Let's Catch a Murderer!: Let's Catch, #1

By N. J. Hill

When an unknown blonde is found dead at the bottom of a cliff—then disappears—Tom and Charlie's term break takes a sinister turn. If the boys knew they'd be chasing a dangerous criminal instead of relaxing by the seaside, they never would have planned their trip to Cornwall. But when they realise the main suspect is innocent, they have no choice but to get involved.

Tom navigates a new friendship while he tries to prove that the police have the wrong man. Instead, he uncovers a plot too twisted to ignore. Who was the killer? Who was the victim? And which of the village's crazy residents are involved? Will Tom convince the town of the truth before he is killed?

The Let's Catch series harks back to the classics like The Famous Five (Enid Blyton), The Hardy Boys (Franklin W. Dixon) and Nancy Drew (Carolyn Keene). If you like modern young adult mysteries packed with witty dialogue, fast-paced action, and a bit of drama, you can't miss Let's Catch a Murderer!. Suitable for teens but loved by readers of all ages.

Get this fast-paced mystery now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Let's Catch books
• Release date: Dec 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9780648207412

N. J. Hill

I’m N. J. Hill, an Australian author who lives in London.  I make the most of being in Europe by travelling, and use my experiences as inspiration for writing.  When creating stories I take an interesting setting and add a touch of mystery and adventure. The first book in my Let’s catch series is Let’s catch a murderer – you can look forward to reading it in 2018.

Book preview

1

Once upon a time , Tom scribbled in his notebook with one eye on the clock at the front of the classroom. No. Sir always said that starting a story with that phrase was hackneyed, which Tom had thought was some sort of axe. He crossed it out with more force than necessary.

How had most of the lesson passed without him having written a single complete sentence? All he could think about was finishing school for the day so he could go to the football. Tom had won two tickets in an online competition—he’d never usually be able to afford to go—and he couldn’t wait to attend his first live match. But even if he wasn’t distracted, he’d have no idea how to write a story.

Some of the girls had filled pages and pages with their curly handwriting. How did they do it? Tom’s head was filled with exciting adventures—he longed to run away and explore the countryside, living off what he could find, fending off whatever got in his way—but he just couldn’t get them down on paper.

Stop work, everyone, Mr Marsh’s deep voice boomed.

The pain was over! Time for lunch.

Mr Marsh walked with a boy from the doorway. The kid was skinny, but his uniform didn’t hang off him like Tom’s, whose clothes were bought a few sizes too big so that he wouldn’t grow out of them so quickly. The boy fidgeted with the side of his neat trousers.

Mr Marsh was silent as he cast a tired expression at Ama and Jasmina, who were giggling at a private joke. Duncan threw a ball of paper at them. Jasmina squealed and grabbed Ama’s arm. Mr Marsh glared at Duncan, but the corner of his mouth rose, and Tom could tell he was secretly amused.

Once everyone had settled down, Mr Marsh spoke. This is Charlie Park. He just moved to the area.

Charlie tipped his upper body forward very slightly and his long, dark fringe fell over his almond-shaped eyes. He glanced around the room, then at the floor. Tom admired the pale sheen of his skin, so unlike Tom’s own deep brown.

Charlie, want to tell us a bit about yourself? Mr Marsh asked.

Yeah, come on, Charlie. Tell us a bit about yourself! Laurie called from the back of the class.

Charlie slowly shook his head.

Fine. You can sit there. Mr Marsh pointed at the desk next to Tom’s and passed Charlie a compilation of short stories by Arthur Conan Doyle. You won’t have time to complete today’s work, but we’ll be deconstructing these stories next lesson. Have a head start.

The class didn’t seem to want to quieten down after the excitement of a new kid; the girls giggled and whispered behind their hands as they looked him up and down.

Charlie was sitting upright in his chair with the book open in one hand, seemingly oblivious to the interest of the other students. As Tom rolled his eyes at his classmates, Charlie looked up and caught Tom’s eye. Tom dropped his gaze and pretended to write something.

Mr Marsh’s voice rose over the rabble. Time to get out of here. Make sure you finish your story for homework.

Ugh, homework. Tom was going to the football—homework or no homework—so there was little chance of him finishing, or even starting, his story. And there was no way he’d do it on the weekend, even though he had nothing else to do. Weekends were for chilling.

