It begins with a terrible, heart-rending scream that shocks us into frightened silence. A crime has been discovered. Items of immense value have mysteriously gone missing. The victim is barely coherent. They were definitely in his tray…just after lunch…they were brand new…his mother will kill him…shouldn’t have brought them to school.

“Brought what to school?” I ask in a desk-sergeant-like voice. It’s time to calm things down a bit. An investigation cannot take place in an atmosphere of emotional turmoil. We need to establish the basic facts. I take a deep breath and ask Michael if it’s possible for him to stop crying and tell me exactly what it is that’s gone missing?

“My Angry Birds,” he sobs. “And they’ve not gone m-m-missing. Somebody s-s-stole them!” My knowledge of Angry Birds is not extensive. I had an idea they only existed in a virtual sense but clearly that’s not true. These Angry Birds, according to a now equally angry Michael, are both real and virtual at the same time, and he’s got the app to prove it. I consider asking him to explain but decide life’s too short.

‘It’s usually Moriarty’

During my interview with the victim (begun 14.27, terminated 14.31) he whispers the name of a potential suspect. I glance at Moriarty (not his real name) and consider whether I have sufficient grounds to question him. In Agatha Christie stories, it’s usually the doctor who did it because he has access to poisons and knows how to administer them to murderous effect. In my class, it’s usually Moriarty because, statistically speaking, it’s usually Moriarty.

But this time the evidence against him doesn’t seem to stack up. Normally Moriarty gets caught in the act. Or he protests his innocence too much. Or the stolen goods are discovered stuffed very conspicuously up his jumper. And there is something else. Something that points me towards a different line of enquiry. Jamie has turned a curious shade of what paint manufacturers might call Flustered Fuchsia.

While Columbo lulls criminals into a false sense of his own stupidity, and Sherlock Holmes dissects them with the scalpel of infallible logic, Hercule Eddison relies on his little grey cells and the fact that his investigation starts where most crime fiction ends. The suspects are already gathered in one room. Their characters, their whereabouts and their motives are already known. The only disadvantage is that beating a confession out of them is not allowed.

But then it’s not needed. “I know who stole Michael’s Angry Birds and I know it wasn’t…you, Jamie.” While Jamie turns from Flustered Fuchsia to Criminally Crimson, I continue my summation. “It wasn’t Jamie because he’s not a thief. But I want him to check his drawer, his bag and his coat because I believe the real thief might have planted them on him.”

At 14.44pm, my investigation is concluded. Several Angry Birds have been restored to their rightful owner and one relieved boy has been deterred forever from a life of crime. “Maybe we should celebrate with a game,” I say. “Who wants to play Wink Murder?”

Steve Eddison teaches at Arbourthorne Community Primary School in Sheffield