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Rico is an unusual boy. Sometimes he’s laughed at because he mixes things up in his head and he doesn’t know his left from his right. But Rico is brilliant at noticing the little things that nobody else does. Like a piece of pasta lying on the pavement. Or the strange goings-on in the apartment block where he lives. But it isn’t until his new friend, the gifted but anxious Oscar, is kidnapped that Rico gets the chance to put all his special skills – and tenacity - to the test.

Exciting, touching and funny.

Andreas Steinhöfel is one of Germany’s most highly regarded authors and the winner of the prestigious German Youth Literature Prize 2009 (Children's Book category).

Translation by Chantal Wright.

The Pasta Detectives won the 2011 NASEN Award for Inclusive Children’s Book in the UK.

Even though the boy was much smaller than I was, he suddenly felt much bigger. It was a strange feeling. We looked at each other for such a long time that I thought we would still be standing there when the sun went down. I had never seen a child prodigy, apart from on TV in one of those talent contests.

There was a girl who played something really difficult on the violin and at the same time the host of the show called out numbers a mile long and she had to say if they were prime numbers or not. Mrs Darling swallowed down a cream cracker in one go and said that the little girl would go far in life, which is why I thought prime numbers were something important. Turns out they’re not.

PRIME NUMBER: A prime number is a number that you can only divide by the number 1 and by itself if you want to avoid fractures. Broken arms, for example. If I had been that TV presenter, I would have asked the girl why she didn’t play the flute or the trumpet instead of the violin. That way, if you fracture your arm, you can keep on blowing.

‘I’ve got to go now,’ I said to the boy finally. ‘Before it gets dark. Otherwise I might get lost.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Over there, in the yellow building. Number 93. On the right.’

I could have kicked myself as soon as I said on the right. First of all I didn’t really know if it was on the right – it might have been on the left. Secondly the old hospital is across from the row of blocks of flats, stretched out like a sleeping cat, and you can tell right away that that isn’t a building where people live.

The boy followed my outstretched arm. When he saw number. 93, he wrinkled up his forehead as though he had just made an amazing discovery and then wrinkled it down again as though he was thinking deeply about something.

Finally his forehead smoothed out and he grinned. ‘You’re really not all there, are you? If something is right in front of you and all you’ve got to do is keep going straight, you can’t possibly get lost.’

At least I’d got the right side of the street. I was getting just a little angry anyway. ‘Oh yeah? Well, I can. And if you are really as clever as you say you are, you would know that there are people who can.’

‘I—’

‘And another thing. It’s not one bit funny!’

All the lottery balls had turned red and were clacking against each other. ‘It’s not my fault that sometimes things go missing from my brain! I don’t mean to be stupid. I’m not stupid because I’m lazy!’

‘Hey, I—’

‘I bet you’re one of those superbrains who knows everything and always has to show off about something because otherwise nobody is interested in them unless they play the violin on telly!’

It’s very embarrassing, but when I get really worked up about something, when something isn’t fair, for example, I start to cry. There’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. The boy looked shocked under his crash helmet.

‘Don’t cry! I didn’t mean to—’

‘And I know what a prime number is!’ I shouted.

I was upset, that was about the only thing I did know at that moment. The boy didn’t say anything else. He looked down at his sandals. Then he looked up again. He stretched out his hand. It was so small that both of his would have fitted into one of mine.

‘I’m Oscar,’ he said. ‘And I would like to apologise sincerely. I shouldn’t have made fun of you. It was arrogant.’

I had no idea what he meant by the last word, but I understood he was sorry.

ARROGANT: When somebody looks down on somebody else. So Oscar can’t be all that clever because at the end of the day he’s a lot smaller than I am and has to keep looking up at me.

You have to be nice when somebody apologises. If somebody is just pretending, you can keep on being mad, but Oscar meant it sincerely. He’d said so himself.

‘I’m Rico,’ I said and shook his hand. ‘My dad was Italian.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘Of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said was.’ My teacher, Mr Meyer, told me that one of the strengths of my writing is the tenses: the past, present and future, and the If-I-were-you tense.

‘I’m sorry. How did he die?’

I didn’t answer. I’ve never told anybody how my dad died. It’s nobody’s business. It’s a very sad story. I wrinkled my nose, looked over the fence at the playground and tried to think of something else. For example, whether there were spades and buckets and sieves buried there too, and if so, how many and which colours. There were probably hundreds. If I dug them up Mum could auction them off on eBay with her handbags.