Missing Dad 3: Wasted

By J Ryan

Joe St Aubin and girlfriend Becks Bowman have the awful suspicion that his secret agent father could be working for the wrong side – a drugs gang leader and poisoner, the Contessa Palestrina. Worse still, they have discovered that this lethal woman hates Monsieur le Comte de la Rochelle, who has become a father figure to Joe during his quest to find his dad.

When new girl, Talia, arrives at Joe and Becks’ school, they suspect that she is the Contessa’s daughter. Their worst fears are confirmed when Talia invites them to her birthday party in Paris, saying that Monsieur’s son Arnaud will be there. In Paris, they tail the Contessa into her poison laboratory in the Catacombs, but she locks them in there. They blast their way out, but Joe has picked up a mobile phone smeared with a contact poison. He is close to death when Monsieur saves him with an injection.

At the party, Talia collapses. With Monsieur, the teenagers pursue the Contessa to his yacht in Marseille. She has taken Arnaud hostage with a deadly remote control poison bracelet, and demands that Monsieur sails to England. During the violent storm that follows, tragic revelations emerge about Monsieur’s past, and Joe’s life is about to change forever...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Nov 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781788030984

J Ryan

Following the success in schools of the first two books in the 4-part ‘Missing Dad’ series, 1: Wanted and 2: Twisted (Matador, 2015 and 2017), J Ryan is launching book 3: Wasted. The book is eagerly awaited by students who discovered a passion for reading when they first picked up the teen spy thriller.

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Copyright © 2017 Jane Ryan

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781788030984

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Contents

Chapter 1  Paranoia

Chapter 2  Hyperlink

Chapter 3  Foul

Chapter 4  Suspicion

Chapter 5  Secret Lives

Chapter 6  The Double Hook

Chapter 7  Portrait of Napoleon

Chapter 8  Empire of the Dead

Chapter 9  Behind the Mask

Chapter 10  The Long Cord

Chapter 11  Storm Force

Chapter 12  The Fury

Chapter 13  A Leap in the Dark

Chapter 14  Talia

Chapter 15  Memory

Chapter 1

Paranoia

Last night, after Becks and I found out, I tried and tried to call Monsieur. Not even voicemail. I just sat there in the dark, holding my useless phone.

Then, I must have slept. I was back on that Corsican mountain, in Bertolini’s penthouse suite. The sun was flooding the room with pale gold light. And there, lashed to the ceiling pillars, lay Bertolini and his men; tied up by me and my mates. With prison waiting for them, after they’d come so close to killing us all.

In the dream, I heard Monsieur’s words as he looked at the man who’d taken his son away from him for so long. ‘It is not police that he fears the most.’

That night, Becks and I had worked out from the coded email who scares Bertolini more than the police. This woman runs a drugs gang and she wants his. She poisons people who get in her way.

She’s reaching out a deadly hand from the past towards Monsieur. She knows Becks and me. And my father, who I don’t know anymore whether to love or hate, seems to have become part of her darkness.

***

‘Joe. Joe!’

‘They’re going to arrest you!’

‘My sax wasn’t that loud last night. Wake up, Joe!’

Bertolini’s hard dark eyes fade into Jack’s fuzzy blond hair. My little brother’s in his school uniform. Mine is draped over the chair where Mum left it, all ready for me. She’ll have left for work.

‘We’ve got ten minutes to make the bus, Joe. Your baked beans are on the kitchen table. Fats has got his eye on it.’

‘Go away.’

‘Right, I will. I’m going to feed my fish.’ Jack stomps off into his room.

Yawning like an alligator, I drag myself out of bed and pull on the grey trousers and white shirt. In the bathroom, I quickly brush my teeth and squirt on deodorant. No time for a shower. Or for those baked beans on toast. When I was twelve years old like Jack, I was so good at getting up. What happened?

As we fly for the door, Jack shouts, ‘Don’t forget your dinner money!’ He sounds like Mum. I scoop up the two one pound coins off the kitchen table, grab my school bag and we run to the Co-Op round the corner for the bus.

The small single-decker’s packed, as usual. It smells of crisps and unwashed bodies like mine. Small Year Seven kids scribble away at last-minute homework. Their blue blazers are still way too big for them, hanging down over their hands, with baggy shoulders. The more seasoned kids are trying to look cool, chatting loudly and chewing gum. The girls’ skirts are the shortest they dare before the head of year tells them to get ‘appropriate wear’. The boys are doing the tie thing. I really can’t be arsed, trying to make my tie look short and fat. It’s hard enough trying to make it look like a tie. They must get up so early.

Jack clutches his saxophone case firmly as we stand while the bus bumps along. He left it at the bus stop last year when he was a new boy. We both jumped off at the next stop and ran all the way back for it. Amazingly, it was still there. We were well late. Detentions all round. But Jack had his precious sax back.

