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CHAPTER 6: PHOTO OPPORTUNITY

CHUTE E37, HAVEN CITY, THE LOWER ELEMENTS

THE unlikely allies took the goblin shuttle up E37. Holly was none too pleased. First of all, she was being ordered to work with public-enemy number one, Artemis Fowl. And secondly, the goblin shuttle was held together by spit and prayers.

Holly hooked a com rig over one pointy ear. ‘Hey, Foaly? You there?’ ‘Right here, Captain.’

‘Remind me again why I’m flying this old slammer.’

LEPrecon pilots referred to suspect shuttles as slammers because of their alarming tendency to slam into the chute walls.

‘The reason you’re flying that old slammer, Captain, is that the goblins built this shuttle inside the port, and all three of the original access ramps were removed years ago. It would take days to get a new rig in there. So, I’m afraid we’re stuck with the goblin ship.’ Holly strapped herself into the pilot’s wraparound seat. The thruster toggles almost seemed to jump into her hands. For a split second, Captain Short’s natural good humour returned. She was an ace pilot, top of her class in the Academy. On her final assessment, Wing Commander Vinyáya had written that Cadet Short could fly a shuttle pod through the gap in jour teeth. It was a compliment with a sting in the tail. On her first try-out in a pod, Holly had lost control, crash-landing the craft two metres from Vinyáya’s nose.

So, for five seconds, Holly was happy. Then she remembered who her passengers were.

‘I wonder, could you tell me,’ said Artemis, settling into the co-pilot’s chair, ‘how close the Russian terminal is to Murmansk?’ ‘Civilians behind the yellow line,’ growled Holly, ignoring the enquiry.

Artemis pressed on. ‘This is important to me. I am trying to plan a rescue.’ Holly grinned tightly. ‘There’s so much irony here, I could write a poem. The kidnapper looking for help with a kidnapping.’ Artemis rubbed his temples. ‘Holly, I am a criminal. It’s what I do best. When I abducted you, I was thinking only of the ransom. You were never supposed to be in any danger.’ ‘Oh really?’ said Holly. ‘Apart from bio-bombs and trolls.’

‘True,’ admitted Artemis. ‘Sometimes plans don’t translate smoothly from paper to real life.’ He paused, cleaning some non-existent dirt from his manicured nails. ‘I have matured, Captain. This is my father. I need all the information I can gather before facing the Mafiya.’ Holly relented. It wasn’t easy growing up without a father. She knew. Her own father had passed away when she was barely sixty. More than twenty years ago now.

‘OK, Mud Boy, listen up. I’m only saying this once.’

Artemis sat up. Butler stooped as he entered the cockpit. He could smell a war story.

‘Over the past two centuries, with the advances in human technology, the LEP have been forced to shut down over sixty terminals. We pulled out of northern Russia in the sixties. The entire Kola peninsula is a nuclear disaster. The People have no tolerance to radiation, we never built up a resistance. In truth, there wasn’t much to close down. Just a Grade Three terminal and a couple of cloaking projectors. The People aren’t very fond of the Arctic. A bit frosty. Everybody was glad to be leaving. So, to answer your question: there’s one unmanned terminal, with little or no above-ground facilities, located about twenty klicks north of Murmansk –’ Foaly’s voice blurted from the intercom, interrupting what was dangerously close to a civil conversation. ‘OK, Captain. You’ve got a clear run to the subway. There’s still a bit of waffle from the last flare, so go easy.’ Holly pulled down her mouth mike. ‘Roger that, Foaly. Have the rad suits ready when I get back. We’re on a tight schedule.’ Foaly chuckled. ‘Take it easy on the thrusters, Holly. Technically, this is Artemis’s first time in the chutes, seeing as he and Butler were mesmerized on the way down. We wouldn’t want him getting a fright.’ Holly gunned the throttle quite a bit more than was absolutely necessary. ‘No,’ she growled. ‘We wouldn’t want him getting a fright.’ Artemis decided to strap on his restraining harness. A good idea, as it turned out.

Captain Short gunned the makeshift shuttle down the magnetized approach rail. The fins shook, sending twin waves of sparks cascading past the portholes. Holly adjusted the internal gyroscopes, otherwise there’d be Mud People vomiting all over the cockpit.

Holly’s thumbs hovered over the turbo buttons. ‘OK. Well, let’s see what this bucket can do.’ ‘Don’t go trying for any records, Holly,’ said Foaly over the speakers. ‘That ship is not built for speed. I’ve seen more aerodynamic dwarfs.’ Holly grunted. After all, what was the point in flying slowly? None whatsoever. And if you happened to terrify a few Mud Men along the way, well, that was just an added bonus.

