South by South East db-3

by Anthony Horowitz

  I felt the wind grab me. For a moment everything was a blur. Then long grass rushed up at me from all sides. I heard Tim yell, the sound blending in with the roar of the train. I could feel his weight at the end of the chain, still pulling me forward. There was a sickening thud as my shoulder came into contact with the earth. And then everything was blue, green, blue, green as I rolled down a hill between the grass and the sky. I couldn’t see Tim any more and wondered if he’d managed to pull off my arm.

  Then I must have blacked out for a moment. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back, winded and only half-conscious. A pair of eyes that I thought I knew well loomed over me.

  “Tim?” I muttered.

  “Moo,” came the reply. It was a cow. And it seemed as astonished as I was that I was still alive.

  I raised my hand and was grateful to see it was still there. It seemed that I hadn’t broken any bones in the fall — but I had broken the handcuffs. A length of chain trailed away from my wrist.

  There was a loud groan a short distance away and Tim popped up behind a small bush. It had been a big bush until he had rolled through it. Tim had been less fortunate than me. As soon as we were separated, he had rolled through six nettles, a clump of thistles, a cowpat and the bush.

  “Next time, we take a bus!” he muttered as I tried to tidy him up. The cow ambled over and tried to eat his sleeve. “Shoo!” Tim cried out. The cow put its head down to the ground and took a bite out of one of his shoes.

  We chased the cow away and found Tim’s other shoe. A few minutes later we crossed the field leaving the railway line behind us. There was a gap in the hedge and a lane on the other side. We turned left, following our noses. Actually, Tim’s nose had been stung so badly, it now pointed both ways.

  But he didn’t complain. He was limping along beside me, deep in thought. For a long time neither of us spoke. Then, at last, he sighed. “Charlotte!” I’d had a feeling he was thinking about her. “You know, I really think she likes me.”

  I shrugged. “Well, she was certainly smiling when she pushed you off the train.”

  We reached a crossroads. This time there was a sign. Dover straight ahead. But it didn’t say how far.

  “How far do you think it is?” Tim asked.

  “It can’t be more than a couple of kilometres,” I said. Tim grimaced. “I’m not sure I can make it, kid. I think I’ve twisted both my ankles.”

  I looked down. “No you haven’t,” I said. “You’ve got your shoes on the wrong feet.”

  “Oh.”

  We walked a little further and suddenly there we were. We were high up with the sea — a brilliant blue — below us. The port of Dover was a knotted fist with a ferry and a hovercraft slipping through its concrete fingers even as we watched. And to our left and to our right, as far as we could see, a ribbon of white stretched out beneath the sun. The White Cliffs of Dover. We had made it to the edge of England. But now we had to go further, over the water and away from home.

  We slipped into the crowded port without being noticed. Maybe the police were still waiting for us at the station. Maybe they had given up on us and gone. There was a ferry leaving for Ostend in ten minutes. We took it. Despite what I’d been able to save from the bank robbery, we were getting low on cash so we only bought one-way tickets.

  But as I said to Tim, if we didn’t find Charon in Amsterdam, it was unlikely that we would be coming back.

  THE SECRET AGENT

  To be honest, I’m not crazy about Amsterdam. It’s got too many canals, too many tourists and most of its buildings look like they’ve been built with a Lego set that’s missing half its pieces. Also, the Dutch put mayonnaise on their chips. But if you like bicycles and cobbled streets, flower stalls and churches, I suppose there are worse places you can go.

  We arrived the next morning after hitch-hiking up from Ostend. That was one good thing about Amsterdam. After three hours with a lorry driver, a cheese salesman and a professional juggler (who dropped us in the middle of the city) we realized that just about everyone in the place spoke English. This was just as well. Ten minutes after we’d set off in search of the Amstel Ijsbaan, we were hopelessly lost. It wasn’t just that we couldn’t understand the street signs. We couldn’t even pronounce them. We found our way by asking people. Not that that was much help.

  Me: “Excuse me. We’re looking for the Amstel Ijsbaan.”

