FOWL MANOR

THEY reached Ireland without major incident, though Mulch did attempt to escape Holly’s custody fifteen times — including once on the Lear jet, where he was discovered in the bathroom with a parachute and a bottle of dwarf rock polish. Holly did not let him out of her sight after that.

Butler was waiting for them at Fowl Manor’s front door.

‘Welcome back. Glad to see everyone’s alive. Now I need to go.’

Artemis put a hand on his arm. ‘Old friend. You’re in no condition to go anywhere.’ Butler was determined. ‘One last mission, Artemis. I have no choice. Anyway, I’ve been doing Pilates. I feel much more limber.’

‘Blunt?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he’s in prison,’ protested Juliet. Butler shook his head.

‘Not any more.’ Artemis could see that his bodyguard was not about to be turned from his path.

‘At least take Holly. She can be of some help.’

Butler winked at the elf. ‘I was counting on it.’

The Chicago police had put Arno Blunt in a van, with a couple of officers. Two would be sufficient, they reasoned, as the perp was handcuffed and manacled. They revised this opinion when the van was discovered six miles south of Chicago, with the officers manacled and no sign of the suspect. To quote Sergeant Iggy Lebowski’s report: ‘The guy ripped those handcuffs apart as though they were links in a paperchain. He came at us like a steam train. We never had a chance.’

But Arno Blunt did not escape clean. His pride had taken a severe beating in the Spiro Needle. He knew that word of his humiliation would soon spread through the bodyguard network. As Pork Belly LaRue later put it on the Soldiers for Hire web site: ‘Arno done got hisself outsmarted by some snot-nosed kid.’ Blunt was painfully aware that he would have to suffer chortles every time he walked into a room full of tough guys — unless he avenged the insult paid to him by Artemis Fowl.

The bodyguard knew that he had minutes before Spiro gave up his address to the Chicago PD, so he packed a few spare sets of teeth and took the shuttle to O’Hare International Airport.

Blunt was delighted to find that the authorities had not yet frozen his Spiro corporate credit card, and used it to purchase a first class British Airways Concorde ticket to London Heathrow. From there he would enter Ireland on the Rosslare ferry. Just another one of five hundred tourists visiting the land of the leprechaun.

It wasn’t a terribly complicated plan, and it would have worked if it hadn’t been for one thing: the passport official at Heathrow just happened to be Sid Commons, the ex-Green Beret who had served with Butler on bodyguard duty in Monte Carlo. The second Blunt opened his mouth alarm bells went off in Commons’ head. The gentleman before him fitted the description Butler had faxed over perfectly. Right down to the strange teeth. Blue oil and water, if you don’t mind. Commons pressed a button under his desk and, in seconds, a squad of security men relieved Blunt of his passport and took him into custody.

The chief security official took out his mobile phone as soon as the detainee was under lock and key. He dialled an international number. It rang twice.

‘The Fowl residence.’

‘Butler? It’s Sid Commons, in Heathrow. A man came through here you might be interested in. Funny teeth, neck tattoos, New Zealand accent. Detective Inspector Justin Barre faxed out the description from Scotland Yard a few days ago; he said you might be able to ID him.’

‘Do you still have him?’ asked the manservant.

‘Yes. He’s in one of our holding cells. They’re running a check right now.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘A couple of hours, max. But if he’s the professional you say he is, a computer check won’t turn up anything. We need a confession to turn him over to Scotland Yard.’

‘I will meet you in the Arrivals hall under the departure board in thirty minutes,’ said Butler, severing the connection.

Sid Commons stared at his mobile phone. How could Butler possibly get there in thirty minutes from Ireland? It wasn’t important. All Sid knew was that Butler had saved his life a dozen times in Monte Carlo all those years ago, and now the debt was about to be repaid.

Thirty-two minutes later, Butler showed up in the Arrivals hall.

Sid Commons studied him as they shook hands.

‘You seem different. Older.’

‘The battles are catching up with me,’ said Butler, a palm across his heaving chest. ‘Time to retire, I think.’

‘Is there any point asking how you got here?’

Butler straightened his tie. ‘Not really. You’re better off not knowing.’

‘I see.’

‘Where’s our man?’

Commons led the way towards the rear of the building, past hordes of tourists and card-bearing taxi drivers.

‘Through here. You’re not armed, are you? I know we’re friends, but I can’t allow firearms in here.’

Butler spread his jacket wide. ‘Trust me. I know the rules.’

They took a security lift up two floors, and followed a dimly lit corridor for what seemed like miles.

‘Here we are,’ said Sid eventually, pointing at a glass rectangle. ‘In there.’

The glass was actually a two-way mirror. Butler could see Arno Blunt seated at a small table, drumming his fingers impatiently on the Formica surface.

‘Is that him? Is that the man who shot you in Knightsbridge?’

Butler nodded. It was him all right. The same indolent expression. The same hands that had pulled the trigger.

‘A positive ID is something, but it’s still your word against his and, to be honest, you don’t look too shot.’

Butler laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I don’t suppose -

Commons didn’t even let him finish. ‘No. You can not go in there. Absolutely not. I’d be out of a job, for sure; and anyway, even if you did prise a confession out of him, it would never hold up in court.’

Butler nodded. ‘I understand. Do you mind if I stay? I want to see how this turns out.’

Commons agreed eagerly, relieved that Butler hadn’t pressured him.

‘No problem. Stick around as long as you like. But I have to get you a visitor’s badge.’ He strode down the corridor, then turned.

‘Don’t go in there, Butler. If you do, we lose him forever. And anyway, there are cameras all over this place.’

Butler smiled reassuringly. Something he didn’t do very often.

‘Don’t worry, Sid. You won’t see me in that room.’

Commons sighed. ‘Good. Great. It’s just sometimes when you get that look in your eye . . .’

‘I’m a different man now. More mature.’

Commons laughed. ‘That’ll be the day.’

He rounded the corner, his chuckles lingering in the air. He was no sooner gone ............