The service tunnel opened on to the main chute. Artemis gasped. It was an awe-inspiring sight. You could drop Mount Everest down this chute and it wouldn’t even hit the sides. A deep red glow pulsed from the Earth’s core like the fires of hell, and the constant crack of contracting rock smacked the hull like physical blows.

Holly fired up all four flight engines, tumbling the shuttle into the abyss. Her worries evaporated like the eddies of mist swirling around the cockpit. It was a fly-boy thing. The lower you went without pulling out of the dive, the tougher you were. Even the fiery demise of Retrieval Officer Bom Arbles couldn’t stop the LEP pilots core diving. Holly held the current record. Five hundred metres from the Earth’s core before dipping the flaps. That had cost her two weeks’ suspension, plus a hefty fine.

Not today though. No records in a slammer. With the g-force rippling the skin on her cheeks, Holly dragged the joysticks back, pulling the nose out of vertical. It gave her no small satisfaction to hear both humans sigh with relief.

‘OK, Foaly, we’re on the up ‘n’ up. What’s the situation above ground?’ She could hear Foaly tapping a keyboard. ‘Sorry, Holly. I can’t get a lock on any of our surface equipment. Too much radiation from the last flare. You’re on your own.’ Holly eyed the two pale humans in the cockpit.

On my own, she thought. I wish.

PARIS, FRANCE

So, if Artemis wasn’t the human helping Cudgeon in his quest to arm the B’ wa Kell, who was? Some tyrannical dictator? Perhaps a disgruntled general with access to an unlimited supply of power cells? Well, no. Not exactly.

Luc Carrère was responsible for selling batteries to the B’ wa Kell. Not that you’d know it to look at him. In fact, he didn’t even know it himself. Luc was a small-time French private eye, who was well known for his inefficiency. In PI circles, it was said that Luc couldn’t trace a golf ball in a barrel of mozzarella.

Cudgeon decided to use Luc for three reasons. One, Foaly’s files showed that Carrère had a reputation as a wheeler-dealer. In spite of his ineptness as an investigator, Luc had a knack for laying his hand on whatever it was the client wanted to buy. Two, the man was greedy and had never been able to resist the lure of easy money. And three, Luc was stupid. And as every little fairy knows, weak minds are easier to mesmerize.

The fact that he had located Carrère in Foaly’s database was nearly enough to make Cudgeon smile. Of course, Briar would have preferred not to have any human link in the chain. But a chain comprised completely of goblin links is one dumb chain.

Establishing contact with any Mud Man was not something Cudgeon took lightly. Deranged as he was, Briar was well aware of what would happen if the humans got wind of a new market below ground. They would swarm to the Earth’s core like an army of red-backed flesh-eating ants. Cudgeon was not ready to meet the humans head on. Not yet. Not until he had the might of the LEP behind him.

So instead, Cudgeon sent Luc Carrère a little package. First class, shielded goblin mail… Luc Carrère had shuffled into his office apartment one July evening to find a small parcel lying on his desk. The package was nothing more than a FedEx delivery. Or something that looked very much like a FedEx delivery.

Luc slit the tape. Inside the box, cushioned on a nest of hundred-euro bills, was a small flat device of some kind. Like a portable CD player, but made from a strange black metal that seemed to absorb light. Luc would have shouted to recepion and instructed his secretary to hold all calls. If he had had a reception. If he had had a secretary. Instead the PI began stuffing cash down his grease-stained shirt as though the notes would disappear.

Suddenly, the device popped open, clam-like, revealing a micro-screen and speakers. A shadowy face appeared on the display. Though Luc could see nothing but a pair of red-rimmed eyes, that was enough to set goose bumps popping across his back.

Funny though, because when the face began to speak, Luc’s worries slid away like an old snakeskin. How could he have been worried? This person was obviously a friend. What a lovely voice. Like a choir of angels, all on its own.

‘Luc Carrère?’

Luc nearly cried. Poetry.

‘Oui. It’s me.’

‘Bonsoir. Do you see the money, Luc? It’s all yours.’ Sixty miles below ground, Cudgeon almost smiled. This was easier than expected. He had been worried that the dribble of power left in his brain wouldn’t be sufficient to mesmerize the human. But this particular Mud Man seemed to have the will-power of a hungry hog faced with a trough of turnips.

