Rafferty's Rules: Part 2 of Switchers

By Wendy Milton

The two detectives who investigated Rodney's disappearance return to Frogmore to investigate a spate of supermarket robberies. Then they, too, disappear, and Rodney must go back to Llandringodd to rescue them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PawPrint Publishing
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994249975

Wendy Milton

Wendy has written twelve exciting adventures for eight to twelve year-olds, including a five-book series: Angel of Fire, Sophie's Return, Nemesis, Spooks, and Finding Cathcart, and a two-book series: The Boy Who Disappeared and Rafferty's Rules. Stand-alone titles include The Enchanted Urn, A Stitch in Time, Missing Uncle Izzy and Taking Stock. Wendy has also published an adult 'whodunnit', Schooled in Death. Set in the 1970s in the Southern Highlands of NSW, the story revolves around the bizarre murder of the headmaster of an exclusive girls' school.

Book preview

ONE

The rain that had drenched Frogmore for days was gone, and a brilliant morning sun glistened on the grass in the grounds of Rodney’s school. Children with muddied feet and heightened spirits shrieked, laughed, ran, or played and chatted. Some huddled in groups, giggling and comparing images on their iPads and mobile phones.

Two children were seemingly oblivious to this buoyant mood: a tall, haughty boy with hunched shoulders, and a short, mean-looking, thick-set boy.

The taller boy pointed. ‘Is that the kid who faded . . . according to you?’

His doubting tone didn’t escape the shorter boy to whom it was directed. ‘Ask the others if yer don’t believe me,’ snarled Ben Houlihan.

‘Who said I didn’t believe you?’ The eyes of Ben’s companion widened, but in their depths there was triumph. His companion had risen to the bait.

Damien Berkinshaw’s father had recently moved to Frogmore to take up the position of BAARMY’s chief accountant, a position left vacant by ‘Creepy’ Creevey who was now occupying a cell in Silverwater Jail. Damien got his kicks from teasing people. He’d chosen Ben to inform him about Rodney. Ben, who’d spent a great deal of time by himself following the defections of Razza Radford and Billy Hinchcliffe, was grateful for the attention.

‘I’ve found out what that lot are doin’,’ he told Damien, pointing at Rodney, Evelyn and Jimmy.

‘Really? What are they doing?’

‘Would’ya believe they’re goin’ around askin’ people for scraps?’ Ben had observed the trio cycling around Frogmore with wheely bins attached to their bikes, collecting mountains of kitchen scraps and compostable waste. He wasn’t to know that they were helping combat Llandringodd’s environmental crisis. Mr MacTavish needed worms to revitalise the soil, and there were no food scraps in Llandringodd.

‘I’m gonna front ’em,’ boasted Ben. ‘You watch this.’ Hands in his pockets, he sauntered towards the trio. ‘If it ain’t the garbage collectors,’ he sneered, with a backwards glance at Damien.

‘Shut your face,’ snapped Jimmy.

‘We’ll be collecting you next,’ said Rodney. ‘You’re half rotten already, Houlihan. You belong on the scrap heap.’

Ben, who couldn’t think of an appropriate comeback, sauntered back to Damien.

‘And you reckon that when Rowbottom stopped fading, he started disappearing?’

‘Yeah. The police were lookin’ for ’im. Six days ’e was gone . . . an’ I got the blame!’

‘That hardly seems fair.’

‘It wasn’t!’

As the trio moved away, Jimmy was still laughing at Rodney’s quip. He’d accepted, without question, Rodney’s and Evelyn’s explanation about the kitchen scraps (they’d told him Mr MacTavish was establishing a commercial worm farm), and Evelyn felt bad about not telling him the truth. She persuaded Rodney that as Jimmy was helping them collect scraps, he had a right to know why.

‘Do you still want to know where I went when I disappeared?’ Rodney asked him at lunch. Jimmy’s eyes widened and he nodded vigorously.

‘I was in Llandringodd . . . it’s another universe. To get there, you have to be a switcher. I’m a switcher and so is Mrs Strangeways. She took me to Llandringodd and that’s where I met Evelyn.’

Jimmy’s stare shifted from Rodney to Evelyn. ‘You’re an alien?’

‘Does that worry you?’

Jimmy shook his head. ‘Nah.’

‘Llandringodd’s in a mess,’ Rodney went on, ‘and Mr MacTavish has been helping save people from starving. He uses our scraps to breed worms.’

