A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder

Pip tuned out of the others’ conversation and into the background soundtrack of the cafeteria. A bass of scraping chairs and guffaws from a group of teenage boys whose voices fluctuated at will from deep tenor into squeaky soprano. The tuneful scrape of lunch trays sliding along the bench, picking up salad packs or bowls of soup, harmonized by the rustle of crisp packets and weekend gossip.

Pip spotted him before the others and waved him over to their table. Ant waddled over, two packaged sandwiches cradled in his arms.

‘Hey, guys,’ he said, sliding on to the bench beside Cara, already tearing into sandwich number one.

‘How was practice?’ Pip asked.

Ant looked up at her warily, his mouth slightly open, revealing the churned produce of his chewing. ‘Fine,’ he swallowed. ‘Why are you being nice to me? What do you want?’

‘Nothing,’ Pip laughed. ‘I’m just asking how football was.’

‘No,’ Zach butted in, ‘that’s far too friendly for you. Something’s up.’

‘Nothing’s up.’ She shrugged. ‘Only the national debt and global sea levels.’

‘Probably hormones,’ Ant said.

Pip wound the invisible crank by her hand, jerkily raising her middle finger up at him.

They were on to her already. She waited a full five minutes for the group to have a conversation about the latest episode of that zombie programme they all watched, Connor stuffing his ears and humming loudly and tunelessly because he was yet to watch it.

‘So, Ant,’ Pip tried again, ‘you know your friend George from football?’

‘Yes, I think I know my friend George from football,’ he said, clearly finding himself rather too amusing.

‘He’s in the crowd that still do calamity parties, isn’t he?’

Ant nodded. ‘Yeah. Actually I think the next party is at his house. His parents are abroad for an anniversary or something.’

‘This weekend?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you . . .’ Pip sat forward, resting her elbows on the table. ‘Do you think you could get us all invited?’

Every single one of her friends turned to gawp at her.

‘Who are you and what have you done with Pippa Fitz-Amobi?’ Cara said.

‘What?’ She felt herself getting defensive, about four useless facts simmering to the surface, ready to fire. ‘It’s our last year at school. I thought it would be fun for us all to go. This is the opportune time, before coursework deadlines and mock-exams creep up.’

‘Still sounds Pip-ish to me,’ Connor smiled.

‘You want to go to a house party?’ Ant said pointedly.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Everyone will be smashed, people getting off, throwing up, passing out. A lot of mess on the floor,’ Ant said. ‘It’s not really your scene, Pip.’

‘Sounds . . . cultural,’ she said. ‘I still want to go.’

‘OK, fine.’ Ant clapped his hands together. ‘We’ll go.’

Pip stopped by Ravi’s on her way home from school. He set a black tea down in front of her, informing her there was no need to wait a jiffy for it to cool because he’d thought ahead and poured in some cold water.

‘OK,’ he finally said, his head bouncing in a part-shaking part-nodding movement as he tried to process the image of Andie Bell – cute, button-faced blonde – as a drug dealer. ‘OK, so you’re thinking the man who supplied her could be a suspect?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you have the depravity to peddle drugs to kids, I definitely think you could be the sort inclined to murder.’

‘Yeah, I see the logic,’ he nodded. ‘But how are we going to find this drug dealer, though?’

She plonked down her mug and sharpened her eyes on his. ‘I’m going undercover,’ she said.