‘Hey Joe, did you take in the Chillies? We didn’t see you.’ Mick Arnott’s sat with his mates in the back seat. He only speaks to anyone when he thinks he’s gone one better.

‘Had to give it a miss.’

‘Go anywhere, then?’

‘France. Didn’t see you either.’

We’re crammed up against the other kids as we get off at the school. Some of them smell a lot worse than me.

‘See y’later, Jack.’

‘Later, Joe.’ Sax case in one hand, heavy school bag around his shoulders, Jack marches off towards his form base. He’s got a lot taller this last half term. I hope I stop soon. It’s scary, this growing thing. You wake up and your school shoes don’t fit anymore. And Mum grumbles, like it’s my fault she’s got to buy me new ones.

Becks ambushes me breathlessly as we cross paths in Reception. Her mane of red hair floats around her shoulders. It smells fresh and lemony. ‘Did you get through to Monsieur?’

‘Nothing. What are we going to do, Becks?’

‘Let’s talk at lunch. Can you make any sense of your new timetable?’

‘I didn’t know we had new timetables.’

‘It’s the new building they finished over the half term hols. Everyone’s got moved around. This says I have to be in G3. But it’s full of Year Sevens doing ICT.’

I shrug. ‘We could just go home…’

‘Joe!’

‘Alright, let’s ask Yoda.’

We queue for the Reception office. With a sliding glass screen between her and us, Miss Armitage looks like a bank cashier. In the five years that I’ve been at this school, she never seems to get any older than sixty. Except, maybe she’s got smaller. But perhaps that’s me getting bigger. She taps on her keyboard, squinting through frameless glasses. ‘You are supposed to be in G3, Rebecca. Mr Hanks?’

‘That’s the room on my timetable, Miss Armitage. But there’s all these Year Sevens?’

Miss Armitage opens another file on the computer. She takes off her glasses. Grandad does that too. It seems to help him see better. She looks hard at the screen. ‘It could be that you’re in E5. Oh, and there’s a note here.’ She rummages in the pile of memos on her desk. ‘We have a new girl who’s in your form. The head of year would like you to help her settle in. Talia.’ She blinks at Becks. ‘What an unusual name.’

‘What’s her surname, Miss Armitage?’

She pushes a strand of grey hair behind her ear, and looks again at the memo. ‘I’m sure I’m not going to pronounce this correctly. You’ll have to ask Mr Hayes. It’s…Palestrina? Goodness, how exotic. It sounds Italian.’

***

At lunch the queue goes right round the hall. Becks is near the front. I slip her my dinner money. ‘Can you get me a bacon and egg baguette?’

‘If you can lend me two quid for a tuna salad. Dad forgot, as usual.’

I fish in my pockets. ‘Damn. Mum’s washed my trousers. The dosh must be in the washing machine.’

Becks grins. ‘That’s money laundering, isn’t it?’

‘Wait up…’ I dig deep into my school bag. A pound coin – treasure trove. Along with a stick of chewing gum and that pen I thought I’d lost a hundred years ago. Then, one by painstaking one, I hook out fifteen pence. My finger nails are full of the dark matter at the bottom of my school bag. Still eighty five pence short. We’re nearly at the canteen window. I pull all my books out of my bag onto the floor. Some Year Eights snigger. I could cheerfully garrot them.

‘You would like…?’

The voice is soft and just a bit hoarse. I can’t work out the accent. I look up. A slim hand is offering me a one pound coin. I look further up. The girl’s face is heart-shaped, framed by shoulder-length, pale blonde hair. She smiles. ‘You need…?’

The hand is still there with the one pound coin. Her skin is tanned. She wears the regulation blue blazer like a Versace jacket. Her blue eyes look directly at mine.

‘That’s really kind of you Talia, but we’re cool, thanks.’ Becks rummages madly in her bag. ‘I’m sure Joe’s going to turn up that dosh any second. AREN’T you, Joe?’

I turn my bag upside down in front of the dinner queue. A wad of sodden tissues plops out. Groans go up. ‘Bird Flu! Get away from him!’

I growl, ‘Yeah, why don’t you? Then I eat first.’

No one moves. I shake the bag. A broken ruler, bits of pen and a shower of pencil sharpenings rain onto the floor. Followed by two reports that I told Mum and Grandad I’d lost, they were so bad. I give the bag a last, furious shake.

A one pound coin falls, and rolls away towards the stairs. I fly after it, in a rugby tackle. Claps and whoops come from the hungry, as I retrieve the pound and hand it to Becks with a grin and a bow. The dinner teacher is walking slowly our way. And Becks’ eyebrows are joined up.