‘He’s feedin’ ’em worms!!?’

‘No! He’s using the worms to make the soil fertile in his greenhouses where he’s growing stuff they can turn into bread.’

‘Is Mr MacTavish a switcher?’

Rodney nodded. ‘So’s Remus – Mrs Strangeways’ cousin.’

Jimmy looked at Evelyn. ‘Are you a switcher?’

‘No. I wasn’t born in Llandringodd. I . . .’

‘Evelyn comes from a place called Llondieval,’ Rodney explained. ‘She was sold to people in Llandringodd so she could breed with their son.’

‘Who was gross,’ added Evelyn.

‘So you haven’t got a mum and dad?’

‘Mrs Strangeways and Remus and Mr MacTavish are my family.’

‘Wow!’ Jimmy fell silent.

Evelyn glanced at Rodney, who nodded. ‘You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?’

Jimmy shook his head. Who’d believe him, anyway? But Rodney had whetted his appetite, and for the next few days, questions kept popping out of him like rabbits out of a hole.

‘A walkin’ plant was gonna eat your dog?’

‘They were called nards.’

‘How did they . . .?’

‘You heard about those plants Professor Nettleforth was breeding. Someone in Llandringodd must have had the same idea.’

‘Did your dog . . .?’

‘He escaped that time. Rodney rescued him.’

‘Are there still nards?’

‘Most of them have been eaten,’ said Rodney.

‘What about in that other place?’

‘There aren’t any nards in Llondieval, but it’s still horrible.’

‘You said they were gonna burn Evelyn!’ He turned to Evelyn. ‘But you didn’t get singed?’

‘No. Rodney cut me free. Then he brought me here, and I’ve been staying with Mrs Strangeways ever since.’

‘An’ then he went back to that nardy place to rescue . . .?’

‘Mrs Strangeways. Yes. She’d been drugged and . . .’ Jimmy had heard many times how Rodney had struck down Miss Tremblechin with her own hypodermic, but he never tired of hearing it again.

Damien Berkinshaw was asking questions too, and it wasn’t difficult finding others eager to talk. Fiona Winchcombe already had him in her sights. ‘Oh, ­absolutely, Damien,’ she said with a flutter of her eyelashes. ‘Ben was jealous because he was in love with me, and the police thought he’d murdered Rodney. They even dug up his parents’ back yard!’

‘Did you see Rowbottom fade?’

‘Of course! We all did! Some of us tried to get a picture of him, but he stopped. Charmaine Chuddeley’s mother wanted a photograph to show the principal because he wouldn’t believe her, and . . . well, Rodney stopped. No one believes us now, but I saw Rodney fade with my own eyes.’

‘And then he vanished and no one knows where he went?’

Fiona nodded. ‘The doctors said he had amnesia.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘Fiona was cautious. ‘I wouldn’t know. He might have told Evelyn and Jimmy. Why don’t you ask them?’

Damien waylaid Jimmy the next morning. ‘Waiting for your friends?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘My father works with Rowbottom’s father.’

‘So?’

‘Just being friendly. It’s Jimmy, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I don’t know anyone yet.’

‘Yeah, you do. I saw you hangin’ out with Houlihan!’

‘Houlihan’s a loser.’

Jimmy’s attitude softened. ‘You can say that again!’

‘I’ve heard Rowbottom can disappear.’

‘Who told you that? I never told you that!’

Damien shrugged. ‘A few people have mentioned it. I should introduce myself to Rowbottom if our fathers are working together.’

‘His name’s Rodney.’

‘Rodney, then. Get on well with him?’

‘Why else would we be hangin’ out?’

‘What about that girl . . . Evelyn? Is she his girlfriend or yours?’

‘Mind your own business . . . better still, ask her yourself!’ Jimmy trotted towards Rodney and Evelyn, who’d just come through the gates.

Damien followed and gave Rodney and Evelyn a flashy smile. ‘I’ve been annoying Jimmy. Thought I’d introduce myself because our fathers work together.’ This was directed at Rodney.

‘Work together?’

‘My father’s the new chief accountant at BAARMY. Dad said the man he replaced went to prison.’

‘Dad hasn’t told me.’

‘He’s probably too busy making sure things don’t get out of hand again. Pity your father didn’t know what that weird professor was up to, eh? We read about Nettleforth in the papers. And now he’s disappeared!’

