Invisible! by Robert Swindells

loaded. Not many people’d look after you like I do.’ He went across and started ripping away the polythene. The driver and his mate joined in. In seconds the statue stood revealed – six feet of gleaming muscle wearing a crown of seaweed and brandishing a trident, his feet buried in a drift of torn plastic. Rosie nodded to herself.
Of course. Poseidon’s another name for Father Neptune and here he is, folks. Why doesn’t somebody pass by right now and spot him?
She slitted her eyes, peering down the floodlit driveway.
Oh, right. Hidden by the van. Crafty swines. I wonder … can I get to school, go visible, run to the police station and get back here in a patrol car before they load up, drink their tea and drive away?
    I can give it a flipping good try.

‘Now then, miss, what can we do for you?’
    â€˜I need to speak to Detective Sergeant Springer. It’s urgent.’
    â€˜Oh, aye?’ The constable scrutinized Rosie from rat-tail hair to sodden trainers. ‘You look half-frozen. Are you all right?’
    â€˜I’m fine. Look – I know where that statue is but they’re shifting it. It’ll be gone in a few minutes.’
    â€˜Statue?’
    â€˜Yes, you know. The Greek one. Poseidon, from Sowerby Old Hall. Sergeant Springer questioned my dad about it, said I was to let him know if I saw anything.’
    The constable pulled a fat ledger towards him and picked up a pen. ‘Can I have your name, miss? Name and address.’
    â€˜Rosie. Rosie Walk. We’re travellers, parked on that bit of the old Cleeston road by Inchlake Woods.’
    â€˜Aah, right.’ The officer nodded. ‘You’re one of the Three Bears, aren’t you?’ He smiled. ‘Baby Bear, I suppose. Well, Baby Bear, I’m afraid Sergeant Springer’s not on duty tonight. Comes on at eight tomorrow morning. You could try then.’
    â€˜Tomorrow
morning?
’ Rosie was outraged. ‘That statue’s being loaded on a van
now.
It could be in Timbuctoo by morning. Let me talk to whoever’s on duty.’
    â€˜
I
’m on duty, miss. Constable Stables. Talk to me.’
    â€˜I
have
, but you don’t seem to believe me.’
    â€˜That’s because you haven’t given me much to go on, miss. Where exactly
is
this statue, and how come
you
know about it?’
    â€˜It’s in Mr Kippax’s garage, and I know because I was there. I saw it.’
    â€˜Mr Kippax’s garage?’ The constable gazed at her. ‘D’you mean
Bob
Kippax, the joiner?’
    â€˜Yes. His son’s in the same class as me.’
    â€˜Is he now? And what were you doing up there, miss? It’s a long way from the woods.’
    â€˜I was … investigating.’
    â€˜Investigating? Playing at private detectives, you mean?’
    â€˜No, I wasn’t
playing.
Mr Kippax was up Inchlake Manor just before those paintings were taken,
and
his van was seen near Sowerby Old Hall last night.’
    â€˜Seen?’ The constable stared at her. ‘By
who
, may I ask?’
    â€˜It’s
whom.
’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You say
whom
, not
who.
And it was Peter Rabbit.’
    â€˜Peter Rabbit.’ He sighed. ‘You’re sure it was Peter Rabbit
whom
saw this van, and not Squirrel Nutkin or Bart Simpson or Alice in Wonderland?’
    â€˜Peter Rabbit’s
real.
He’s in …’
    â€˜Don’t tell me. The same class as you, right?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    The officer sighed again. ‘Listen, miss. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a crime wave all over the country. The police are prettystretched trying to cope with the genuine stuff. What we
don’t
need is a lot of hassle from kids called things like Baby Bear and Peter Rabbit, with overdeveloped imaginations and too little to do. And now I’ll have to ask you to run along, because I’m very busy. G’night,