‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘But aside from being a scientific breakthrough. This is also a tablecloth.’

  ‘What?’ said the detective sergeant.

  ‘It’s a white square of material,’ said Friday. ‘Approximately 1.2 metres by 1.2 metres. The standard-size tablecloth for a two-person table in a European bistro. It’s hemmed. And if you look under this side, in the corner, there’s a small tag that says . . .’

  Friday leaned over and read the tag. ‘One hundred per cent polyester. Made in China.’

  ‘China!’ said the detective sergeant. ‘So the Chinese government are behind this?’

  ‘No,’ said Friday. ‘You have to think like my mother. Or rather, think about how my mother behaves. She works all day from eight in the morning to six in the afternoon. Then an alarm on her wristwatch goes off to remind her to eat dinner, but she can’t cook.’

  ‘She’s actually been banned from preparing food in her apartment,’ said the lawyer. ‘She tried to heat up a frozen lasagne without taking it out of the foil container and blew up her microwave.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me and Mum hates waiting,’ said Friday. ‘She would hate the time between ordering and the food being put in front of her. She would want to keep working. If she had a pen, it’s only natural that she would start writing on the tablecloth.’

  ‘But then why did she leave it behind?’ asked the detective sergeant.

  ‘Because of this . . .’ said Friday, indicating another point in the scrawl on the tablecloth. ‘Quantum was right about her equation up to this point. But down here . . .’ Friday pointed to a small, dense note of spidery scrawl. ‘. . . she continues with that line of thinking and disproves her own theory.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Quantum, leaning over to look at the other corner of the cloth. ‘What a shame. It was such an elegant solution.’

  ‘So the idea was wrong,’ said Friday. ‘Her meal came. She ate it. She probably forgot all about the notes she had written and left without given the tablecloth a second thought.’

  ‘Then who was selling it on the internet?’ asked the detective sergeant.

  ‘May I touch the tablecloth?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Sure,’ said the detective sergeant, handing her a latex glove to wear so she wouldn’t contaminate the evidence. Friday carefully picked up the corner of the cloth that had the maker’s label and turned it over. There was a stamp close to the hem. The ink had faded with repeated washing, but they could still make out the writing –

  Property of

  Borelli’s Cucina

  ‘Borelli’s!’ exclaimed the detective sergeant. ‘We eat there all the time. My wife loves their tiramisu.’

  ‘That’s where you’ll find your culprit,’ said Friday. ‘Your wife might need to watch some YouTube tutorials and figure out how to make tiramisu for herself.’

  Friday, Melanie, Quantum and Ms Dekker had to sit and wait at the police station while the detective sergeant conducted a raid on the restaurant. Friday used the opportunity to call Uncle Bernie. He didn’t pick up, so she had to leave him a message.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Bernie,’ said Friday. ‘It’s me, Friday, your niece. I’m in Switzerland at CERN getting Mum out of prison. Melanie’s here too. But we lost Ian on the way here. He didn’t get off the train at the right station. Maybe he fell asleep and went on to Geneva, or he had to get off earlier. Could you look for him? I’m getting a bit worried. Um . . . I hope you’re okay. Sorry about the mess in P–’ The phone cut out as the recording time came to an end.

  Friday frowned. ‘Did I say the right things?’

  ‘You asked him to look for Ian,’ said Melanie. ‘That was the main thing.’

  ‘I don’t want him to worry,’ said Friday.

  ‘You just told him his stepson is missing,’ said Melanie. ‘Worrying is unavoidable.’

  ‘He’ll find him, though, won’t he?’ said Friday.

  ‘Bernie is a department head at Interpol,’ said Melanie. ‘No-one would have access to better resources than him. He’ll find Ian. Or Ian will find us. It’ll be okay.’

  Friday didn’t feel okay. But they didn’t have long to wait before the detective sergeant returned with Salvatore Borelli. The restaurant owner had been brought in for formal questioning. But he had started confessing as soon as the detective sergeant walked in through the front door.

