Smugglers! Read online

  ‘Well, your dad is one clever guy,’ I said, admiring a light wood violin with an intricate pattern engraved on the neck.

  There was a display case by the counter with guitar picks, strings, violin bows and all sorts of other things in it. Then I noticed the neck of a guitar peeping over the counter. I leant over to have a better look and saw that it had a really neat brown-patterned finish.

  ‘You no touch, pleeze!’ Juan was beside me in a flash. He picked up the guitar and took it into the back of the shop.

  ‘Sorry. I was only looking. I haven’t seen a guitar with a neck like that before,’ I told him when he came back, still looking a bit flustered. ‘It’s lovely. Did your dad make that too?’

  ‘No, he is repairing it for a customer. It is very valuable. I shouldn’t have left it there. It was careless of me.’ Juan walked quickly past me and over to Max. ‘Have you chosen your music yet?’ he asked. I got the impression he wanted us to leave. Pronto.

  ‘Yep. My stepdad will be made up when he sees this.’ Max handed Juan a thin music book and reached into his pocket for some money.

  ‘Can you show me that bar your sister goes to?’ I asked as we walked out. ‘Might be an idea to check it out.’

  ‘We’re not allowed inside,’ Max told me.

  ‘Duh! I know that. But, we might be able to pick up some clues from outside. And I could probably sneak in pretending I want the washroom.’ I’d done that before.

  ‘Loo,’ Max corrected me.

  I groaned. I thought I’d pretty much mastered the UK–US language differences, but I still slipped up every now and again.

  The bar was called Nite Life, and it looked mega trendy. There were posters outside advertising cheap drink deals.

  ‘Stay here,’ I told Max. ‘I’ll be back out in a minute.’ I pushed open the doors of the bar and entered a narrow hall.

  ‘Where are you off to, lass?’ A man came out into the hall and stared at me. ‘Kids aren’t allowed in here.’ He was wearing a black tee shirt with the words Nite Life emblazoned on the front in white. Obviously a member of staff.

  ‘I just wanted to use the loo,’ I told him, smiling brightly. ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. It’s out the back there.’ He indicated to a door behind him.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I walked towards the door, but as soon as the man disappeared into the bar, I pushed open another door instead. As I guessed, it led into the yard. There were crates piled up in the yard with writing on them. I walked over to them and saw that it was foreign writing – Spanish, I was sure. Inside the crates were some small bottles. I stared at them. Had I found the smugglers?

  Suddenly, I heard voices and the back door opened. I dived behind a crate and held my breath. A fair-haired, suntanned man came out, followed by a woman with long, blonde hair. They both started talking. I put my hand in my pocket and flicked the ‘on’ switch of my micro-recorder:

  PODCAST 2

  Go to www.amycartermysteries.com/smugglers-2

  The woman turned on her heels and flounced back into the bar. The man picked up a case of small bottles and followed her.

  I switched off my micro-recorder and went out the back gate. I couldn’t wait to tell Max what I’d just heard.

  Chapter 9

  The Smuggler!

  After playing the recording to Max, I browsed around on the Internet for a bit, looking up information on modern-day smuggling, whilst Max played with Fluffy downstairs. It was amazing to find out what stuff people smuggled and the lengths to which they’d go to cover their tracks. Some smugglers actually used a fishing boat to tow a concrete container of fake designer goods underwater, but it seemed that mostly stuff was smuggled in by plane or car.

  I was even more amazed to discover how widespread the smuggling of endangered species and their products were, coming second only to drug smuggling. I could hardly contain my anger as I read about the exotic birds and animals that died during transit to other countries, just so selfish people could own them, and the number of animals that were killed for their skins, shells and other products. It was so cruel. How could people treat animals like that just to make money?

  I read through the list of endangered species and found that all sea turtles were now a protected species. But, this didn’t stop the smugglers; apparently there was a massive trade in sea turtles for their meat, skin and shells.