Tom swept his notebook and pencil into his backpack and dashed towards the door. He tried not to catch the attention of Marsh as he passed, but the teacher still managed to detain him. Tom, wait. I need to speak to you.

Great. Sure thing, sir. Tom retreated into the space beside the teacher’s desk and watched the class escape into the sunshine.

How’d you go with today’s writing, Tom?

Tom glanced up at Mr Marsh, trying to hide his guilt. Alright.

Can I have a look? I might give you some pointers so you can polish it up over the weekend.

Umm, well, it needs a bit of work.

I know you don’t really like English, but you’re a smart young man.

Tom grimaced.

Well, you don’t seem to like it at all. But you have potential, you know. Why don’t you give the story another go?

But I’m terrible at writing.

You have a great imagination—let’s try to get it down on paper. All I want to see is some effort; you don’t have to be Steinbeck.

Fine. See you later. Tom slung his pack over his shoulder and started to walk away.

Tom, another thing …

Tom turned to face Marsh again. Yeah?

You know the new kid, Charlie? It’d be nice if you made friends with him.

I don’t want a friend.

Why don’t you work on your homework with him? He doesn’t have to complete it, being new, but it’d be good for him to see what we’re up to.

It’s not like I have much to show him. Tom waved his hand at his pack, thinking about his empty notebook.

He’d like someone to show him around. It can be hard being new.

I’m busy.

Just think about it. I’ll see you next week.

See you.

Tom finally escaped the classroom. Perspiration dripped down his forehead as strong sunlight zapped away any coolness from the slight breeze. What had happened to the impenetrable cloud and drizzle that usually characterised the start of the school year? It seemed that London had been granted a reprieve—probably short-lived—from the dreary weather.

A few girls were hanging out in the middle of the sports field, shrieking and giggling, but with more intensity than usual. Tom made his way past the group, all lying with their jumpers off and shirts pulled up to catch the sun on their midriffs. This was not particularly flattering for any of them, but he wasn’t going to tell them.

Across the field, he saw Susie—a pretty Indian girl from last year’s science class—reading a book under a tree. She looked at the other girls, then at Tom as she shrugged her shoulders. Tom gave her a little smile and kept walking. What made some girls so normal and all the others crazy?

The school library was concealed in a small, standalone, red-brick building. Tom opened the stiff aluminium door and slipped into the cool stillness. He searched for an empty computer at the back of the library, which shouldn’t have been hard as no one came here except for some sixth-formers. The computers were all taken—probably because it was so hot outside—except for the one that Freddie had vomited on after a particularly strenuous PE lesson. No, thanks!

Tom, you know you can’t hang out in here unless you’re doing work. The tiny voice of the school librarian, Miss Adams, emanated from behind a stack of last term’s textbooks that were piled on the counter.

Oh, I’m doing some homework. It’s for Mr Marsh. None of the computers are free—can I use a laptop? He could put up with pretending to do some work if it meant he could stay inside.

Miss Adams ran her hand through her short, red hair. She must’ve cut it over the holidays—why did women do that when they reached a certain age? They’re meant to be for teachers. You know that I can get into trouble for letting you have one.

Come on, he’ll kill me if I don’t get this done.

Can’t you do it by hand?

Please, Miss. I’m so slow by hand. Miss Adams didn’t need to know that he had all weekend to do this task.

Miss Adams sighed, reached under the counter, then handed Tom a laptop and power cord. Don’t tell anyone. She winked.

Tom wandered up and down the aisles. He found a secluded spot, just around the corner from the computers. He wasn’t into reading or studying, but there was something about the calm of this place that he liked. Most boys would probably think he was a bit strange for saying so.

He settled cross-legged on the floor and watched Miss Adams as she appeared and disappeared between the aisles.

After a few minutes struggling to get started, checking if Facebook was blocked (it was, of course) and googling how to write a story, he gave up. For some reason, The Daily Mail wasn’t blocked, so he looked at the news to kill some time. The top headline read:

Man murdered in home: wife arrested after admitting crime

A grainy photo of a smiling man with short brown hair was captioned Domestic violence victim. This was overshadowed by a large, clear picture of a blonde woman. She was stocky, dressed in a black, tight-fitting dress. Her matching dark Ray-Bans were almost hidden beneath a crazy mop of blonde hair that reached just below her shoulders. Her hand was held up to the camera, like she was a celebrity.

