At that moment, Liam reappears at a run, clutching an orange ice lolly.
‘They’re out of water.’
‘No surprises. Thanks, though.’
I take the lolly and rip off the paper, biting huge chunks out of the ice. It’s gone all too soon.
‘Ready to go?’ Liam asks.
‘Just about.’ I point to the book stalls. ‘I’ll look at the books, but I don’t want them to spot you.’
‘You think they might be watching us?’
‘I have no idea, but stay here just in case.’
‘OK … and you just stay where I can see you, OK?’
I go over to the first of the long book tables and look for anything that might be a clue. It’s an antiquarian stall – most of the books have hard covers in dark colours, with gilt lettering across the front and down the spine. I pick up Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. The edges of the pages are ragged where they were sliced apart by the first reader, in the days before books came with their pages already separated. I hold it to my nose and breathe in the old-book smell.
‘Are you going to buy that?’ The stall owner – a tall man with a pronounced Adam’s apple, is frowning at me.
I smile sweetly. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t possibly afford it.’
‘Then put it down,’ he says without humour. ‘These are precious – not to be sniffed at by random passersby.’
I move on. Every so often I glance across at Liam, who’s watching me like a hawk (while trying to look like he’s not watching me) from the bench. Any of the people around us could be one of the mysterious Gatekeepers.
I’m so distracted that I hardly notice the book at first. But then the name catches my attention. I pick it up and gasp.
In my hands is a hardback copy of Agatha Christie’s Poirot Investigates. If this is a first edition, then it’s worth a fortune.
Liam must see my excitement, because he carefully makes his way over. I’m so shocked I forget that we’re supposed to be staying separate.
‘What is it?’
‘This …’ I begin, barely able to get the words out. My hands are trembling as I open it up to see that I am right. My voice is low and reverent. ‘This is the rare 1924 edition of Poirot Investigates, with the first ever picture of Hercule Poirot on the dust jacket.’
He glances at the book, then back to me. ‘That’s … nice?’
‘Nice? Nice, Liam? A copy was sold at auction recently, and it fetched –’ I lower my voice to a whisper – ‘more than £40,000!’
Liam’s eyes bulge and his mouth falls open. The book is among the faded old paperbacks and celebrity memoirs, almost as though it has been placed there. I have so many questions I don’t know where to start.
‘You should look inside,’ Liam says.
I gently turn the pages of the book, searching. There’s a scrap of paper and two tickets just inside the back cover. ‘This is it!’
The slip of paper has two things on it – the number 33 and the words ‘You might as well bring your friend, now he’s here’.
‘Well, so much for blending in.’ Liam grins. ‘What’s that number all about?’
It would mean nothing to me, except that the two tickets that are with it are for the London Eye.
‘I think I know,’ I say. ‘Follow me.’
‘But what about the book—’
Liam is cut short by a voice close by and we both jump.
‘I’ll make sure it gets back to its rightful owner.’ It’s the stallholder, a woman with blue hair and a nose piercing. She winks at me as reluctantly I hand back the book.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ she says, gently stroking the cover before placing the book in a velvet-lined box.
‘It certainly is.’ I turn to Liam. ‘Now, come on, let’s go.’
We don’t queue when we reach the wheel; I just produce the tickets and we are ushered through the express lane and soon find ourselves standing at the base of the giant structure. I watch the transparent capsules travel slowly round on the wheel’s axis, forgetting my exhaustion. But when the first pod empties of passengers and the steward nods for us to embark, I shake my head.
‘We’ll wait, if that’s all right.’
The steward seems unsure, but after a moment’s hesitation he shrugs, turning his attention to the long queue of tourists.
‘What are we waiting for?’ asks Liam.
‘Pod number thirty-three, of course.’
Finally, pod thirty-three comes round. I grab Liam and walk in. The Eye doesn’t stop to let people on. Rather, it moves slowly enough that you can just hop on. The pod is empty. I sit down on the bench in the centre and examine the capsule. There’s nothing unusual about it – like all the pods, it’s an ovoid glass room, with a pale, polished floor and an oval wooden bench in the centre.
‘Hang on …’ Liam says. ‘Aren’t there only thirty-two pods? I read about it – thirty-two pods for the thirty-two boroughs of London.’
‘Yeah, but there’s no number thirteen. So there’s a number thirty-three to make up for the missing pod,’ I say.
‘That’s right,’ says a woman’s voice, and I turn in surprise.
There’s no one there, of course, but a screen fixed to the side rail of the pod has lit up. But instead of telling us about the London skyline, or the ride we’re on, it just shows a woman.
Dorothy D’Oliveira.
She’s leaning slightly on a wooden stick. ‘So, number thirteen is unlucky,’ she snorts, ‘if you believe in such nonsense.’
‘What …?’ I turn in confusion to Liam, but he’s looking just as baffled.
‘You found the book, then,’ she says, her voice tinny over the intercom. She chuckles. ‘Just a little joke of mine. I know how much you enjoy the works of your namesake. And that was an extra-special edition, wasn’t it?’
‘I didn’t want to give it back,’ I admit, trying to understand what is going on. I can’t tell where the professor is – she’s standing against a black background that gives nothing away.
‘I trust you did give it back, though?’ she asks.
I nod.
‘Good,’ she continues, ‘or that would have been a rather large claim on my expense account.’ She looks Liam up and down. ‘I did ask you to come alone, didn’t I, Agatha?’
‘You did.’ Liam is sheepish. ‘But I insisted on coming too,’ he says. ‘I was worried …’
Professor D’Oliveira nods. ‘Good friend. Well, Liam, my name is Dorothy D’Oliveira. Agatha may have mentioned me.’ The professor smiles, but I don’t smile back. From this meeting, it’s clear that there is a lot the professor hasn’t been telling me. I have no reason to trust her, to give away what I know. Liam is silent.
‘Why have you called me here? Do you have information?’
‘Not