  I was surprised to read that tortoiseshell didn’t actually come from tortoises, but from the Hawksbill turtle. I scrolled down to a picture of one. How could anyone kill such a gorgeous creature just to make belts or bags out of its skin or souvenirs from its shell?

  Hang on. That shell looked familiar.

  I selected the image and enlarged it, studying the shell carefully. I was sure that it was the same pattern as the neck of the guitar hidden behind the counter at the music shop. The one Juan had quickly taken into the back of the shop. The one his dad was supposed to be repairing for someone.

  What if his dad had made the guitar? What if Juan and his dad were smuggling sea turtle shells?

  I shook my head. Just because one guitar had a tortoiseshell neck didn’t mean Juan and his dad were smugglers, did it? According to the article, Hawksbill turtles didn’t become a protected species until the US Endangered Species Act in 1973, so it was possible that the customer had bought the guitar before then, in which case it wasn’t illegal.

  Even so, as Vince always said, follow every trail, no matter how insignificant. As soon as I could, I’d check out the back of the music shop. See exactly what was out there. And if they were involved in that vile trade, I’d make sure I got enough proof to nail them.

  Heading downstairs, I filled Max in on what I’d learnt. ‘But, first we’ve got to check out that cave again. I want to see if the writing on the crates in the cave and on the crates in Nite Life is the same.’

  ‘I thought you took a photo of one of the crates in the cave,’ Max said.

  ‘I did, but the word came out blurred.’ I tucked into the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I’d just made myself for lunch.

  ‘Okay, but we make sure the tide is far out before we go into the caves, right?’ Max mumbled through a mouthful of banana sandwich. He wouldn’t even try peanut butter and jelly, said it sounded gross. I tell you, he didn’t know what he was missing.

  ‘Hel-lo, do you really think I want to risk almost drowning again?’ I retorted. ‘And, like I said, you don’t have to come. Actually, I’d prefer you not to.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ I knew by the determined look on Max’s face that it was no use trying to talk him out of it. He’d already warned that he would follow me.

  ‘Ready then?’ I asked when I’d finished my sandwich.

  Max gulped down the last of his sandwich and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Yep.’

  The streets were packed with tourists, as usual, until we got to the other side of the harbour front.

  Although the main beach was crowded, once again, when we got to Smugglers’ Bay we found it deserted. ‘I can’t believe no one comes to this beach,’ I said, as we climbed over the rocks.

  ‘The locals do sometimes, but the tourists usually crowd onto the two main beaches,’ Max replied. ‘This is a bit too far out for them.’

  I guessed that’s what made it so ideal for the smugglers.

  Max glanced over at the sea. I followed his gaze. It was way, way out. You’d need a car to get to it.

  ‘How long before it starts to come in?’ I asked.

  ‘A couple of hours.’

  ‘That’s plenty of time.’

  We raced across the sand towards the caves, found the secret tunnel and hurried along it. It wasn’t scary at all this time, now that we knew what was at the other end.

  At least we thought we did
.

  We hadn’t bargained on coming face-to-face with one of the smugglers, wrapped in a blanket and fast asleep on the cave floor.

  Wide-eyed, we stared at each other, then returned our gaze back to the sleeping, snoring body. What should we do? My brain raced as I weighed up the options. Run back down the tunnel? Sneak over and take a look at the smuggler to find out who it was?

  The decision was taken out of my hands, as the smuggler suddenly threw back the blanket, jumped up and glared at us.

  ‘What are you perishin’ kids doing here?’

  It didn’t take a genius to work out that this scruffy man with his long, matted grey hair and beard and dirty, threadbare jacket wasn’t a smuggler, but a tramp who’d been sleeping rough in the cave. The tattered rucksack and tied-up bundle on the ground beside him was another dead giveaway.

  ‘We were just exploring the caves and found a tunnel that led to this cave,’ I told him. ‘It must be a smugglers’ cave.’

  ‘Well, you can go right back out again. I was having a nap and you nosy kids have disturbed me!’

  Max looked at me worriedly, wondering what to do next.

