‘You seem different. Older.’
‘The battles are catching up with me,’ said Butler, a palm across his heaving chest. ‘Time to retire, I think.’
‘Is there any point asking how you got here?’
Butler straightened his tie. ‘Not really. You’re better off not knowing.’
‘I see.’
‘Where’s our man?’
Commons led the way towards the rear of the building, past hordes of tourists and card-bearing taxi drivers.
‘Through here. You’re not armed, are you? I know we’re friends, but I can’t allow firearms in here.’
Butler spread his jacket wide. ‘Trust me. I know the rules.’
They took a security lift up two floors, and followed a dimly lit corridor for what seemed like miles.
‘Here we are,’ said Sid eventually, pointing at a glass rectangle. ‘In there.’
The glass was actually a two-way mirror. Butler could see Arno Blunt seated at a small table, drumming his fingers impatiently on the Formica surface.
‘Is that him? Is that the man who shot you in Knightsbridge?’
Butler nodded. It was him all right. The same indolent expression. The same hands that had pulled the trigger.
‘A positive ID is something, but it’s still your word against his and, to be honest, you don’t look too shot.’
Butler laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I don’t suppose –’
Commons didn’t even let him finish. ‘No. You can not go in there. Absolutely not. I’d be out of a job, for sure; and anyway, even if you did prise a confession out of him, it would never hold up in court.’
Butler nodded. ‘I understand. Do you mind if I stay? I want to see how this turns out.’
Commons agreed eagerly, relieved that Butler hadn’t pressured him.
‘No problem. Stick around as long as you like. But I have to get you a visitor’s badge.’ He strode down the corridor, then turned.
‘Don’t go in there, Butler. If you do, we lose him forever. And anyway, there are cameras all over this place.’
Butler smiled reassuringly. Something he didn’t do very often.
‘Don’t worry, Sid. You won’t see me in that room.’
Commons sighed. ‘Good. Great. It’s just sometimes when you get that look in your eye…’
‘I’m a different man now. More mature.’
Commons laughed. ‘That’ll be the day.’
He rounded the corner, his chuckles lingering in the air. He was no sooner gone than Holly unshielded by Butler’s leg.
‘Cameras?’ hissed the bodyguard from the corner of his mouth.
‘I checked the ion beams. I’m clear right here.’ She pulled a sheet of camouflage foil from her backpack, laying it on the floor. She then twisted a video clip around a cable tacked to the cell’s outer wall.
‘OK,’ she said, listening to Foaly’s voice in her ear. ‘We’re in. Foaly has wiped our patterns from the video. We are camera and mike-proof now. Do you know what to do?’
Butler nodded. They had been through this before, but Holly had a soldier’s need to double-check.
‘I’m going to shield again. Give me a second to move, then put the foil on and do your thing. I give you two minutes, tops, before your friend returns. After that you’re on your own.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good luck,’ said Holly, shimmering out of the visible spectrum.
Butler waited a beat, then took two steps to the left. He picked up the foil and draped it over his head and shoulders. To the casual passerby, he was now invisible. But if anyone paused on his or her way down the corridor, something of the manservant’s bulk was bound to be poking out from under the foil. Best to move quickly. He slid the latch on the cell door across and stepped inside.
Arno Blunt was not unduly worried. This was a bum rap. How long could you be held for having novelty false teeth, for heaven’s sake? Not much longer, that was for sure. Maybe he would sue the British government for trauma, and retire home to New Zealand.
The door swung open thirty centimetres, then closed again. Blunt sighed. It was an old interrogator’s trick. Let the prisoner sweat for a few hours, then open the door to make him think help was on the way. When no one entered the prisoner would be plunged into even deeper despair. Ever closer to breaking point.
‘Arno Blunt,’ sighed a voice from nowhere.
Blunt stopped drumming his fingers and sat up straight.
‘What is this?’ he sneered. ‘Are there speakers in here? That’s lame, guys. Really lame.’
‘I’ve come for you,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve come to even the score.’
Arno Blunt knew that voice. He’d been dreaming about it since Chicago, ever since the Irish kid had warned him Butler would return. OK, it was ridiculous; there were no such things as ghosts. But there was something about Artemis Fowl’s stare that made you believe everything he told you.
‘Butler? Is that you?’
‘Ah,’ said the voice. ‘You remember me.’