The Sultan’s Tigers

cover

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Also by Josh Lacey

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Also by Josh Lacey

The Island of Thieves

The Dragonsitter

Written as Joshua Doder:

A Dog Called Grk

Grk and the Pelotti Gang

Grk and the Hot Dog Trail

Grk: Operation Tortoise

Grk Smells a Rat

Grk Takes Revenge

Grk Down Under

Grk and the Phoney Macaroni

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Epub ISBN 9781849399746

www.randomhouse.co.uk

First published in 2012 by
Andersen Press Limited
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

The right of Josh Lacey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

ISBN 978 1 84939 454 3

To Bella

MY NAME IS Tom Trelawney and I come from a long line of liars, cheats, crooks, bandits, thieves and smugglers.

That’s what my uncle says, anyway.

I’d like to believe him, but if our family consists entirely of criminals, what went wrong with my dad? He’s probably the most honest person on the planet.

‘He’s not a real Trelawney,’ says Uncle Harvey. ‘Not like you and me.’

According to my uncle, our family originally came from a small village in Cornwall, that rugged corner of England which sticks out into the Atlantic, pointing like a finger at America. The Trelawneys called themselves fishermen, but they actually made their living by piracy, smuggling illegal goods ashore and hiding them in the caves that riddle the Cornish coast.

My grandfather was a real Trelawney too.

He wasn’t a pirate or a smuggler, but he never did an honest day’s work in his life. He was always running from someone, always searching for a place to hide, and he left a trail of enemies all around the world.

I never really knew him.

I wish I had.

We only saw Grandpa once or twice a year, sometimes even less. The last time he came for Christmas, he got drunk, had a big argument with Dad and fell asleep under the tree.

Ten months later, he was dead.

He had a heart attack while watching TV, and that was that, kaput, he was gone.

‘A good death,’ my mum called it, and perhaps she’s right, although it’s not exactly what I’d call a good death. What’s wrong with being gnawed to pieces by piranhas? Or flung from a plane without a parachute? If Grandpa had died like that, I really would have been proud of him. But he died in his own front room, slumped in front of the telly, according to the neighbour who found him, so maybe that really was a good death.

Grandpa had lived all over the world, but he spent the last few years of his life in a small village on the west coast of Ireland. We flew to Shannon at dawn on the morning of the funeral. (By ‘we’, I mean me, my mum, my dad, my little bro Jack and my big sister Grace.) Dad hired a bright blue Ford Focus at the airport and drove us across the country to Grandpa’s village.

Not many people came to the funeral: just us and a few neighbours.

Halfway through the service, the door squeaked open and Uncle Harvey stumbled down the aisle. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. The vicar gave him a stern look and carried on with the service. Uncle Harvey grinned at us and slid into a pew on the other side of the church. I grinned back and Dad gave him a dirty look. They might be brothers, but they don’t like one another much.

I was looking forward to talking to my uncle. Earlier in the year, we had travelled to Peru together, hunting down a stash of buried gold which had belonged to Sir Francis Drake. Back in England, we’d been given dinner at the Peruvian Embassy, but I hadn’t seen my uncle since. I wanted to know if he’d had any more adventures. Had he been chased by crooks? Threatened by thugs? Or beaten up? Had he stolen anything? Or cheated anyone? Even after spending a week with my uncle in Peru, I didn’t know very much about his life, but I knew one thing for sure: it was a lot more interesting than mine.

The ceremony concluded with prayers, then we shuffled into the graveyard and stood in line to shake hands with the vicar. When my turn came, the vicar smiled down at me and said in his warm Irish accent, ‘So which of the grandsons are you? Are you Jack or are you Tom?’

‘I’m Tom.’

‘Ah, the famous Tom. Your grandfather told me all about you. He said you were full of mischief. Is that true?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘He also said he saw himself in you. I can see what he meant.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘What else did he say?’

‘Oh, this and that. Maybe I’ll tell you when you’re a bit older.’ Chuckling, the vicar let go of my hand and grabbed the next in line, which happened to belong to Uncle Harvey. ‘Your father was a lovely man,’ the vicar said. ‘You must be missing his presence.’

‘I heard him called a lot of things,’ said Uncle Harvey. ‘But never lovely. Maybe he was lovelier to you than he was to us.’

The vicar looked a bit nervous, not wanting to say the wrong thing. ‘I didn’t know your father well, but we thought of him as a valued member of the community.’

‘Did you really?’ Uncle Harvey sounded surprised. ‘So he didn’t steal any of your silver? Or flog your hymn books on eBay?’

