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pretty pink. That’d be even sweeter. You could get them some pink ribbons to match!’
    ‘Why don’t you shut up,’ said Gray. ‘It’s not funny, you know.’
    ‘You still blaming David?’
    ‘Nah,’ said Gray. ‘Fruit-loop wouldn’t have the brains to do something like that. No, I’ve got a fair idea who did it.’
    ‘Oh?’
    Martha looked at him with some interest. So did I. It was good to know that I was out of the firing line, but I was keen to know who Gray was aiming at now.
    ‘Well,’ insisted Martha.
    ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked Gray.
    ‘No,’ said Martha. ‘It isn’t obvious. Who did it?’
    ‘Uncle Bloody Felix, that’s who!’ said Gray bitterly.
    ‘Uncle Felix?’ Martha was surprised. ‘Why do you think it was him?’
    ‘It’s not rocket science,’ said Gray. ‘Ask yourself,
when
did it happen?’
    ‘Last night,’ said Martha.
    ‘And who arrived last night?’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So who’s a famous weirdo who writes weirdo books about weirdo things including crazy places and red rats and stuff?’
    Martha laughed. ‘How do you know what Uncle Felix writes about? You’ve never read a book in your life that’s not about some rugby player on a motorbike!’
    I wanted to add that Uncle Felix had
never
written about red rats, or that Martha had never read any of his books either as far as I knew, but that wouldn’t have been very smart. All I ever saw Martha reading was her Facebook page.
    ‘And,’ added Gray, as if this utterly clinched the argument, ‘a weirdo who wears a bow tie all the bloody time.’
    ‘A bow tie?’ said Martha.
    ‘Yeah, a floppy, bloody bow tie!’ said Gray triumphantly.
    ‘So,’ said Martha, ‘Mr Brilliant Detective has identified the guilty party with the real giveaway floppy, bloody bowtie. Now, tell me, Brill, have you also discovered
how
Uncle Felix managed to do it? With the bow tie? And while you’re at it, have you found out
why
he did it? Because of the bow tie?’
    ‘I’m working on that,’ said Gray grimly, ignoring her sarcasm. ‘And when I find out you’ll be the first to know.’

    Uncle Felix rang at lunchtime to say he’d be home for dinner. Mum reported that his talk had gone well, that he’d met lots of old friends, but that he would have done enough socialising for the day and would prefer a quiet evening with us.
    ‘And, David,’ she added, ‘he said there was one old friend he’d come across that he’d rather like you to meet.’
    I looked up.
    ‘Me? Did he say who it was?’
    Mum smiled. ‘He didn’t. Actually, he was a little mysterious, I thought.’
    I grinned at her. ‘Nothing unusual there,’ I said, and Mum laughed.
    ‘You’re getting to know him, then,’ she said.
    I wasn’t so sure about that. Was knowing that Uncle Felix was a little mysterious
knowing
him? Or was it knowing that he was difficult to know? This was another of those little head-spinning moments. I did know one thing,though: Gray thought he had sussed Uncle Felix out, and Gray was angry.
    I didn’t think for one microsecond that Uncle Felix had turned Simon and Garfunkel red even if he was, according to Mum, some kind of conjurer. At the same time, there was something about the rats’ colour change that Uncle Felix knew or suspected. And he was being quite mysterious about that.

    Whoever the friend was, Uncle Felix didn’t bring him — or her — home to dinner. He arrived just as Martha and I were setting the table.
    ‘How are we all?’ he greeted us.
    ‘All good, except Gray,’ said Martha.
    ‘Gray?’ asked Uncle Felix.
    Gray wasn’t with us. He’d left much earlier, saying he’d be late back and not to bother about him. He’d find some takeaway pizza somewhere.
    ‘He’s still pretty miffed about the rats,’ said Martha.
    ‘Oh, yes, the rats,’ said Uncle Felix. He looked troubled.
    I was a little worried that Martha might tell Uncle Felix that Gray was blaming him for the colour transformation, but, luckily, she