Hugo laughed as he slid the cigar back into its pouch. ‘When I’m older I’m gonna smoke fifty cigars and a hundred cigarettes every day.’

‘I won’t,’ Paul said. ‘I don’t like the smell. My dad never smoked.’

‘So why did he have cigars?’

‘For his clients. My dad said if you give a client a lit cigar, they have to sit still and listen to your sales pitch until they’ve finished smoking it.’

‘What’s a pitch?’ Hugo asked, as he threw the cigar tube high into the air.

‘Hey,’ Paul said. ‘That belonged to my dad! Don’t wreck it.’

But Hugo had already thrown it up again. This time it hit the ceiling and veered wildly off course, hitting the edge of a dresser with a clang before landing on the floorboards.

‘Idiot,’ Paul said angrily, as he reached over Hugo and grabbed the cigar tube off the floor. ‘That’s it – you’re not touching any of my dad’s stuff again.’

Hugo turned towards Paul and showered him with spit as he blew a big raspberry in his face.

‘Cut it out, Hugo! Do you want me to punch you?’

‘I’m going outside,’ Hugo sulked, as he slid off the bed. ‘This is so boring.’

Hugo thumped down the stairs and Paul sighed as he noticed that the bottom was hanging off the cigar case. He was about to try pushing it back on when he noticed a loose length of insulated wire behind it. When he levered the cap the rest of the way off he unveiled a small blue bulb and another wire that linked to a slim battery.

It was obviously some kind of torch and the switch was built into the lid. But when he turned it on, Paul was disappointed by the fact that it only produced a small bluish dot. This seemed odd, but he could see no reason for hiding a torch unless it was used for something pretty special.

The only thing you can do with a torch is shine it at stuff and, as Paul was looking for a hidden message, he decided to shine it at the pocket book. The first couple of pages produced nothing, but on the third page, several faint blue lines glowed when he shone the light on the writing.

Part of Paul wanted to race downstairs and tell Rosie that he’d discovered something, but she was such a bossy-boots that he decided it would be best to carry on alone. As the glow of the markings was faint in daylight, Paul hitched the bedclothes over his head and tried again in pitch darkness. Now he could see the markings clearly, but they were just scribble. The kind of random lines that you might make if you were trying out a new pen.