Anthony Horowitz - South by South East

Twenty minutes later he reappeared in a crumpled linen suit with a pale blue handkerchief in his top pocket. He had washed and combed his hair. He had shaving foam in one ear and a little talcum powder in the other.

“I’ll be back later” he said.

“Have fun,” I muttered.

“Don’t wait up.”

I finished the milk and threw the carton in the direction of the bin. It hit the edge and bounced onto the floor. What would I do if Tim moved in with a girlfriend? What if she was crazy enough to marry him? Maybe the two of them would go and live together in Holland — and where would that leave me?

I had nothing to do, so I started to clean up. I plumped up the cushions and rearranged the dust on the mantelpiece. There was a shirt lying on the carpet so I put it in the filing cabinet — under “S”. That was when I found the gloves. They were on the floor, under the shirt. They belonged to Charlotte. She had left them behind when she’d run from Amsterdam station.

I picked them up, meaning to put them in the top drawer of the desk. But as I held them, they dangled down and I found myself staring at them. There was something wrong about them, something that didn’t quite add up. I spread them out on the palm of my hand. It was obvious, but I couldn’t see it. And thirty seconds must have passed before I finally did.

The left-hand glove had only four fingers.

It was as if someone had grabbed hold of my throat with a hand made of ice. I felt all my breath being sucked up into my chest. A little sound came out of my nose. Automatically, I scrunched the glove up in my hand as if I was trying to wring water out of it.

Charlotte’s glove. Charon’s glove.

And of course it had been obvious from the start. Only Charlotte had known that we were going to meet 86. We had given her the name of the ice-rink on the train. The moment she had arrived in Amsterdam, she had sent her two agents, Scarface and Ugly, to take care of the secret agent, to stop him from leading us to her. They must have arrived just after we did.

Her very names should have told me. Both of them began with the same four letters — Charon and Charlotte. So why hadn’t I seen it? Maybe I was more of a sexist than I thought, but I’d never imagined an international killer being a woman. Everyone — McGuffin, Mr Waverly, Rushmore — had spoken of Charon as a man. Maybe that had been her most effective weapon. She had played on other people’s preconceptions, hidden behind them. She had known. Nobody would ever suspect a woman.

But I should have guessed that, too. When I had searched Charon’s desk at the Winter House, I’d discovered a small mirror covered in some sort of powder. If I’d thought about it, I’d have known what it was: the mirror from a powder compact. With a sprinkling of face powder. It should have told me. It was a woman’s desk, not a man’s. And if I’d only seen that, everything else would have fallen into place.

I made a mental note to read more feminist literature — but not right now. Tim had gone to an appointment with a killer. If Charlotte blamed him for saving Kusenov… I had to find him before he reached her.

I ran into his bedroom. There were clothes everywhere — except in the wardrobe. He must have tried on everything before he’d chosen the linen suit. I started heaping up the trousers and shirts. I had to find the little white card that had come with the rose.

There was no sign of it. When I’d thrown out all the clothes, I started on his Beano collection, his bills, and six years’ subscription to True Detective. There must have been nine layers between me and the carpet. If you wanted to hoover this room it would probably take you a week to find the Hoover. And I was looking for one small card. What if he had taken it with him?

What if…?

I forced myself to think. Tim hadn’t gone straight into his bedroom. He’d taken a shower first. The shower…

The flat was so small, we didn’t have room for a bathroom. The shower was at the back of the kitchen in a sort of alcove. I dashed in there, skidding on the floor which was covered in water. Tim’s shower-cap was perched on the kettle. There were three bars of soap in the fridge.

But the card was nowhere to be seen.

I emptied every drawer in the place. Knives and forks clattered to the ground. Tea towels and tablecloths flew into the corners. I searched in the dustbins, the ovens, the cupboards… and finally I found it, pinned to the wall behind the door. It read:

Hampstead Heath funfair

7.00 p.m. today

The Tunnel of Love

Charlotte

The Tunnel of Love! No wonder Tim had blushed so much when he read it. I looked at my watch. It was half past six. Hampstead was only a couple of kilometres up the road. I could still get there in time.

I was out of the office and running before I’d even started to think. Tim had an appointment with a killer. He was in love. I was going to save him. But I was unarmed.

As I hit the High Street and started up the hill, the night was drawing in. And somehow I knew that the Tunnel of Love was going to be longer and darker than it had ever been before.

Whirling lights. Crowds. The smell of hot dogs and the jangle of different tunes fighting with each other in the warm evening air. The fair had come to Hampstead Heath and lay sprawled out across the grass for as far as I could see. It was five to seven. I had run all the way in the heat of the evening and for a moment I stood where I was, swaying on my feet. On one side of me came the wail of the ghost train; on the other, a rattle and a scream as a painted carriage whirred round a metal track. I can’t say I’m a big fan of funfairs. I can’t afford the fares so I never have much fun. But that evening the Hampstead Heath fair was looking its best. There must have been a thousand people there. Maybe more. Tim was one of them. I had five minutes to find him.

I pressed forward, past the coconut shies, the Hall of Mirrors, the helter-skelter and the big wheel. There was a blast of organ pipes and a huge merry-go-round started up, its multicoloured horses leaping and plunging at the end of their twisted golden poles. The Tunnel of Love was on the other side. I saw it and I saw Tim at the same time. He was sitting in a boat with Charlotte; number eleven. Before I could reach them, the boat had drifted off into the mouth of the tunnel. A short, fat man pocketed the one pound fare and looked around for any other customers. But it must have been too hot for love. There was no one else around.

The Tunnel of Love was a big, wooden structure with plastic walls that were meant to look like stone but still looked like plastic. You went through it all in a little boat which was carried along on a shallow river. I almost smiled at that. Charon was the ferryman of the dead in Greek mythology. Well, it looked like Tim had just bought himself a ticket.

I couldn’t go into the tunnel. I didn’t have the money for a ticket and anyway I doubted if the man would let me ride alone. But if the entrance was blocked, the exit wasn’t. I ran past the merry-go-round. For a moment the horses galloped beside my shoulder. Then I had left them behind me as I reached the end of the tunnel where the water gushed out before looping round to start all over again. Without stopping to think, I went into the tunnel.

There was only one way in and that was along the artificial river. The water lapped over my ankles as I splashed through the soft glow of this plastic lovers’ world. If you’ve ever been into a Tunnel of Love, you’ll know what I’m talking about. The river looped and zigzagged, going nowhere — slowly. There were a few plastic cupids — dressed-up shop dummies floating under the roof. I went past what must have been the high point of the ride, a couple of dummies done up as Romeo and Juliet.