strange things he said sometimes, stuff about droughts, herd tests and butterfat, straight out of left field. Something wasnât quite right with Matt, but he couldnât work out what.
Snake had warned Adam that the Thackerays were a bunch of weirdos. How true. Even Mrs Thackeray was kind of strange: vague or preoccupied or something.
As Adam marched up the dusty road, Colin drove towards him in the ute, a Toyota with a metal tray. Adam waved. The farmer lifted a finger from the steering wheel in reply, but didnât smile.
The ute rattled past, followed by a stream of dust. Adam coughed it down and resisted turning to swear after his boss. He could cope with the dust because he was so keen to pull the piano apart and find the missing key.
Back at the house his mum had set up her potterâs wheel on the verandah outside the lounge room. A power cord snaked out the open window. What the hell was she doing? Couldnât she contain it to one room?
The light globe on the porch attracted small moths and beetles that fluttered drunkenly against the wall and ceiling. Rosemary was tying the strings of a plastic apron around her back.
âYou and your pots taking over the whole house now?â Adam said in a sour voice.
âItâs like a furnace in the spare room. Iâm sure this place isnât insulated.â
Adam didnât want to talk. He was in too much of a hurry.
âDonât forget itâs your turn to wash up,â she said.
âYeah, Iâll do it later,â he said and went inside, making straight for the piano. He counted the keys, two by two, white first, then black. Yes! Eighty-eight. He felt a rush of satisfaction. Now he was on the right track. He made a thorough inspection of the instrument, feeling each panel, peering underneath. He lifted the lid on top. The smell of dust was overpowering. He looked inside. Nothing but shadows. He let the lid drop with a thud.
âWhat are you doing? Smashing the furniture?â Rosemary called from outside.
âItâs OK, just checking out the piano.â
âDonât be rough with it. Theyâre supposed to be delicate.â
âSure, Mum,â Adam said as he left the room to get a torch.
When he returned he tilted the lid back again and shone the torch. Rows of wooden arms, covered with felting and a thick coat of dust filled the guts of it. But there, just below him at the edge of the moving parts lay a key, small and rusted. He scooped it up.
Adam gave a strangled yelp when the key fitted perfectly into the lock. He took a deep breath and turned it. The drawer opened. Old newspaper lined the base. The only thing in the drawer was a black plastic cylinder, the type used to package photographic film. That was what had made the noise, rolling around. Adam levered the lid off with his thumbnail. Paper was stuffed inside. He pulled it out and examined the writing on it, the same loopy style as the note on the key board. He read the message, enthralled.
Emâs gone. They say sheâs run away. Bullshit. I reckon sheâs dead but itâs all been covered up. Iâve hidden my diary because itâs evidence. If I donât survive, hopefully it will. So if you find this, search for the diary, search for the truth, search for me.
M.T.
Part One lies at the Mount of Venus⦠Hymn it ice guinea pig mix (7, 6) Too bold concealed (3, 4)
Another cryptic clue! Adam was certain. âToo boldâ had to be âold bootâ, the number of letters fitted exactly. But the second line puzzled him. He rubbed at his wonky eye. And what was the Mount of Venus? Heâd heard the expression before, but only to do with girlsâ anatomy.
The paragraph before the cryptic message bothered him. Was it Lina, desperate for help? But no, the initials were wrong. And who was threatening her? Adam kicked off his sneakers and lay back on the bed, holding the note. Of course, it could be a hoax. Just an
Snake had warned Adam that the Thackerays were a bunch of weirdos. How true. Even Mrs Thackeray was kind of strange: vague or preoccupied or something.
As Adam marched up the dusty road, Colin drove towards him in the ute, a Toyota with a metal tray. Adam waved. The farmer lifted a finger from the steering wheel in reply, but didnât smile.
The ute rattled past, followed by a stream of dust. Adam coughed it down and resisted turning to swear after his boss. He could cope with the dust because he was so keen to pull the piano apart and find the missing key.
Back at the house his mum had set up her potterâs wheel on the verandah outside the lounge room. A power cord snaked out the open window. What the hell was she doing? Couldnât she contain it to one room?
The light globe on the porch attracted small moths and beetles that fluttered drunkenly against the wall and ceiling. Rosemary was tying the strings of a plastic apron around her back.
âYou and your pots taking over the whole house now?â Adam said in a sour voice.
âItâs like a furnace in the spare room. Iâm sure this place isnât insulated.â
Adam didnât want to talk. He was in too much of a hurry.
âDonât forget itâs your turn to wash up,â she said.
âYeah, Iâll do it later,â he said and went inside, making straight for the piano. He counted the keys, two by two, white first, then black. Yes! Eighty-eight. He felt a rush of satisfaction. Now he was on the right track. He made a thorough inspection of the instrument, feeling each panel, peering underneath. He lifted the lid on top. The smell of dust was overpowering. He looked inside. Nothing but shadows. He let the lid drop with a thud.
âWhat are you doing? Smashing the furniture?â Rosemary called from outside.
âItâs OK, just checking out the piano.â
âDonât be rough with it. Theyâre supposed to be delicate.â
âSure, Mum,â Adam said as he left the room to get a torch.
When he returned he tilted the lid back again and shone the torch. Rows of wooden arms, covered with felting and a thick coat of dust filled the guts of it. But there, just below him at the edge of the moving parts lay a key, small and rusted. He scooped it up.
Adam gave a strangled yelp when the key fitted perfectly into the lock. He took a deep breath and turned it. The drawer opened. Old newspaper lined the base. The only thing in the drawer was a black plastic cylinder, the type used to package photographic film. That was what had made the noise, rolling around. Adam levered the lid off with his thumbnail. Paper was stuffed inside. He pulled it out and examined the writing on it, the same loopy style as the note on the key board. He read the message, enthralled.
Emâs gone. They say sheâs run away. Bullshit. I reckon sheâs dead but itâs all been covered up. Iâve hidden my diary because itâs evidence. If I donât survive, hopefully it will. So if you find this, search for the diary, search for the truth, search for me.
M.T.
Part One lies at the Mount of Venus⦠Hymn it ice guinea pig mix (7, 6) Too bold concealed (3, 4)
Another cryptic clue! Adam was certain. âToo boldâ had to be âold bootâ, the number of letters fitted exactly. But the second line puzzled him. He rubbed at his wonky eye. And what was the Mount of Venus? Heâd heard the expression before, but only to do with girlsâ anatomy.
The paragraph before the cryptic message bothered him. Was it Lina, desperate for help? But no, the initials were wrong. And who was threatening her? Adam kicked off his sneakers and lay back on the bed, holding the note. Of course, it could be a hoax. Just an
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