This could be a huge story, but I’m a sixteen-year-old, who has school and homework and twice daily Vegas Local updates. The earliest I’m going to have any chance to consider this is Saturday, and that’s when Charlie is coming. Unless I bunk off school. But I’d get suspended for sure and Kirsten will ground me, and take my driving privileges away and then I’ll be more screwed …

‘Earl, I appreciate you calling me,’ Harry said. ‘But this is a complex investigation. Have you thought about contacting one of the local TV stations? Or the Vegas Mirror?’

‘Janssen is the third biggest advertiser in this state,’ Earl said, sounding a little desperate. ‘The money men will squash the story. I’ve never liked what the Janssens have done in this town, and seventeen seniors dying to keep dollars flowing into a rundown casino is sickening …’

‘I agree,’ Harry said, but he felt burdened by Earl’s expectations and part of him wanted to fess up to being a schoolboy without the time or backup to run a real investigation.

Ellie might help, but most likely he’ll tell me to drop it. And chances are, when we get to the medical records, the Janssens will have covered their tracks.

‘How long do you think it might take?’ Earl asked hopefully. ‘Ain’t sleeping right with people in my house and tailing me.’

Harry pounded the sink with frustration. ‘Best not to think about it,’ he said, unable to come up with anything more reassuring. ‘I can’t give any kind of schedule, but I’ll try looking into this. Now I’m sorry, sir, but I’m late for a meeting.’

Harry was now ten minutes late for class. But a message from Charlie had come through and he was desperate to hear her news.

‘I finally got a break …’ Charlie’s message began.

Harry smiled and pumped his fist, but before he heard the rest a key turned in the door. It was Mr Bowers, a greying jock who taught phys-ed and ran Queensbridge’s cadet squadron. He’d never liked Harry, because he refused to join the academy athletics team.

‘Smirnov,’ Bowers growled, cupping his ear and smiling like a git. ‘Thought I heard something in here. It’s eleven minutes past.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Harry said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘And the door was locked. Give me the key.’

Harry pulled a pair of keys out of his trousers. Mr Bowers snatched and jangled them.

‘Pupils do not have keys. Do you know how serious this is?’

‘It unlocks the room we use for school news meetings,’ Harry explained. ‘Vice Principal Presley always gives a set of keys to the news editor. I guess the darkroom key is a relic, from when they used film.’