  ‘Those scientists are the worst customers!’ Mr Borelli complained. ‘They do a statistical analysis of the menu to work out which is the cheapest meal. They bring their own water bottles, so they don’t have to pay for drinks. They never ever tip. And they’re either rude to the wait staff. Or worse – they try to flirt with the wait staff.’

  ‘But that doesn’t justify stealing,’ said the detective sergeant.

  ‘They steal from me all the time!’ yelled Mr Borelli. ‘They sit around talking about physics for hours when all they’ve paid for is one nine-euro plate of pasta!’

  ‘Being frugal isn’t a crime,’ said the detective sergeant.

  ‘But when they get excited . . .’ continued Mr Borelli – it was liberating to get all this off his chest. ‘They start demonstrating their hypothesises using the cutlery and tableware.’

  ‘That’s not a crime either,’ said the detective sergeant.

  ‘One of my waitresses was hit in the head by a salt cellar,’ said Mr Borelli.

  ‘Okay, that is a crime,’ said the detective sergeant. ‘If it was done intentionally.’

  ‘When I confronted the idiot who threw it,’ said Mr Borelli, ‘he apologised but explained that he was just demonstrating the effect of gravity on a hadron travelling at high speed. Can you believe it?’

  ‘But still, that doesn’t give you the right to sell stolen property,’ said the detective sergeant.

  ‘I didn’t steal,’ said Mr Borelli. ‘It’s my tablecloth! I paid six euros for that at the restaurant supply store. That woman ruined it by writing all over it. I was just trying to recoup my money.’

  ‘But it’s her intellectual property,’ said the detective sergeant.

  ‘Actually, it’s CERN’s intellectual property,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘Everything Dr Barnes writes down belongs to us.’

  ‘It’s graffiti!’ said Mr Borelli. ‘You can’t have intellectual property rights over graffiti.’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘It’s a grey area. Dr Barnes committed a crime first by damaging his property. A judge could go either way. It’s an interesting dilemma.’

  ‘Like a thought experiment?’ said Quantum.

  ‘Shut up about your stupid experiments!’ said Mr Borelli.

  ‘Why did you set up a restaurant near CERN if you hate scientists so much?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I didn’t know what they were like,’ said Mr Borelli. ‘I assumed, like everyone else on the planet they would eat and enjoy food. But no! They have the culinary palette of six-year-olds. They don’t deserve a restaurant. They just want a cuppa-noodle vending machine.’

  The detective sergeant sighed and rubbed his forehead. This whole situation was giving him a headache. It was becoming increasingly apparent he was not going to get to press charges against anyone for terrorism. Plus, the Paris police would not be happy when they got the news that they had staged a twenty-hour man hunt for a fifteen-year-old who had both snuck out of the country and was in fact innocent of any crime. ‘How would you like to proceed?’ he asked Ms Dekker. ‘It’s CERN’s intellectual property he was trying to sell on the internet.’

  ‘We’ve retrieved the original,’ said Ms Dekker, indicating the tablecloth on the desk. ‘No-one can understand Dr Barnes’ equations. They apparently don’t work. I have no complaint with Mr Borelli. In fact, he has my deepest sympathy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Borelli.

  ‘My only concern now,’ continued Ms Dekker, ‘is you, detective sergeant. I want to know why you haven’t released Dr Barnes yet and how much I should sue your department for, for her wrongful imprisonment.’

  ‘You can’t accuse us of that,’ said the detective sergeant. ‘She refused to cooperate.’

  ‘Every minute you continue to hold her is another thousand dollars I will add to our claim,’ said the lawyer, glancing at her wristwatch.

  ‘Fine, I’ll go and get her,’ said the detective sergeant. He did it himself instead of sending a junior officer. He somehow felt like he was the one who had narrowly escaped a disastrous interrogation.

  Five minutes later Dr Barnes was led out of the holding cells. Friday hadn’t known what to expect. It had been two years since she had last seen her mother. But throughout her childhood, Friday’s mother had always looked the same. She had a uniform. Saggy blue cardigan, long brown skirt and cheap nylon sneakers. As well as messy greying hair that made her permanently look like she had just been attacked by a very angry magpie.