  I checked out the tramp. He looked dirty, unkempt and angry, but not really dangerous.

  ‘Can we just have a quick look around, please?’ I asked, flashing him my most winning smile. ‘We’ll go then, I promise. Our parents are waiting for us in the cave below so we can’t be long.’ I thought it was best to pretend we had adults with us, just in case the tramp turned nasty.

  He grunted. ‘Make it snappy then.’

  So, snappy I was. All I wanted to do was check the word on the crates in the corner. I got out my cellphone, selected memos and typed in the letters. I’d compare them with the words on the Nite Life crates when I was out of the cave. Then, I felt something crunch under my foot. I bent down. It was a tiny bit of brown shell. It was only a small fragment but I could just make out a streak of black running through it. I shoved it in my pocket along with my cellphone.

  ‘You finished?’ the man growled.

  ‘Yep.’ He sounded a bit impatient, and I didn’t want to push my luck. ‘We’re out of here now. Sorry to disturb you. Come on Max.’

  ‘Do you think it was a tramp in the cave all the time, and not smugglers?’ Max asked when we were safely back on the beach outside the cave.

  I frowned as I opened up the ‘Smugglers’ file on my phone and compared the words that were on the crates in the yard of Nite Life with the one on the crates in the cave. They didn’t match. ‘I don’t know. The words on the crates are different.’

  ‘Does that mean there aren’t any smugglers?’ Max sounded disappointed.

  I thought about it. I didn’t really have any proof that anyone was smuggling anything, did I? The light I saw the other night was only flashing for a few minutes. There could be a number of explanations for it other than a smuggler’s signal – not that I could think of any right now.

  But, what about Mr Hodgkin’s foreign tobacco? And Miss Pearce’s ‘designer seconds’? And the dodgy goods Sid the Sniff had in his bag and maybe his shed. And even Marissa and her exotic goods from abroad? It was hard to believe that they were all coincidences.

  Then, I remembered the tramp’s tatty sandals and the loose manhole cover. No, it wasn’t a coincidence. ‘Someone’s climbed up the wall and gone out through that manhole cover recently and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the tramp,’ I told Max.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, for one he’d never be able to climb up the wall in those sandals, they were almost falling apart. And for another he didn’t look fit enough to make a climb like that.’

  ‘So, there are smugglers?’ Max sounded happier.

  ‘I reckon so. And those crates in the cave are the clue to who the smugglers are. All we have to do is find out what was in them.’

  ‘And how are we going to do that?’

  ‘We’ll do an Internet search on the word and see what comes up. If it’s a brand name, or the name of a firm, we’ve got a good chance of finding it. Then, we might be able to tie it to one of the suspects and we’ve got our smuggler – or smugglers – nailed.’

  Chapter 10

  Proof

  It sounded easy enough, but when I got back home that evening and typed in the word, I found that it was Spanish for fragile. Fan-blooming-tastic!

  I texted the news to Max.

  ‘Fragile?’ he texted back. ‘You mean as in easily broken?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘So, anything could have been in the crates.’ So much for my clever deducting. We were still no nearer to discovering who the smuggler was.

  My buddies Rory and Chloe messaged me then, so I opened a new conversation window, invited them both in and we all chatted online for a while. I told them about the smugglers’ caves and how I suspected there was a smuggler in Little Cragg. They were both agog and begged me to keep them in the loop, so I said I’d email them the photos of the cave and fill them in on any new developments in another couple of days.

  We ended up talking really late and just as I signed off, I heard footsteps going down the stairs below. It must be Mr Hodgkin sneaking out again. Without even thinking, I grabbed my hoody – luckily I was still dressed in my jeans and tee shirt – shoved my cellphone and micro-recorder in my pocket and crept down the stairs after him. I peered around the back door and saw him shutting the gate. I raced after him, determined not to let him out of my sight. Tonight I was going to find out exactly what Mr Hodgkin got up to, and I had a strong suspicion that it wasn’t badger watching.