Luc held two wads of cash in his fists. ‘This money. It’s mine? What do I have to do?’ ‘Nothing. The money is yours. Do whatever you want.’

Now Luc Carrère knew that there was no such thing as free cash, but that voice… That voice was truth in a micro-speaker.

‘But there’s more. A lot more.’

Luc stopped what he was doing, which was kissing a hundred-euro bill. ‘More? How much more?’ The eyes seemed to glow crimson. ‘ As much as you want, Luc. But to get it, I need you to do me a favour.’ Luc was hooked. ‘Sure. What kind of favour?’

The voice emanating from the speaker was as clear as spring water. ‘It’s simple, not even illegal. I need batteries, Luc. Thousands of batteries. Maybe millions. Do you think you can get them for me?’ Luc thought about it for about two seconds. The banknotes were tickling his chin. As a matter of fact, he had a contact on the river who regularly shipped boatloads of hardware to the Middle East, including batteries. Luc was confident that some of those shipments could be diverted.

‘Batteries. Oui, certainment, I could do that.’

And so it went on for several months. Luc Carrère hit his contact for every battery he could lay his hands on. It was a sweet deal. Luc would crate the cells up in his apartment and in the morning they would be gone. In their place would sit a fresh pile of bills. Of course, the euros were fake, run off on an old Koboi printer, but Luc couldn’t tell the difference. Nobody outside the Treasury could.

Occasionally, the voice on the screen would make a special request. Some fire suits, for example. But hey, Luc was a player now. Nothing was more than a phone call away. In six months, Luc Carrère went from a one-room studio to a fancy loft apartment in St Germain. So naturally, the Sûreté and Interpol were building separate cases against him. But Luc wasn’t to know that. All he knew was that for the first time in his corrupt life, he was riding the gravy train.

One morning there was another parcel on his new marble-topped desk. Bigger this time. Bulkier. But Luc wasn’t worried. It was probably more money.

Luc popped the top to reveal an aluminium case and a second communicator. The eyes were waiting for him.

‘Bonjour, Luc. Ça vaT

‘Bien’ replied Luc, mesmerized from the first syllable.

‘I have a special assignment for you today. Do this right and you will never have to worry about money again. Your tool is in the case.’ ‘What is it?’ asked the PI nervously. The instrument looked like a weapon and, even though Luc was mesmerized, Cudgeon did not have enough magic to completely suppress the Parisian’s nature. The PI may have been devious, but he was no killer.

‘It’s a special camera, Luc, that’s all. If you pull that thing that looks like a trigger, it takes a picture,’ said Cudgeon.

‘Oh,’ said Luc Carrère Wearily.

‘Some friends of mine are coming to visit you. And I want you to take their picture. It’s just a game we play.’ ‘How will I know your friends?’ asked Luc. ‘A lot of people visit me.’ ‘They will ask about the batteries. If they ask about the batteries, then you take their picture.’ ‘Sure. Great.’ And it was great. Because the voice would never make him do anything wrong. The voice was his friend.

E37 SHUTTLE PORT

Holly steered the slammer through the chute’s final section. A proximity sensor in the shuttle’s nose set off the landing lights.

‘Hmm,’ muttered Holly.

Artemis squinted through the quartz windscreen. ‘A problem?’

‘No. It’s just that those lights shouldn’t be working. There hasn’t been a power source in the terminal since the last century.’ ‘Our goblin friends, I presume.’

Holly frowned. ‘Doubtful. It takes half a dozen goblins to turn on a glow cube. Wiring a shuttle port takes real know-how. Elfin know-how.’ ‘The plot thickens,’ said Artemis. If he’d had a beard, he would have stroked it. ‘I smell a traitor. Now, who would have access to all this technology and a motive for selling it?’ Holly pointed the shuttle’s cone towards the landing nodes. ‘We’ll find out soon enough. You just get me a live trader, and my mesmer will soon have him spilling his guts.’ The shuttle docked with a pneumatic hiss as the bay’s rubber collar formed an airtight seal around the outer hull.

Butler was out of his chair before the seat-belt light winked off, ready for action.

‘Just don’t kill anyone,’ warned Holly. ‘That’s not how the LEP likes to operate. Anyway, dead Mud Men don’t rat on their partners.’ She brought up a schematic on the wall-screen. It depicted Paris’s old city. ‘OK,’ she said, pointing to a bridge across the Seine. ‘We’re here. Under this bridge, sixty metres from Notre-Dame. The cathedral, not the football team. The dock is disguised as a bridge support. Stand in the doorway until I give you a green light. We have to be careful here. The last thing we need is some Parisian seeing you emerging from a brick wall.’ ‘You’re not accompanying us?’ asked Artemis.