  But when Friday’s mum emerged from the cells, she looked different. Well, she didn’t look different. She was still the same dowdy scruffy scientist, but the police had taken her own clothes (no doubt for forensic testing) and she was wearing a bright-orange jumpsuit. She looked like an aging felon from a prison movie. All she needed were some neck tattoos and she would have made a convincing gangster’s moll.

  ‘Mum, are you okay?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Friday?’ said Mum, suddenly recognising her daughter. ‘What are you doing in Switzerland?’

  ‘Getting you out of jail,’ said Friday.

  ‘Really?’ said Mum. ‘There was no need to travel all this way for that. I quite liked jail. It’s very quiet. Plenty of time to focus on my work. They bring meals to the room. And the toilet is right there next to the bed. So convenient and time effective.’

  Melanie coughed into her hand while saying, ‘Told you so.’

  Friday rolled her eyes.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Mum, as she adjusted her multifocals and peered at Melanie.

  ‘Hello, Dr Barnes,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m Melanie. Friday’s best friend. We’ve met before, but you were busy hugging Mr Dr Barnes at the time and leading him back to your helicopter so you may not remember me.’

  Not only had Friday’s mum not remembered Melanie, she had also stopped listening to her. ‘Ahh, my notes,’ said Mum, noticing the tablecloth on the desk. She reached forward to take it.

  ‘You can’t take that. It’s evidence,’ said the detective sergeant.

  ‘I know,’ said Mum. ‘It’s evidence of a new way of pursuing my theory.’

  ‘No, it’s evidence that we will have to put before a magistrate if this whole sorry mess ends up in court,’ said the detective sergeant.

  ‘But my notes,’ said Mum, becoming bewildered. ‘I need them.’

  ‘You wrote them on a tablecloth,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘You know you’re not meant to write notes on other people’s property or public spaces. We held a seminar on that last year. All staff were obliged to attend.’

  ‘I attend all mandatory seminars,’ said Mum. ‘They are mandatory. But listening is not mandatory. It is too difficult to measure. So I wear earplugs. I can utilise the time for my work.’

  Ms Dekker sighed. ‘Come on. We need to leave before you say anything else that’s incriminating.’

  On the drive back to CERN, Friday, Melanie and Quantum were squashed into the backseat of the car. Ms Dekker insisted that Mum sit in the front passenger seat, so she could scold her during the journey.

  ‘You will have to face a disciplinary hearing before you’re allowed to resume your work,’ said Ms Dekker.

  ‘Why?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Because you did something wrong,’ said Ms Dekker.

  ‘Oh, well, I’ll just work from home then,’ said Dr Barnes.

  ‘Your home is owned by CERN,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘If they say you have to cease your research, then you have to cease your research.’

  ‘But what will I do if I can’t do my work?’ said Mum.

  ‘Your daughter has come to visit,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘You could spend time with her.’

  Mum looked perplexed.

  Friday looked horrified. ‘Please, no,’ she begged.

  Ms Dekker let out a long sigh. ‘You need to start behaving better, now more than ever.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Mum.

  ‘The new Chief Administrative Scientist is arriving soon,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘We need everything to be shipshape. We need everyone – especially our highest profile scientists – to act like normal adults.’

  ‘I behave like an adult,’ said Mum.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘You shouldn’t be allowed to walk the streets. You are so socially stupid you are a danger to yourself and our entire scientific program.’

  ‘Am I to apologise for focusing on my work?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Dr Barnes, do you ever listen to anything at any of the meetings you attend?’ asked Ms Dekker.

  ‘I try not to,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, listen closely now because I’m going to explain the situation to you,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘CERN was incredibly expensive to build and now it is incredibly expensive to run. A lot of people, taxpayers, resent that expense.’

  ‘But we are exploring the fundamental building blocks of existence,’ said Mum.

