Free The French Confection by Anthony Horowitz

THE FRENCH FOR MURDER
    Everybody loves Paris. There’s an old guy who even wrote a song about it. “I love Paris in the springtime…”, that’s how it goes. Well, all I can say is, he obviously never went there with my big brother, Tim. I did – and it almost killed me.
    It all started with a strawberry yoghurt.
    It was a French strawberry yoghurt, of course, and it was all we had in the fridge for breakfast. Tim and I tossed a coin to decide who’d get the first mouthful. Then we tossed the coin to see who’d keep the coin. Tim won both times. So there I was sitting at the breakfast table chewing my nails, which was all I had to chew, when Tim suddenly let out a great gurgle and started waving his spoon in the air like he was trying to swat a fly.
    “What is it, Tim?” I asked. “Don’t tell me! You’ve found a strawberry!”
    “No, Nick! Look…!”
    He was holding up the silver foil that he’d just torn off the yoghurt carton and looking at it, and now I understood. The company that made the yoghurt was having one of those promotions. You’ve probably seen them on chocolate bars or crisps or Coke cans. These days you can’t even open a can of beans without finding out if you’ve won a car or a holiday in Mexico or a cheque for a thousand pounds. Personally, I’m just grateful if I actually find some beans. Anyway, the yoghurt people were offering a whole range of prizes and there it was, written on the underside of the foil.
    Congratulations from Bestlé Fruit Yoghurts! You have just won a weekend for two in Paris! Just telephone the number printed on the carton for further details and … Bon Voyage!
    “I’ve won, Nick!” Tim gasped. “A weekend for two…!” He stopped and bit his thumb. “Who shall I take?” he muttered.
    “Oh thanks a lot, Tim,” I said. “It was me who bought the yoghurt.”
    “But it was my money.”
    “If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have spent it on a choc-ice.”
    Tim scowled. “But Paris, Nick! It’s the most romantic city in Europe. I want to take my girlfriend.”
    “Tim,” I reminded him. “You haven’t got a girlfriend.”
    That was a bit cruel of me. The truth was, Tim hadn’t been very lucky in love. His first serious relationship had ended tragically when his girlfriend had tried to murder him. After that he’d replied to one of those advertisements in the lonely hearts column of a newspaper, but he can’t have read it properly because the girl had turned out to be a guy who spent the evening chasing him round Paddington station. His last girlfriend had been a fire eater in a local circus. He’d taken her out for a romantic, candlelit dinner but she’d completely spoiled it by eating the candles. Right now he was on his own. He sometimes said he felt like a monk – but without the haircut or the religion.
    Anyway, we argued a bit more but finally he picked up the telephone and rang the number on the yoghurt carton. There was no answer.
    “That’s because you’ve telephoned the sell-by date,” I told him. I turned the carton over. “This is the number here…”
    And that was how, three weeks later, we found ourselves standing in the forecourt at Waterloo station. Tim was carrying the tickets. I was carrying the bags. It had been more than a year since we’d been abroad – that had been to Amsterdam on the trail of the mysterious assassin known as Charon – and that time we had gone by ferry. Tim had been completely seasick even before he reached the sea. I was relieved that this time we were going by train, taking the Channel Tunnel, although with Tim, of course, you never knew.
    We took the escalator down to the international terminal. Ahead of us, the tunnel was waiting: a thirty-two mile stretch linking England and France, built at a cost of twelve billion pounds.
    “You have to admit,” Tim said. “It’s an engineering marvel.”
    “That’s just what I was thinking,” I said.
    “Yes. It’s a fantastic escalator. And so much