  Friendly local: “Go along the canal. Turn left at the canal. Continue until you see a canal. And it’s on a canal.”

  There were hundreds of canals and they all looked exactly the same. In fact if you went on holiday in Amsterdam you’d only need to take one photograph. Then you could develop it a few dozen times. We must have walked for an hour and a half before we finally found what we were looking for; a low, square building on the very edge of the city, stretching out into the

  only open space we’d seen. Like the rest of the place, the sign was old and needed repair. It read: AMS EL IJSBAAN.

  “There’s no ‘T’,” I said.

  “That’s all right,” Tim muttered. “I’m not thirsty.”

  We went in. An old crone was sitting behind the glass window of the ticket office. Either she had a bad skin disease or the window needed cleaning. As Tim went over to her she put down the grubby paperback she had been reading and looked up at him with suspicious eyes.

  “ Kan ik u misschien helpen? ” she said. It sounded like she was gargling, but that’s the Dutch language for you. Tim stared at her.

  “ Hoeveel kaartjes wilt u? ” she demanded more angrily.

  You didn’t have to be Einstein to work out what she was saying. After all, she was a ticketseller and we needed tickets. But Tim just stood there, rooted to the spot, mumbling in what sounded like GCSE French. I stepped forward.

  “ Twee kaarties alstublieft, ” I said and slid some money under the window. The old woman grunted, gave us two tickets and went back to her book.

  “What did you say?” Tim demanded.

  “I asked for two tickets.”

  “But when did you learn to speak Dutch?”

  “On the ferry. I looked in a phrase book.”

  Tim’s face lit up. “You’re brilliant, Nick!”

  “Not really.” I shrugged. “It’s just a phrase I’m going through.”

  We passed through a set of double doors. We could hear the ice rink in the distance now, or at least the music booming out over the speakers.

  I noticed that Tim had picked up a pair of skates.

  “We’re here to look for 86,” I reminded him. “We’re not going skating.”

  “86 could be on the ice,” he said.

  “But Tim… can you skate?”

  “Can I skate?” He grinned at me. “ Can I skate!”

  Tim couldn’t skate. I watched him fall over three times — and that was before he even reached the ice. Then I left him and began to search for the secret agent who called himself 86. How would I recognize him? He was hardly likely to have a badge with the number on it. A tattoo, perhaps? I decided to look out for anyone who seemed strange or out-of-place. The trouble was, in a run-down Dutch skating rink in the middle of the summer, everyone seemed out of place.

  The ice rink was enormous. It was like being inside an aircraft hangar. It was rectangular in shape, surrounded by five rows of plastic seats rising in steps over the ice. There was an observation box at one end and the terrace cafe at the other. Everything was slightly shabby, old-fashioned… and cold. The ice was actually steaming as it caught the warm air from outside and chilled it. There were only about half a dozen skaters out there and, as they glided along the surface of the rink, they seemed to disappear into the fog like bizarre, dancing ghosts.

  There was also a handful of spectators. An old lady sat knitting. She might have been aged eighty-six but I somehow doubted that she was the agent. An ice-cream seller was sitting on his own, looking depressed because nobody was buying his ice creams. The nearest he got to eighty-six was the
99-flakes he was advertising.

  I glanced back at Tim. He had fallen over again. Either that, or he was trying to ice-skate on his nose.

  But there was one good skater on the ice, a real professional in a black tracksuit. If you’ve ever watched ice-skaters, you’ll know that they seem to move without even trying. It’s almost as though they’re flying standing up. Well, this man was like that. I watched him as he sped round in a huge figure of eight. Then I turned back and began to thread my way through the remaining spectators.

  That was when I saw them. They were sitting down in the middle of the highest row of seats with their legs spread out on the seats below them. One was tall and thin, dressed in a grey suit with a bow tie. At some time in his life he’d had a nasty argument with someone… and I mean nasty. The someone had left a scar that started just to the side of his left eye and ran all the way down to his neck. I’d never seen a scar quite like it. It looked like you could post a letter in it. His companion was shorter, dressed in jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket. He had hair like an oil-slick and a face that seemed to have been moulded by somebody with large thumbs. He didn’t need a scar. He was ugly enough already.