  ‘Yes, and the vast majority of people, again taxpayers, don’t care about that,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘They care about the existence of their pay checks. They don’t care about the super collider, except to be mildly concerned that one day it will explode, opening up a black hole and destroying the whole planet.’

  ‘That would never happen,’ said Mum. ‘To create a black hole the collider would have to be operational. If the collider exploded, that would be counterproductive. If, however, it caused an explosion . . .’

  Ms Dekker took a deep breath and held it. Friday suspected she was counting to ten in her head to resist the urge to scream at her mother.

  ‘The new Chief Administrative Scientist is not a theoretical physicist,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘His doctorate is in science administration.’

  ‘Can you get a PhD for that?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Apparently,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘Dr Dalecki will not tolerate feuding staff, academic controversies or budget blowouts. His job is to facilitate smooth running of the institution and ensure budgetary oversight is maintained.’

  ‘That sounds like an excellent idea,’ said Mum.

  ‘No, it’s not!’ said Ms Dekker. ‘This is where your social ignorance is a problem. “To facilitate smooth running” means redundancies. He will fire any difficult members of staff. “Ensuring budgetary oversight is maintained” means he won’t hesitate to fire the highest paid troublemakers first. And since you’re the Nobel Laureate who just got out of prison – that means you!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mum.

  ‘Yes, oh,’ agreed Ms Dekker. ‘This cannot continue. Until Dr Dalecki arrives and settles in, you need to stay out of trouble.’

  ‘I’m sure I can manage that,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you can’t,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘Which is why I’m insisting that you have twenty-four-hour care for the next two weeks.’

  ‘You mean, like a babysitter?’ asked Mum.

  ‘I mean exactly like a babysitter,’ agreed Ms Dekker.

  Friday made a scoffing noise. ‘Who would agree to that?’

  ‘I will,’ said Quantum. ‘I can keep an eye on Mum.’

  ‘No, I said someone responsible,’ said the lawyer. ‘You’re as bad as her.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said Quantum. ‘I have normal-level social skills.’

  ‘The fact that you think that shows how abnormal your social skills are,’ said Ms Dekker.

  ‘What family member would you accept?’ asked Mum. ‘Harold is at a crucial point with his research in Zurich. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt the research of any of my children. Although . . . Halley is working in experimental physics now, so that is hardly vital.’

  ‘No,’ said Ms Dekker. ‘No physicists. I know all about the fallibilities of physicists. Unless you can produce another socially competent relative, the only person in your family I trust is this daughter.’ She pointed at Friday. ‘She seems to have some common sense and life skills. If she agrees to stay with you for the next two weeks in the lead up to the disciplinary hearing, then you can stay on campus.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Friday. ‘That’s not fair. I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You’re the one who got her out of jail,’ said the lawyer. ‘You have to deal with the consequences.’

  As Friday, Melanie and Dr Barnes walked down the corridor of the residential building, it was immediately apparent which was her mother’s apartment, because there was crime-scene tape fastened across the door. Friday yanked it down while she waited for her mother to find her keys. When she turned around, she realised her mother wasn’t even looking for them.

  ‘Aren’t you going to let us in?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I don’t have a key,’ said Mum.

  ‘But it’s your apartment,’ said Friday.

  ‘I never lock the door,’ said Mum.

  ‘That’s not safe,’ said Friday.

  ‘It’s cold in Switzerland in winter,’ said Mum. ‘Statistically the chance of my apartment being burgled are low. I have nothing of value. My possessions could be easily and affordably replaced. Whereas the chances of me being locked out are very high. I locked myself out seven times in three weeks before I lost the key entirely and stopped locking the door. Getting locked out in sub-zero temperatures is a health hazard. Therefore, it makes no sense to lock the door.’

  ‘It makes no sense for a fifty-five-year-old woman, a Nobel Laureate and mother of five to live with fewer possessions than a homeless vagrant,’ said Friday. ‘But as apparently you do, I concede the reasoning in your argument.’