Free South by South East by Anthony Horowitz

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.
    I decided to have one last try. “Please, Mr Rushmore,” I said. “You’ve got to help us.”
    Still he looked blank. And then I remembered the ticket that I had found in McGuffin’s hotel room, the ticket that had brought us all this way. I still had it in my pocket. I fished it out and handed it to him.
    “McGuffin gave us this,” I said. “Before he died.”
    Rushmore took the ticket. It was as if I’d said the right password or turned on some sort of switch. A light came on in his eyes. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get a drink.”
    We went up to the café terrace I’d seen before. It had a view over the rink, but either the day had got warmer or the ice had got colder, because there was so much mist you could hardly see it.
    I could just make out two figures standing at the far end and thought of Scarface and Ugly but they were too far away and the mist washed them out. Rushmore was drinking a Coke and had bought us both milk shakes, which would have been nicer if someone had remembered to shake the milk.
    “There’s not a lot I can tell you,” he began. “I do a little work for the Dutch Secret