‘Orders,’ said Holly, scowling. ‘Apparently this could be a trap. Who knows what hardware is pointed at the terminal door? Lucky for you, you’re expendable. Irish tourists on holiday, you’ll fit right in.’ ‘Lucky us. What leads do we have?’

Holly slid a disk into the console. ‘Foaly stuck his Retimager on the goblin prisoner. Apparently he has seen this human.’ The captain brought up a mugshot on the screen. ‘Foaly got a match on his Interpol files. Luc Carrère. Disbarred attorney, does a bit of PI work.’ She printed off a card. ‘Here’s his address. He just moved to a swanky new apartment. It could be nothing, but at least we have somewhere to start. I need you to immobilize him, and show him this.’ Holly handed the bodyguard what looked like a diver’s watch.

‘What is it?’ asked the manservant.

‘Just a com screen. You put it in front of Carrère’s face and I can mesmerize the truth out of him from down here. It also contains one of Foaly’s doodahs: a personal shield. The Safetynet. A prototype, you’ll be delighted to know. You have the honour of testing it. Touch the screen, and the micro-reactor generates a two-metre diameter sphere of tri-phased light. No good for solids, but laser bursts or concussion shocks are OK.’ ‘Hmm,’ said Butler doubtfully. ‘We don’t get a lot of laser bursts above ground.’ ‘Hey, don’t use it. Do I care?’

Butler studied the tiny instrument. ‘One-metre radius? What about the bits that are sticking out.’ Holly thumped the manservant playfully in the stomach. ‘My advice to you, big man, is curl up in a ball.’ ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ said Butler, cinching the strap around his wrist. ‘You two try not to kill each other while I’m gone.’ Artemis was surprised. It didn’t happen very often. ‘While you’re gone? Surely you don’t expect me to stay behind?’ Butler tapped his forehead. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll see everything on the iris-cam.’ Artemis fumed for several moments, before settling back down into the co-pilot’s seat. ‘I know. I would only slow you down, and that, in turn, would slow down the search for my father.’ ‘Of course, if you insist…’

‘No. This is no time for childishness.’

Butler smiled gently. Childishness was one thing Master Artemis was hardly likely to be accused of.

‘How long do I have?’

Holly shrugged. ‘As long as it takes. Obviously the sooner the better for everybody’s sake.’ She glanced at Artemis. ‘Especially his father’s.’ In spite of everything, Butler felt good. This was life at its most basic. The hunt. Not exactly Stone Age, not with a large semi-automatic weapon under his arm. But the principle was the same: the survival of the fittest. And there was no doubt in Butler’s mind that he was the fittest.

He followed Holly’s directions to a service ladder, scaling it quickly to the doorway above. He waited beside the metal door until the light above changed from red to green, and the camouflaged entrance slid noiselessly back. The bodyguard emerged cautiously. While it was likely that the bridge was deserted, he could hardly explain himself away as a homeless person, dressed as he was in a dark designer suit.

Butler felt a breeze play across the shaven dome of his crown. The morning air felt good, even after a few hours below ground. He could easily imagine how fairies must feel, forced out of their native environment by humans. From what Butler had seen, if the People ever decided to reclaim what was theirs, the battle wouldn’t last long. But luckily for mankind, fairies were a peace-loving people, and not prepared to go to war over real estate.

The coast was clear. Butler stepped casually on to the riverside walkway, proceeding west towards the St Germain district.

A riverboat swept past on his right, ferrying a hundred tourists around the city. Butler automatically covered his face with a massive hand. Just in case some of those tourists had cameras pointed in his direction.

The bodyguard mounted a set of stone steps to the road above. Behind him the pointed spire of Notre-Dame rose into the sky, and to his left the Eiffel Tower’s famous profile punctured the clouds. Butler strode confidently across the main road, nodding at several French ladies who stopped to stare. He was familiar with this area of Paris, having spent a month recuperating here after a particularly dangerous assignment for the French Secret Service.

Butler strolled along Rue Jacob. Even at this hour, cars and lorries jammed the narrow street. Drivers leaned on their horns, hanging from car windows, Gallic tempers running wild. Mopeds dodged between bumpers, and several pretty girls strolled past. Butler smiled. Paris. He had forgotten.

