie and I are going to make sure it doesn’t go that far. Now, I suppose you tried blocking the caller number, yes?”

  Tara nodded. “But he just started using another phone. See? There’s one number for the first three days. Then I blocked it. Next day the texts started coming in again, from a different number. And I reckon if I block that second number he’ll start using a third, and so on. It’ll never end.”

  “How about changing your own number?” Frankie suggested.

  “You think I haven’t thought of that?” the American girl retorted. “But seeing as he got hold of this number, I doubt he’d have trouble getting hold of another.”

  “Also, you shouldn’t have to do that,” Seb said. “Why should you have to be mucked around because of some idiot? Some idiot who can’t even spell.”

  There were words spelled incorrectly in almost all of the texts. One or two might just have been mistakes. Most, however, seemed evidence of poor literacy skills.

  “Yeah,” said Tara. She braved a smile. “I knew you’d understand, Seb. I knew you’d care.”

  “You bet I care,” Seb replied. “We’re going to nail this sucker, Tara, I promise you that. You may have struck out with the police and Mrs Broomfield, but it won’t be ‘third strike and you’re out’ with Seb Ford and Frankie Keane, no sir!”

  * * *

  “‘Nail this sucker’?” Frankie echoed, after Tara had left. “‘Third strike and you’re out’? ‘No sir’? What are you like, Seb?”

  Seb shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Don’t know what came over me. Suddenly I went all American.”

  Frankie gave a sly smile. “You weren’t by any chance trying to suck up to Tara? Impress her maybe? Just a little?”

  Seb’s cheeks flared red. “No idea what you mean.”

  “Oh come off it!” Frankie snorted. “Anyone can see you like her. And who can blame you? She’s a stunner. Hollywood-grade looks.”

  “She does want to be in movies when she’s older,” Seb admitted.

  “Trust you to know that.”

  “Everyone knows it. And she can act, too. She’s got the lead in this year’s musical, hasn’t she? So she must be good.”

  “Either that or she did her twinkly-eye, flashy-teeth thing on Mr O’Hare at the casting auditions, and he fell for it too.”

  “Eurgh!” Seb pulled a face. “That’s nasty. Slaphead O’Hare’s, like, thirty-five. Ancient. Anyway, what do you mean by ‘too’? Are you saying she was flirting with me just now?”

  Frankie fixed him with a look: well, duh!

  “She was not,” Seb said, then added, “Was she?”

  Frankie rolled her eyes. “Come on, lover boy,” she said. “Head in the game. We’ve got work to do!”

  Chapter 3

  Three Texts

  Tara had left the black, crystal-encrusted phone with them. Seb had promised he would return it to her the next morning, outside the school gate. He was pleased about this. It gave him an excuse to see her again soon. Also, everyone would see him talking to her, which would earn him some cool points.

  Frankie watched as Seb synched the phone with his PC via a USB cable. He pulled up a list on the monitor – a log of all the calls and texts that had been made and received on the phone.

  He selected the incoming texts that originated from the two numbers Tara had flagged, opened them and printed off the contents.

  “You’re not going to look at any of the other texts?” Frankie said. “Mightn’t there be clues there?”

  “It’s Tara’s private stuff. We’re detectives, not nosey parkers.”

  Seb began poring over the messages. Frankie went to the kitchen, made herself a drink and a sandwich, had a nice chat with Seb’s mum, and came back to the Annex half an hour later to find Seb still poring over them. Seb’s powers of concentration were amazing. Frankie was more at the ADHD end of things.

  “Right,” Seb said. “I’ve singled out three of these. Take a look.”

  The first said:

  u think ur so pritty but you aint. u only got nice teeth like that coz Daddy payed 4 em

  The second said:

  u dont diserve 2 b sandy. ur the 1 that we dont want ha ha ha

  The third said:

  u shouldent of acused L of copeying off u in chemistry. go sit sumwhere else in the labouratory, or else

  “God, it makes my blood boil,” Frankie said through clenched teeth. “If there’s one thing I hate – really hate – it’s bullies.”

  Seb knew this from personal experience. On his very first day at Charrington Secondary, a group of boys had started to pick on him. He was trying to get his wheelchair up the school’s access ramp, but it had snowed recently and the ramp was coated with ice. He kept slipping backwards.

  The boys jeered at him and called him “steel wheels” and then other, nastier names. Seb did his best to ignore them. First day at a new school. He didn’t want to make waves.

  Then the boys grabbed the wheelchair. Seb was helpless. He wished he hadn’t told his mum to drop him at the gate and drive off. He wished he’d listened to her when she offered to push him all the way into school.