  Why had I noticed them? It was simple. They weren’t watching the ice. I got the feeling they were watching me — and as I walked past them, following a line of seats a few rows below, I felt their four eyes swivelling round and sticking to me like leeches in a swamp. Even as I went, I wondered if one of them could be Agent 86. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.

  The music changed from classical to jazz.

  Tim fell over more jazzily this time. The professional swung round him in another smooth circle. Scarface and Ugly were still sitting where I’d seen them, only now they were looking away. I decided to ignore them.

  But where was 86?

  I walked up to the top row, passing seat eighty-six as I went. It was empty. I turned back and took one last look at the rink. Tim was sitting on the ice, shaking his head, and suddenly I wanted to laugh. The man in the black tracksuit had skated two figures round him. I could see the figures cut by the blades in the surface of the ice. An eight and a six.

  I ran back down to the edge of the rink and called to Tim. That was a mistake. I’d allowed myself to get excited and I’d shown it. And although I only half-noticed it then, I had good reason to remember it later.

  Scarface and Ugly were watching me again.

  We found the tracksuit in the changing room but the skater was no longer in it. He was taking a shower. We waited until he came out, a white towel wrapped round his waist. He was a tough, broad-shouldered man. The water was still glistening off muscles that would have looked good on a horse. He had pale skin and grey, watchful eyes that reminded me of my old friend Inspector Snape. He sat down between Tim and me without seeming to notice either of us.

  “86?” I said.

  He just sat there as if he hadn’t even heard me. Then slowly he turned his head and looked at me with an expressionless face. “I don’t know you,” he said.

  Tim took over. “I liked the skating,” he said. “You always practise figures?”

  The skater shrugged. “What of it?” His English was almost perfect, but with a slight American accent.

  “I’m a friend of a friend of yours,” Tim explained. “A guy called McMuffin.”

  “McGuffin,” I corrected him.

  The skater shook his head. Water dripped out of his hair. “I don’t know this name…”

  Tim smiled. He was playing the private detective now — cooler than the ice on the rink. “Well, here’s something else you don’t know,” he drawled. “McGuffin is in his McCoffin.”

  The skater seemed uninterested. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “The name’s Tim Diamond. Private eye.”

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “My name is Rushmore. Hugo Rushmore. I’m sorry to hear about your friend but I can’t help you. I’m just a skater. That’s all.”

  For a moment I almost believed him — but the figures cut in the ice couldn’t have been just a coincidence. And without Agent 86, we were nowhere.

  I decided to have one last try. “Please, Mr Rushmore,” I said. “You’ve got to help us.”

  Still he looked blank. And then I remembered the ticket that I had found in McGuffin’s hotel room, the ticket that had brought us all this way. I still had it in my pocket. I fished it out and handed it to him.

  “McGuffin gave us this,” I said. “Before he died.”

  Rushmore took the ticket. It was as if I’d said the right password or turned on some sort of switch. A light came on in his eyes. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get a drink.”

  We went up to the cafe terrace I’d seen before. It had a view over the rink, but either the day had got warmer or the ice had got colder, because there was so much mist you could hardly see it.

  I could just make out two figures standing at the far end and thought of Scarface and Ugly but they were too far away and the mist washed them out. Rushmore was drinking a Coke and had bought us both milk shakes, which would have been nicer if someone had remembered to shake the milk.

  “There’s not a lot I can tell you,” he began. “I do a little work for the Dutch Secret Service…”

  “What sort of work?” Tim asked.

  “That’s a secret. But I’ll tell you this much. I was ordered to look after Jake McGuffin while he was over here. His boss — Mr Waverly — was desperate to find Charon.” Rushmore paused and considered. “There was something odd going on,” he added. “Something Waverly hadn’t told Jake.”