Carrère’s apartment was on Rue Bonaparte, opposite the church. Apartments in St Germain cost more per month than most Parisians made in a year. Butler ordered a coffee and croissant at the Bonaparte cafe, settling himself at an outside table. According to his calculations, it gave him the perfect view of Monsieur Carrère’s balcony.

Butler didn’t have long to wait. In less than an hour, the chunky Parisian appeared on the balcony, leaning on the ornate railing for several minutes. He very obligingly presented front and side views of himself.

Holly’s voice sounded in Butler’s ear. ‘That’s our boy. Is he alone?’ ‘I can’t tell,’ muttered the bodyguard into his hand. The flesh-tone mike glued to his throat would pick up any vibrations and translate them for Holly.

‘Just a sec’

Butler heard a keyboard being tapped, and suddenly the iris-cam in his eye sparked. The vision in one eye jumped into a completely different spectrum.

‘Heat-sensitive,’ Holly informed him. ‘Hot equals red. Cold equals blue. Not a very powerful system, but the lens should penetrate an outer wall.’ Butler cast a fresh eye over the apartment. There were three red objects in the room. One was Carrère’s heart, which pulsed crimson in the centre of his pink body. The second appeared to be a kettle or possibly a coffee pot, and the third was a TV.

‘OK. All clear, I’m going in.’

‘Affirmative. Watch your step. This is a bit too convenient.’

‘Agreed.’

Butler crossed the cobbled street to the four-storey apartment building. There was an intercom security system, but this structure was nineteenth century, and a solid shoulder at the right point popped the bolt right out of its housing.

‘I’ m in.’

There was noise on the stairs above. Someone coming this way. Butler wasn’t unduly concerned. Nevertheless he slid a palm inside his jacket, fingers resting on his handgun’s grip. It was unlikely he would need it. Even the most boisterous young bucks generally gave Butler a wide berth. Something to do with his merciless eyes. Being over two metres tall didn’t hurt either.

A group of teenagers rounded the corner.

‘Excusez-moi,’ said Butler, gallantly stepping aside.

The girls giggled. The boys glared. One, a mono-eyebrowed rugby type, even thought about passing comment. Then Butler winked at him. It was a peculiar wink, somehow simultaneously cheerful and terrifying. No comments were passed.

Butler ascended to the fourth floor without incident. Carrère’s apartment was on the gable end. Two walls of windows. Very expensive.

The bodyguard was considering his breaking and entering options when he noticed the door was open. Open doors generally meant one of two things: one, nobody was left alive to close it, or two, he was expected. Neither of these options appealed to him particularly.

Butler entered cautiously. The apartment walls were lined with open crates. Battery packs and fire suits poked through the Styrofoam packing. The floor was littered with thick wads of currency.

‘Are you a friend?’ It was Carrère. He was slumped in an oversized armchair, a weapon of some kind nestling in his lap.

Butler approached slowly. An important rule of combat is that every opponent is taken seriously.

‘Take it easy.’

The Parisian raised the weapon. The grip was made for smaller fingers. A child, or a fairy. ‘I asked if you were a friend.’ Butler cocked his own pistol. ‘No need to shoot.’

‘Stand still,’ ordered Carrère. ‘I’m not going to shoot you, just take your photo maybe. The voice told me.’ Holly’s voice sounded in Butler’s earpiece. ‘Get closer. I need to see the eyes.’ Butler holstered his weapon, taking a step forward. ‘You see, no one has to get hurt here.’ ‘I’m going to enhance the image,’ said Holly. ‘This may sting a bit.’ The tiny camera in his eye buzzed, and suddenly Butler’s vision was magnified by four – which would have been just fine had the magnification not been accompanied by a sharp jolt of pain. Butler blinked back a stream of tears from his eye.

Below, in the goblin shuttle, Holly studied Luc’s pupils. ‘He’s been mesmerized,’ she pronounced. ‘Several times. You see how the iris has actually become jagged. You mesmerize a human too much and they can go blind.’ Artemis studied the image. ‘Is it safe to mesmerize him again?’

Holly shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. He’s already under a spell. This particular individual is just following orders. His brain doesn’t know a thing about it.’ Artemis grabbed the mike stand. ‘Butler! Get out of there. Right now.’ In the apartment, Butler stood his ground. Any sudden movement might be his last.

