Anthony Horowitz - South by South East

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.