  I followed Mr Hodgkin out of the house, around the corner and down the hill – the direction of the beach! I was right, he did have something to do with the smuggling. I mean, you don’t get badgers on the beach, do you?

  Then, suddenly he disappeared.

  I paused, puzzled. It was a straight road ahead, lined with houses and a few cars parked along the kerb. The only place he could have gone was into one of the houses, but I’d been watching him carefully, so I would have noticed. I walked on quickly, looking from left to right, but there was no sign of him.

  Suddenly, as I passed a black car, a hand grabbed my shoulder and my heart did a somersault into my mouth.

  ‘L-L-Looking f-f-for s-s-someone?’ It was Mr Hodgkin. He must have been hiding behind the car, which meant he knew I was following him. I’d been rumbled.

  Time to use my charm.

  ‘I was following you, actually. I really wanted to see some badgers,’ I told him. ‘I’ve never seen a badger before.’

  ‘D-D-D-oes y-y-y …’ He stuttered, paused and then started again.

  I waited impatiently for him to finish the sentence. Honestly, conversation with this guy was real hard work!

  Finally, he managed to ask me if my gran knew I was out this late at night.

  ‘No, but I’m sure she won’t mind if she knows I’m with you,’ I told him. ‘Can I come and see the badgers with you?’

  Amy Carter, you’re good, real good, I silently congratulated myself.

  Mr Hodgkin shook his head and finally managed to stammer that he wasn’t going badger watching, he was just going for a walk along the beach because he couldn’t sleep and that I should go home. As in right now.

  So I did.

  Well, at least I was now pretty certain that Mr Hodgkin didn’t really go badger watching, I thought, as I let myself in the back door. And he’d been heading for the beach, which made him a strong suspect. Perhaps he was getting the cave ready for the smugglers? Maybe he and the tramp were actually working with the smugglers. Maybe …

  ‘Yap! Yap! Yap!’

  Oh, drat that pesky dog! Trust her to let the whole house know I was sneaking in, I thought, as Fluffy danced around my ankles, yapping like crazy.

  ‘Shhh!’ I whi
spered. ‘Be quiet, will you?’

  Fluffy just barked louder. I wished I had some of those doggy treats Max always carried around with him. They’d come in real handy right now.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Gran’s sleepy voice called down from the top of the stairs.

  I heard another door open. ‘Leave this to me, Sue. It could be a burglar,’ Mr Winkleberry said, trying to sound masterful.

  I groaned, this was turning into a nightmare. ‘It’s just me, Gran. I couldn’t sleep, so I came down for a glass of milk.’

  ‘Fluffy doesn’t usually bark like that if someone goes downstairs,’ Gran said, puzzled. ‘She must have heard something outside.’

  Two different sets of footsteps pattered down the stairs, it sounded like both Gran and Mr Winkleberry were coming down to investigate. Mr W made it first.

  ‘You’re still dressed. And the back door’s open,’ he said accusingly, arms folded and trying to look stern, but with his blue dressing gown, checked slippers, tousled halo of hair around his bald patch and left eye twitching madly through his glasses, he didn’t quite pull it off. ‘Have you been out, Amy?’

  ‘Just into the garden to look at the stars.’ You had to be able to get out of situations quickly and convincingly to be a successful super-sleuth, I can tell you.

  ‘No wonder Fluffy barked then. You must have frightened her,’ Gran said crossly, with her hands on her hips. Even in her dressing gown, and with pink curlers in her hair and non-existent eyebrows (she painted them on every morning), Gran could intimidate anyone.

  ‘Just going, Gran. Sorry for waking you,’ I said meekly. I made my way upstairs before she could question me further.

  This case was getting even more complicated. If Mr Hodgkin didn’t go badger watching, did that mean he was the smuggler? If so, what was he smuggling?

  Or, could he be working with someone else? Sid the Sniff maybe? It’s a bit suspicious that he knew Sid if he didn’t live around here. And if he did live around here, why was he staying at Gran’s B&B?