The news was full of sad stories like this. Tom closed the browser and shut the laptop.

He stared absentmindedly around the room. The new kid, Charlie, walked into the library, past Tom and to the computer desks—surely he didn’t have homework yet. He glanced around, then paused when he saw the empty one.

Don’t sit at that one, Tom said.

Charlie mustn’t have heard him. He hung his jacket on the back of the chair. Couldn’t he smell the vomit?

Tom walked over as Charlie sat down. Don’t sit there. It smells like spew.

Charlie leapt up, grabbed the collar of his jacket and whipped it off the chair. Why?

Long story. Tom paused. Umm … you can come over to where I’m sitting. I have a laptop. He hoped this wasn’t a mistake—new kids were notoriously weird. This one seemed okay, just a little quiet, like him.

Okay. I don’t really have any work to do, just wanted to look like I did.

Tom understood. One of the main reasons he came in here was to avoid other kids. That’s okay. Maybe you can give me an idea for my story. Marsh will kill me if I haven’t done anything by Monday.

Charlie followed Tom to his laptop and the boys sat down. Charlie brought his legs up to his chest and tapped his foot to some unknown rhythm on the threadbare carpet.

"So. Why’d you come here? You know, to this school."

Charlie’s eyes darted to Tom’s face and back down to his shoes. We recently moved here. My mum picked it.

The laptop sat unused between them until the bell rang to send them off to class. Maybe this kid wasn’t so bad, but still, Tom didn’t need a new friend. He didn’t want to doom this kid to a life of hiding in the library and running away from bullies.

Tom didn’t mind sharing his homework, but refused to share that part of his life with anyone.

2

Tom sat at his favourite desk next to the window and looked outside, trying to ignore the class’s raucousness. Miss Raffat was at the other side of the room, leaning against an empty desk, keeping one eye on the boys at the back and the other on the clock. Duncan had climbed onto his desk and was throwing balled up paper at Mason, but Tom could tell that his teacher would rather wait out the last few minutes of class than start a yelling match.

Tom watched the minute hand as it steadily made its way around the clock’s face, waiting until it crept up towards home time. Sirens whooped in the distance, amid honking cars and the roar of traffic. These familiar noises meant that the roads would be busy, but luckily he was going to catch the tube to the football.

Finally, the clock hit its mark, but the girls continued chatting while Mason threw paper back at Duncan. Miss Raffat clapped her hands a few times before the girls shut up, and Duncan climbed off his desk. They could leave.

Tom leapt up; it was finally time to go to the football.

On his way out of the side gate Tom noticed Mr Marsh, backpack slung over one shoulder, walking towards Tom’s station. Damn. Tom was torn between wanting to leave school quickly and running into a teacher.

He hoped that the large trees on the other side of the road would shield him from view, so he crossed the street in front of a parked car. He was almost at the other side of the road when a car came out of nowhere, swerving past Tom and honking angrily. Mr Marsh turned, saw Tom, and jogged over.

What’s going on? Are you okay?

Yeah, fine.

There is a crossing up ahead, you know.

Tom hesitated. I wanted to walk in the shade. So hot today.

Mr Marsh seemed satisfied with that. He glanced at his watch and looked towards the station. Are you catching the train? You go inbound, right? Me too.

The stadium was in the opposite direction. Tom didn’t want to be forced onto the wrong train just to stop Mr Marsh knowing that he was going out alone. Teachers tended to worry about the smallest things, and Tom didn’t want to get into a discussion about his safety. Even though he was fifteen, and he hadn’t spoken to his dad for days and his mum for years, Tom still felt guilty being out by himself. Uh—I'm getting picked up today. My dad thinks it’s easier to pull over at the station. I’m just going to wait for him there.

They walked towards the station together. Tom felt the crunch of leaves beneath his Adidas sneakers, the ones his brother had bought him when they were hanging out at the shops last year. They were covered with dirt now, but super clean shoes attracted too much attention, anyway.

Saw you talking to Charlie today. Good work, Tom.

Tom grunted. Was Marsh spying on him? Maybe he’d been in the library.

The sky was getting dark despite the