  The boys shoved the wheelchair to the foot of the ramp. Then they started jerking it up and down and spinning it round in circles. There were no teachers in sight. Other kids just strolled by, looking the other way. They didn’t want to get involved.

  Then, out of nowhere, Frankie appeared. Without a word, she strode up to the bullies and punched the largest of them in the nose. Blood poured out and the boy fell to the ground, shrieking. The rest of the boys scurried away in alarm.

  “They won’t be bothering you again,” Frankie told Seb. “And if they do, let me know and I’ll sort them out.”

  Seb wasn’t sure what to make of this sturdy girl with tightly curled hair. “Thanks,” he said, “but I was handling it.”

  “No you weren’t, you were pretending it wasn’t happening. That’s not the same as handling it.”

  “Won’t you get into trouble?” Seb said. “That kid will tell a teacher who hit him.”

  Frankie shrugged. “No, he won’t. And even if he did, I’ll tell Mrs Broomfield why I did it, and she’ll believe me, not him. That was Greg Stubbs. He’s got a reputation.”

  “I suppose I’d know that if I wasn’t a newbie,” said Seb.

  “Yeah well, serves you right for starting so late.”

  “Hey, not my fault. My dad’s company just relocated him, smack in the middle of the school year. Sebastian Ford, by the way.” Seb stuck out his hand. “Although I prefer Seb.”

  Frankie shook it. “Francesca Keane, but call me Frankie, because if you don’t I’ll hit you and all.”

  “Oh, um, OK.” Seb winced. “You have a very strong grip, Frankie.”

  Frankie beamed. “I punch hard too.” The bell rang for classes. “Want me to give you a push?” She saw the look on his face. “Or possibly you don’t need any help.”

  “I can manage,” said Seb. He eyed the ramp. Like a ski slope, it seemed. All slick, white and slippery. And he was still rattled after his encounter with Greg Stubbs and pals. “Then again…”

  Seb and Frankie had been firm friends ever since. When Seb decided his calling in life was to be an amateur detective, there was only one person he wanted as his partner.

  * * *

  “So?” he said now, after he’d given Frankie time to study the three texts.

  “Well, the first one, about Tara’s teeth? That says jealous to me.”

  “Me too,” said Seb. “Lots of American kids have their teeth fixed like that. You know, made all straight and white. Over there they crack jokes about how bad British people’s teeth are.”

  “My teeth aren’t bad,” Frankie pointed out.

  “Yeah, they’re
lovely, but by American standards they’re still just average.”

  Frankie pouted.

  “What about text number two?” Seb said.

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Frankie. “This year’s musical is Grease, and Tara bagged the female lead, Sandy. You, of course, will be right there in the front row for every performance, clapping till your hands fall off.”

  Seb’s cheeks flushed pink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “’Cause she’s your girlfriend,” Frankie mocked.

  “She is not.”

  “She is and you lurve her.”

  “Let’s focus,” Seb said. “‘You’re the one that we don’t want.’ That’s a reference to the song in Grease – ‘You’re The One That I Want’. So whoever this cyber-bully is, he’s familiar with the musical. And when I say ‘he’, I also mean ‘she’.”

  “You think it could be a girl?”

  “Why not? Girls can be worse bullies than boys. Boy bullies usually just duff you up. Girl bullies use mind games, and that can do more harm than a thump.”

  Frankie nodded, knowing only too well what Seb was saying. Girls’ tongues were sharp. They knew what stung.

  “And finally,” Seb said, “text three. Anything strike you about that one?”

  “The really bad spelling.”

  “Yes, the spelling is interesting. But that’s not all.”

  “Tara caught someone cheating off her in an exam and made a big fuss about it.”

  “Exactly,” said Seb. “And…?”

  “If we can find out who this ‘L’ is, then we’ve got a likely suspect – someone with a grudge against Tara.”

  “But the text doesn’t say ‘me’, it says ‘L’. Implying it was someone else – anyone who knew about her accusing this ‘L’ of cheating.”

  “Yes, but they’re trying to hide their identity, aren’t they? If he – or she – had said ‘me’, that’d be a confession right there.”

  “Yes,” said Seb. “That was my thinking too.”

  “Have I done well, Master Yoda?”

  “Very well you have done, young Jedi.”

  They laughed.

  “Although…” Seb’s face creased in a frown. “Isn’t a bit curious that Tara didn’t draw our attention to that text? It seems to point almost directly to the sender.”