‘Actually, we did have a few things go missing,’ said the vicar. Then he noticed that my uncle was smiling. ‘Ah! You’re having a joke with me, aren’t you?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Uncle Harvey. ‘I can’t help myself.’

‘Even in times of trouble, it’s good to have a smile on your face.’ The vicar beamed and moved to talk to the next person in line.

As my uncle and I walked through the churchyard, he winked at me. I winked back. Now we knew how Grandpa had been supplementing his pension.

Uncle Harvey said, ‘How’s life, kid?’

‘It’s OK. Bit boring. How’s yours?’

‘I would say it’s good, but my dad’s just died so I probably shouldn’t. How often did you see the old man?’

‘Not very often,’ I replied. ‘He sometimes came to us for Christmas. But he and Dad always ended up arguing.’

‘He argued with everyone. That was just his way.’

‘Did you argue with him too?’

‘All the time,’ said Uncle Harvey. ‘But we always made up again. He was like that. We’d get drunk together and have a big row, then forget all about it the next day. It’s a pity you won’t get to know him better. Did you ever come and stay with him?’

‘Dad wouldn’t let me. I don’t know why not.’

‘I do,’ said Uncle Harvey.

‘Yeah? Why?’

‘He knows that, as far as he’s concerned, the Trelawney genes skipped a generation. You’re more like your grandfather than your father. He must have been worried about what would happen if the two of you ever got together. Just like he’s worried about the two of us. And he’s right, isn’t he? Ah, hello, Simon. How are you?’

Simon is my dad. He didn’t look particularly pleased to see his brother, but maybe he was just feeling sad. I guess you would feel sad if your father died, even if the two of you had furious arguments whenever you happened to be in the same room at the same time.

The brothers shook hands. Then Uncle Harvey kissed my mum on both cheeks and said hello to Jack and Grace.

‘I’ve invited the vicar to join us for lunch,’ my father said to Harvey. ‘Can you give him a lift in your car? There isn’t much room in ours.’

‘Sure. Where are we going?’

‘I’ve booked a table at a restaurant on the coast. Apparently it’s very good. You can follow me there.’

‘Great. I’ll go and get the vicar.’

Once Uncle Harvey was striding across the churchyard, Dad turned to me. ‘Here are the keys to Grandpa’s house. We’ll see you there in a couple of hours.’

I took the keys and stared stupidly at my father. ‘Why are you giving me these?’

‘Because you’re going to go to the house.’

‘What am I supposed to do there?’

‘Whatever you like. Read a book, play a game. It’s up to you.’

‘What about lunch?’

‘Why can’t I come to lunch?’

‘You know why not.’

‘Because I’m grounded?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But this is Grandpa’s funeral! You’ve got to let me come to the lunch!’

‘I’m afraid not, Tom. You’re grounded.’

‘That’s so unfair!’

‘You should have thought about that before you stole the tractor. We’ll be a couple of hours. See you later.’

‘Dad—’

‘Don’t “Dad” me.’

‘But, Dad—’

‘I said don’t “Dad” me.’

‘But, Dad, it’s just not fair.’

‘See you later,’ said my father, showing not a trace of sympathy. ‘Go on. Go to the house.’

Grace tried to argue on my behalf, which was nice of her, and Jack said he wouldn’t mind staying with me, which was nice of him too, but Dad asked if they both wanted to be grounded as well, and of course they didn’t. He told them to go to the car. Grace grinned at me and Jack gave me a thumbs up, then they sloped away. Dad turned back to me. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t like doing this. I wish there was some other way. But you’ve really given me no choice.’

I looked at my dad for a moment. Then I said, ‘You’re an idiot.’

His face turned red and he told me never to talk to him like that, and Mum said I should remember where I was, but I didn’t care. I turned my back on my parents and walked away, their angry voices following me out of the graveyard.

I’D BEEN GROUNDED for a month. It was my own stupid fault. I had been caught borrowing a tractor from the local park. The wardens said I’d been stealing. I said I hadn’t been stealing, I’d been borrowing. They said what’s the difference? I said the difference is I would have brought it back again. They said how do we know you would have brought it back? I said you have to trust me. They said how can we trust you when you steal things? I said I wasn’t stealing, I was borrowing, but by that time no one was listening.

It was so unfair. Of course I wasn’t stealing their tractor. I just wanted to have a bit of fun and drive around the park. Unfortunately I’d only got halfway across the cricket pitch when two park wardens came running after me.

I gunned the throttle and tried to lose them, and probably would have done if some idiot hadn’t planted a tree right where I wanted to go.

