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Mr Ambrose took two quick steps towards the safe and bent forward to examine the lock. His eyes narrowed the faction of an inch.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes?’
‘We might have a slight problem.’
‘Indeed, Sir?’
‘Yes. I calculate I will need about twenty minutes to open this lock.’
‘And how many minutes do we still have left until the guards appear, Sir?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Oh. That might be a problem Sir.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
Without another word, he shoved his lock picks into the lock and started fiddling. The sound of metal clinking and scraping was nerve-wracking, and after only a short time, I was hardly able to stay still. I started to walk up and down the hut, trying not to think of what would happen if the real guards walked in on us now. They probably wouldn’t look kindly on two of their supposed colleagues trying to crack Lord Dalgliesh’s safe.
‘Mr Linton?’ came a terse voice from floor level, in the direction of the safe.
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Stop walking about. You are distracting me.’
I forced myself to stop, and instead leaned against the wall and started to nervously flex my fingers. I wouldn’t have thought anything could distract Mr Ambrose. But then, the prospect of being shot would probably even faze a stone statue such as he.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Stop flexing your fingers. I can hear your knuckles cracking from over here.’
‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’
I clenched my hands into fists and folded my arms in front of my chest, just in case. I even tried to breathe more evenly so as not to disturb him. Please let him be quick, I prayed. Please!
Click.
‘Done!’ he exclaimed. Was that a tiny hint of excitement I heard in his voice? Whatever it was, it was gone immediately. He gripped the handle of the safe, and I launched myself forward, eagerly gazing over his shoulder. After weeks of searching, weeks of wondering what the bloody hell we were after, I was finally going to see the mysterious file. What would it look like? I imagined a black steel case, with the letters ‘top secret’ printed in dark red on the top, and a padlock on the side. Or maybe…
The door of the safe swung open. Inside lay a thin, beige envelope, about the size of a standard letter.
‘Yes!’ Mr Ambrose reached inside, grasped the envelope and flipped it open. Quickly, he skimmed through the contents. I saw dozens of sheets, covered with column upon column of numbers, and a few pieces of paper covered in a squiggly, foreign script I could not decipher.
‘That’s it?’ I demanded.
‘Yes. Everything is here!’ He didn’t notice the dire disappointment in my voice. Or if he did, he chose to completely ignore it. His dark eyes were glittering with an inner frost, as if he had just been given an award by the International Miser Society.
With silent reverence, he held up the envelope for a moment, as if it indeed were the Holy Grail to him. Maybe it was. Then he slipped it into his pocket, and from his other one withdrew a similar-looking envelope, which he placed inside the safe before closing and locking it.
What was that about? Why not just take the envelope? Why leave one behind? Was it an apology letter? Sir, I am deeply regretful to have had to disturb your criminal operation, but it was necessary to retrieve an item which you stole from me. My sincerest apologies, Rikkard Ambrose.
I glanced at Mr Ambrose’s chiselled face and shook my head. No. He wouldn’t write anything remotely like an apology, or write or say anything at all for that matter. He would just stay silent, in the knowledge that he had given his opponent a solid figurative kick in the bollocks. So what was the envelope for?
I burned to ask, but this was neither the time nor place. We had to-