‘Butler,’ said Holly. ‘Listen carefully. That gun pointed at you is a wide-bore low-frequency blaster. We call it a Bouncer. It was developed for tunnel skirmishes. If he pulls that trigger, a wide arc laser is going to ricochet off the walls until it hits something.’ ‘I see,’ muttered Butler.

‘What did you say?’ asked Carrère.

‘Nothing. I just don’t like having my photo taken.’

A spark of Luc’s greedy personality surfaced. ‘I like that watch on your wrist. It looks expensive. Is it a Rolex?’ ‘You don’t want this,’ said Butler, very reluctant to part with the com screen. ‘It’s cheap. A piece of trash.’ ‘Just give me the watch.’

Butler peeled back the strap of the instrument on his wrist. ‘If I give you this watch, maybe you can tell me about all these batteries.’ ‘It is you! Say cheese,’ squealed Carrère, forcing his pudgy thumb into the undersized trigger guard and pumping for all he was worth.

For Butler, time seemed to slow to a crawl. It was almost as though he were inside his personal time-stop. His soldier’s brain absorbed all the facts and analysed his options. Carrère’s finger was too far gone. In a moment, a wide-bore laser burst would be speeding his way, and would continue to bounce around the room until they were both dead. His gun was of no use in a situation like this. All he had was the Safetynet, but a two-metre sphere was not going to be enough. Not for two good-sized humans.

So, in the fraction of a second left to him, Butler formulated a new strategy. If the sphere could stop concussive waves coming towards him, perhaps it could stop them coming out of the blaster. Butler touched the screen of the Safetynet, and hurled the device in Carrère’s direction.

Not a nanosecond too soon, a spherical shield blossomed, enveloping the expanding beam from Carrère’s blaster: 360 degrees of protection. It was a sight to see, a fireworks display in a bubble. The shield hovered in the air, shafts of light ricocheting against the sphere’s curved planes.

Carrère was hypnotized by the sight, and Butler took advantage of the distraction to disarm him.

‘Start the engines,’ grunted the bodyguard into his throat mike. ‘The Sûreté are going to be all over this place in minutes. Foaly’s Safetynet didn’t stop the noise.’ ‘Roger that. What about Monsieur Carrère?’

Butler dumped the dazed Parisian flat on the carpet. ‘Luc and I are going to have a little chat.’ For the first time Carrère seemed to be aware of his surroundings.

‘Who are you?’ he mumbled. ‘What’s happening?’

Butler ripped open the man’s shirt, placing his palm flat on the PI’s heart. Time for a little trick he’d learned from Madame Ko, his Japanese sensei. ‘Don’t worry, Monsieur Carrère. I’m a doctor. There’s been an accident, but you’re perfectly fine.’ ‘An accident? I don’t remember any accident.’

‘Trauma. It’s quite normal. I’m just going to check your vitals.’

Butler placed a thumb on Luc’s neck, locating the artery. ‘I’m going to ask you a few questions, to check for concussion.’ Luc didn’t argue. Then again, who’d argue with a two-metre-plus Eurasian with muscles like a Michelangelo statue?

‘Is your name Luc Carrère?’

‘Yes.’

Butler noted the pulse rate. One from the heartbeat, and a second reference on the carotid artery. Steady, in spite of the accident.

‘Are you a private eye?’

‘I prefer the title investigator.’

No increase in pulse rate. The man was telling the truth.

‘Have you ever sold batteries to a mystery buyer?’

‘No, I have not,’ protested Luc. ‘What kind of doctor are you?’

The man’s pulse sky-rocketed. He was lying.

‘Answer the questions, Monsieur Carrère,’ said Butler sternly. ‘Just one more. Have you ever had dealings with goblins?’ Relief flooded through Luc. The police did not ask questions about fairies. ‘What are you? Crazy? Goblins? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Butler closed his eyes, concentrating on the pounding beneath his thumb and palm. Luc’s pulse had settled. He was telling the truth. He had never had any direct dealings with the goblins. Obviously the B’ wa Kell wasn’t that stupid.

Butler stood up, pocketing the Bouncer. He could hear the sirens on the street below.

‘Hey, Doctor,’ protested Luc. ‘You can’t just leave me like this.’ Butler eyed him coldly. ‘I would take you with me, but the police will want to know why your apartment is full of what I suspect are counterfeit bills.’ Luc could only watch with his mouth open as the giant figure disappeared into the corridor. He knew he should run, but Luc Carrère hadn’t run more than fifty metres since gym class in the nineteen seventies, and anyway, his legs had suddenly turned to jelly. The thought of a long stretch in prison can do that to a person.