  “You mean, Waverly was keeping something back?” I said.

  “That’s right. There was a connection between Mr Waverly and Charon. It was as if they knew each other in some way. Jake said the whole thing stank. But he never found out what it was…”

  A connection between Waverly and Charon. It seemed impossible. After all, Waverly was the one who wanted to find Charon. It was all getting confusing. “What was McGuffin doing here in Holland?” I asked.

  “He’d followed Charon over here.” Rushmore finished his Coke. “The last time I saw him he was planning to check out some old house just outside the city.”

  “You know the name?” Tim asked.

  Rushmore nodded. “Yes. It’s called the Winter House. The Villa de Winter, in Dutch. It’s about twenty kilometres from Amsterdam.”

  “Twenty kilometres…” Tim tried to work it out on his fingers. He didn’t have enough fingers.

  “Twelve miles,” I said. I turned to Rushmore. “Could you take us there?”

  His eyes narrowed. “It could be dangerous.”

  “That’s all right,” Tim chimed in. “You can go in first.”

  Rushmore looked from Tim back to me. “All right,” he said. “The rink closes at six today. Come back at five past. I’ll drive you out this evening.”

  We stood up.

  “See you later, Mr Skater,” I muttered.

  “Yeah. Watch how you go, Hugo,” Tim added. I looked down at the ice, searching for the figures that I’d glimpsed behind the mist. But the ice was empty. The two of them had gone.

  We got back to the ice rink at six o’clock after an afternoon in Amsterdam. It was still light outside, but once we’d passed through the swing doors into the old building it was as if we’d entered some sort of artificial Arctic night. The ticket-seller had gone home. The lights had been turned off and the windows with their frosted glass and wire grills kept most of the sunlight out. The rink itself stretched out silent and empty, with the mist still curling gently on the surface. The music was switched off, too. But the machine that made the ice was still active. I could hear it humming and hissing like some sort of mythical creature, its pipes spreading out like tentacles, chilling everything they touched.

  “Where is he?” I whispered. My words were taken by the cold air and sent scurrying up towards the rafters. Where is he? Where is he?

  I
could almost hear the echo.

  The mist on the ice folded over itself, rolling towards us.

  “What…?” Tim began.

  There was something on the ice. It was in the very middle, a grey bundle that could have been somebody’s old clothes.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  I walked through the barrier and onto the ice. I could feel it, cold underneath my shoes. As I walked forward, my feet slid away from under me and I had to struggle to stay upright. The ice-making pipes rumbled softly below. The mist swirled round my ankles, clinging to my skin. I wanted to hurry but I was forced to be slow.

  At last I reached the bundle.

  It was Rushmore. The Dutch secret agent must have been on his way to meet us, crossing the ice when he was stopped. Somebody had found out who he was and had known about his connection with McGuffin. And they had made sure that he wouldn’t help us.

  He had been stabbed twice. The blades were still in his back, one between his shoulders, the other just above his waist. There was a pool of blood around his outstretched hand. It had already frozen solid.

  I took one last look at the body and at the blades, long and silver and horribly appropriate. Because whoever had killed Hugo Rushmore, professional ice-skater and spy, hadn’t used knives.

  They’d used a pair of ice-skating boots.

  SHREDDED WHEAT

  We spent the night at a cheap motel on the edge of Amsterdam. Our money was low and so were we. Rushmore had been our only link in a chain that might lead us to Charon and now he was dead. Worse still, it seemed that Charon knew we were in Amsterdam. How else could he have got to the ice-rink before us?

  It was raining when we got to the Van Bates Motel. We were shown to our room by a thin, twitchy manager who didn’t speak a word of English. In the end we had to get his mother down to translate.

  All I wanted was a shower and a bed but the shower wasn’t working and as usual Tim took the bed. There was a TV in one corner of the room. It was tuned to the BBC — the ten o’clock news. I didn’t want to hear the news but I was somehow glad to hear another English voice. I listened. And suddenly I was glad I’d turned it on.