Blue was armed with a short club and had a knife in his belt for backup. Maxie had her katana, but it wouldn’t be much use on the stairs, which were only wide enough for them to go up one at a time. It would be too dangerous to try to use it if they were attacked; she’d be more of a risk to her friends than to Paul. She held it down and to the side. Blue could feel her pressing him from behind to get moving.

He hesitated.

‘After you,’ said Maxie, trying to lighten the heavy mood. ‘In your own time.’

‘DBAP,’ said Blue.

‘DBAP?’

‘Don’t be a pain.’

‘TOTKO,’ said Maxie and Blue waited for an explanation.

‘Takes one to know one,’ she said. ‘Now get moving, fat ass.’

Still Blue hesitated. ‘If he comes at us – down these stairs,’ he said, ‘we ain’t in a good position. We’ll be crushed in and he’ll be on top of us.’

‘Who says he’s up there?’ Maxie asked.

‘Well, there’s something up there,’ said Blue, ‘and it stinks real bad.’

‘Then we better go and check it out.’

‘As far as you know he’s only got a knife?’ said Blue.

‘Yes,’ said Maxie impatiently. ‘But you heard what Fish-Face said – he’s gone.’

‘I didn’t hear nothing,’ said Blue. ‘She never even moved her lips. And anyway, do you believe them?’

‘Blue,’ said Maxie. ‘Just go.’

‘I’m going. I’m going. Don’t hassle me. You want to go first?’

‘I’m only a girl, you’re a big, strong man.’

‘Sexist,’ said Blue and he felt her pinch his behind.

‘Sex-y,’ she said. Blue turned and Maxie made a face that said ‘What? What?’ Behind her the rest of the pack waited, even less keen than Blue to explore this unknown part of the museum.

Blue tutted, shook his head, turned round and started up the stairs. They led right up inside the tower, and made a turn to the left at the top, disappearing into the white-out. Blue plodded on. Knew he had to act cool in front of the others and not show his fear in case it spread. It was amazing how quickly his boredom had switched back to nervousness. His eyes adjusted to the light as he climbed, so that details emerged from the brightness. Undisturbed dust on the stairs. A dead rat, dried up and leathery. Some broken glass. Nothing to show that Paul might have been up here, though. No footprints.

Yeah, he was a real Sherlock Holmes.