‘The police will find him.’

‘We have to be off now, Damien,’ said Evelyn, ‘but we hope you’re happy here, don’t we, Rodney?’

‘Yeah. I’ll ask Dad about your father.’

Damien sauntered off.

TWO

‘He says his father works for you.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Damien Berkinshaw.’

‘Ah. That will be Douglas Berkinshaw’s son. Douglas did say he had a son. Douglas is our new chief accountant.’

‘He knows about Professor Nettleforth disappearing.’

‘Everyone knows about that, Rodney. It was in all the papers.’

‘How come they haven’t found him yet? The professor, I mean.’

Rodney’s father shrugged. ‘I assumed he’d gone overseas, but apparently I was wrong because that chief inspector who investigated your disappearance – Fox, wasn’t it? – told me Nettleforth’s credit cards and bank account hadn’t been touched, which suggests he’s dead. We can’t know for sure.’

‘Maybe Chomper ate him?’

‘Chomper?’

‘Yeah. He kept one of those plants at home. It was sort of a pet. He said he was always finding bits of bone and fur underneath its cage.’

Rodney’s father had gone pale. ‘Cage?’

‘Yeah. He kept it in a birdcage.’

Mr Rowbottom’s mind raced back to the moment he’d broken into the Professor’s house, looking for Rodney. All he’d found was an empty birdcage. ‘Why have you never mentioned this to me before, Rodney?’

‘I did, didn’t I? I told you about those things the professor was breeding, and about Jerome.’

‘You didn’t say he’d taken one of those things home.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t deliberately leave anything out.’

‘That’s all right, son. None of this is your fault. Why don’t you help your mother with dinner while I ring Chief Inspector Fox.’

• • •

At police headquarters, Detective Sergeant Hound stared at his senior officer. ‘Chomper! Hell’s bells! Why didn’t Rowbottom report this to the local police?’

The chief inspector shrugged. ‘He wanted to let us know first. I’ve asked the sergeant at Frogmore to stop anyone entering the property. We’ll fly up tonight and take a good look around tomorrow. In the meantime, get me the transcript of that interview with Mrs Nettleforth, would you? Didn’t she say something about a missing Pekingese?’

‘Yeah. She had two dogs, but she lost one. She kept saying, Poor little Yang. That monster has killed my poor little Yang. She’d told me she was leaving – leaving the professor, I mean – and I naturally assumed she meant her husband was the monster and that he’d somehow killed her dog. In hindsight, she could have meant . . .’

‘Remember that empty birdcage? That’s where he kept it.’

‘Crikey! Does that mean it’s in the back yard . . . assuming it can’t walk?’

‘Of course it can’t walk!’

‘That other thing did. Jerome . . . well, he shuffled.’

‘Yeah, but Jerome was a vegetarian.’

• • •

In small towns like Frogmore, news travels fast. Chief Inspector Fox’s imminent arrival filtered through to Shufty¹ Nesbitt, editor of the Frogmore Times. Constable Brennan, who’d taken Chief Inspector Fox’s call and had overheard his sergeant’s responses, owed Shufty a favour and tipped him off.

The Frogmore Times was little more than a ­newsletter, with Shufty as its writer, producer and distributor. When news broke about the goings-on at BAARMY, reporters had descended on Frogmore like vultures, leaving Shufty in their wake. No one wanted to read his newsletter when they could see it in the nationals.

Now the bigshot inspector was coming back, and it had something to do with that missing professor. This time it would be different. Constable Brennan’s tip-off meant Shufty would be first on the scene. It would be his story . . . his scoop. Camera in hand, and with his business card tucked into his hatband, Shufty thrust his recorder at Chief Inspector Fox and DS Hound as they descended from the twin-engine Cessna. They were walking towards the hut that served as a terminal for Frogmore’s airport. Outside the hut, a police car was waiting.

‘I’m Nesbitt from the Frogmore Times, Chief Inspector. Has there been a breakthrough? Are you here because of that professor who vanished?’

‘No comment.’

‘Bug off,’ growled DS Hound.

‘Have a heart, fellas! I promise you that if you let me in on the latest, I won’t pass it to the nationals. I don’t want them here any more than you do. Give us a break! Whadderya say?’

‘Take his card, Hound. No promises, Nesbitt. If you want information, keep your mouth shut. If I see one more reporter in Frogmore . . .’

‘Mum’s the word, Chief