As we approach the Cake, every pair of eyes is on us. I can see a huge blackened area on the centre right of the building and loads of broken windows. There’s debris scattered everywhere, and neon-numbered markers placed here and there, like you see on those forensics shows.

‘Right,’ Karim says, smoothing his eyebrows for some reason. ‘Leave this to me.’ He heads straight towards the main entrance, swagging up to the doors like he owns the place, and makes to walk past the four police officers standing either side of it. They immediately move to block his way in.

‘What up, my Gs?’ Karim says, giving them the dimples.

‘This is never going to work, is it?’ Kat whispers as we slowly follow.

‘Not a chance. We’d better start thinking up a plan B.’

Karim seems to not be put off by the seriously hostile looks being shot his way. ‘My mum works here,’ he says. ‘And she wanted me to come and collect something from her.’

‘No one gets into the building,’ one of the police officers says. ‘At all costs.’

‘I should mention that she basically runs the 60 place,’ Karim carries on. ‘So it’s completely cool for me to be here. I’m always allowed in.’

‘Go home,’ angry police guy says.

Kat and I watch as Karim tries to argue his way in, even though it clearly isn’t happening. He tries everything: guilt trip, puppy eyes, threats, but they’re having none of it. I’m just about to go and get him so that we can regroup, when a sound behind me makes the hair on the back of my neck jump up like it’s just seen a sign for free V-bucks. The click-clack of high heels on concrete echoes around the campus, cracking through the quiet like gun shots. And, to be honest, they might as well have been for the fear that surges through me as I listen to them getting closer.

‘Oh god,’ Kat whispers. ‘Those are footsteps I hoped never to hear walking towards me again.’

I take a breath. ‘Hoche.’

6

Spatter

We both turn to see Miss Hoche powering up to us, and a guy with a video camera scurrying along a couple of metres back. She’s dressed up smart, with a long belted coat over a dress, and a purple scarf around her neck. Her shoes are purple too, with pointed toes that look just ripe for kicking someone somewhere painful. That someone probably being me.

‘Lance Sparshott,’ she says, stopping a few paces away from me. ‘How inevitable to encounter you at the scene of a crime.’

‘Miss Hoche,’ I say, gritting my teeth.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was you who caused the explosion – arson and vandalism are likely to be the only skills you possess.’