Talia smiles again then saunters towards the back of the queue. I rush after her. ‘Look, Becks is getting mine. She can get yours, too.’

The blue eyes widen. ‘You get my food? Is very kind.’

‘What are you having?’

She hesitates. ‘I have…same as you, Joe. Is good?’

‘Oh, they do a great bacon and egg. Do you want a drink?’

‘Water, thank you.’

‘Good choice. It’s free.’

She laughs like I’ve made a brilliant joke. ‘You, Mister Funny, Joe.’ She offers me a five pound note. ‘This, for me, and for you.’

‘No…you don’t have to…’

Her laughter sounds like bells. ‘My first day. You are good to me, Joe.’

‘Well…alright…thanks. But, you’ll come and sit with us, then?’

She nods. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

I’m pretty sure now that Yoda was right. Talia’s accent is Italian. My face is hot as I get back to Becks and hand her the note. ‘Can you make it two bacon and egg? I’ll get the water.’

‘Sure you don’t want champagne?’

‘Look, Becks, Mr Hayes asked you to help Talia settle in, didn’t he?’

Turning to the dinner ladies, Becks mutters, ‘He didn’t say anything about waitressing.’

A small Year Seven voice says, ‘Please? We’re starving!’

I pick up all the debris from my bag, cram it back in and go to the water fountain. Talia’s sat at a table on her own. Every other table has kids packed round it, their plastic forks scooping chicken Korma, jacket potato or cheese salad out of polystyrene dishes. Others are eating baguettes or delving into their lunchboxes. How did Talia get this table all to herself? She waits expectantly as Becks and I plonk down the baguettes and the water. ‘Thank you, Joe.’

‘Well, Becks got the food.’

‘Here’s your change, Talia.’ Becks shoves the coins across the table.

Talia nods graciously at her. ‘Thank you.’

Becks bites into her tuna salad baguette like she’s taking off someone’s head.

I attack my bacon and egg. Talia nibbles at hers. I swallow. ‘You here for the sixth form too, Talia?’

‘Prego?’

‘Sorry?’

She smiles again. ‘My English is not so good, Joe. I hope…it will get better? Is that right?’

‘It’s fine, Talia. Er…how long are you here for?’

She hesitates. ‘For…a while. My mother says I stay.’

‘Is she here too?’

‘No. She is in France. Paris.’

While I take another massive bite at my baguette, Becks asks, ‘Where are you staying, Talia?’

‘Friends…of my mother. They come, in a car.’

‘They pick you up after school?’

‘Yes.’

The bell rings a raucous five minute warning for afternoon lessons. Talia smiles again and picks up her bag.

‘See you, Talia.’

‘Ciao, Joe.’ A pause. ‘Ciao, Becks.’ She heads for the door of the dining hall with a casual, swinging walk.

‘Chow? That’s a type of dog, isn’t it? Or did she mean the food?’

‘I couldn’t give a stuff. How are we going to get hold of Monsieur?’

‘You tell me. I’ve only got his mobile – no email, or anything.’

‘Suppose we try snail mail and write to him at the chateau?’

‘He said he and Arnaud couldn’t go back there, remember?’

‘They might, very quickly, to get some things?’

I scrunch up my baguette wrapper and chuck it in the bin. ‘Too risky. If the French police search the place, they could find the letter. It would connect Monsieur with that horrible woman and that’s the last thing he needs.’

The bell rings again. Chairs scrape and bang as everyone starts to move off.

‘We’d better go. I’ve got to see my form tutor about my timetable.’

‘I’ll call you tonight.’ Becks shrugs on her blazer and tucks in her blouse. Her green eyes glance at my tie. ‘Better straighten it out. You don’t want to get told off in front of a load of grinning Year Sevens.’

‘Those trousers look a bit big. You’ve got thinner in the hols.’

‘You look skinnier too. Must be all that running away from Corsican bandits.’

I take her hand as we join the stampede for the door. ‘These healthy lunches don’t help. I’m smuggling in chocs for us tomorrow.’

Becks raises her eyebrows. ‘Suspected hit and run driver, drug runner, terrorist – and now a choc smuggler? That’s promotion, Joe!’

***

IT3 is hot and stuffy. The air con must be off. Glazed eyes stare at the spreadsheet on the whiteboard. Jemal whispers, ‘I’m sure that clock’s stopped. It must have been on quarter past three for twenty minutes!’

‘Is there something you’d like to share with us, Jemal? You’ve had a sudden insight into Goal Seek?’

‘Sorry, Madam.’

Tapping round the workstations in her high heels and elegant suit, Miss Davies gives out question sheets. ‘Now, I want this homework in by Friday. It’ll help you to polish up on cell