Which was how I now came to find myself walking down the street to Grandpa’s house, while the rest of my family drove twelve miles to the nearest nice restaurant.

I wanted to be there. I wanted my lunch. I wanted to see Uncle Harvey. And more than anything, I wanted to hear about all the crazy things that Grandpa had done in his long and disreputable existence.

Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t have stolen that tractor.

Even better, I shouldn’t have got caught.

But I couldn’t help myself. I’m a Trelawney. We do dumb things like stealing other people’s tractors.

As I walked down the street, I thought about Grandpa, and wondered how he ended up living here, a wet village on the west coast of nowhere. What did he do all day? This village seemed nice enough, but it wasn’t exactly exciting. I wouldn’t have chosen to live here. Or die here.

All the other houses had clipped lawns and beds of bright flowers, but Grandpa’s looked as if no one had lived there for years. Paint was peeling off the front door. There was a hole in one of the windows. The front garden was a jumble of weeds and brambles, plus the odd broken bottle and what looked like the remains of a bicycle. Because I’d been here before, I knew Grandpa’s house hadn’t been wrecked in the days since his death; it had always looked like this. He didn’t bother with DIY. Or even cleaning.

Inside things were even worse. The house was a danger zone. The kitchen sink was blocked and the cooker was caked with dried food. In the hallway, the light switch had fallen off. Exposed wires drooled out of the wall. It was a miracle Grandpa had survived so long.

I went hunting for food. The fridge contained nothing but some carrots covered in black spots and a half-drunk carton of milk with a sell-by date of three weeks ago, but I found some tins of tomato soup in a cupboard. I opened one and tipped the contents into a saucepan. When the soup was piping hot, I poured it into a bowl and ate my lunch in front of the TV, flicking through every channel. There was nothing on. I feel sorry for the Irish. Their TV is even worse than ours.

Grandpa had a few books and there were some old magazines lying around, but I didn’t feel like reading. So I explored the house, looking through the rooms, poking around, seeing what I could find. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I hoped I might uncover some curious treasure from one of Grandpa’s adventures.

I was standing in his bedroom, staring at the suits and shirts hanging in his wardrobe, when I heard a sound like breaking glass. It seemed to have come from downstairs.

I stood very still, listening.

Had I imagined it?

Yes, I must have imagined it.

Then I heard the noise again. Another smash. More glass tinkling. As if someone was knocking the loose pieces out of a windowpane.

Why would anyone want to break into this house?

Maybe it wasn’t a person. Maybe it was a cat hunting for a warm place to take a nap.

I decided to investigate.

I took three steps along the landing and heard a loud thump.

That wasn’t a cat. That was the sound of feet slamming down on the floor. Now I could hear them crunching on the glass that they’d just knocked out of the window.

I could have run. I could have hidden. I could have sneaked into the wardrobe in Grandpa’s bedroom or jumped out of an upstairs window. But it was daylight and I was in my own grandfather’s house, so I thought I’d be able to look after myself.

Anyway, I knew what I’d find when I went downstairs.

A kid like me.

Who else would break into an empty house?

I’ve done it myself. If you’re bored on a Saturday afternoon and the town is quiet and your friends are otherwise occupied, what could be better than sneaking into a derelict house and poking around? I like seeing what’s left behind. Sometimes people have to get out in a hurry and they discard everything – all the junk they couldn’t carry, clothes and TVs and tins of tuna fish. Once I found a twenty-pound note in the crack of a kitchen drawer. Another time, I found a white bag stuffed with plastic giraffes. Who could possibly want a hundred plastic giraffes? I took one as a memento. It’s still on a shelf in my bedroom.

Anyway, that’s how I knew who would have broken into Grandpa’s house. It would just be someone looking for a bit of excitement. Some kid who lived in this boring little village on the edge of nowhere and wanted to get a kick from exploring some dead guy’s abandoned home. If I was really lucky, he might want to hang out with me for the next couple of hours while I was waiting for my family to come back from lunch.

I jogged down the stairs and headed along the hallway. I was just about to stroll into the sitting room and make some quip, looking forward to startling the kid who’d dared to break into my grandad’s house, when a man appeared out of the shadows.

‘Not another step,’ he said, his voice low and threatening.

‘Who are you?’ I stammered. ‘What are you—?’

He swung at me. I dodged backwards, but he managed to grab me around the neck. I held his arm with both hands. His fingers pressed into my throat. I struggled. Lurched backwards. Tried to wriggle out of his grasp. Then I felt something pressing into my side and knew it was a knife. He’d just have to push a bit harder and the blade would be sliding between my ribs. I went very still.

He was a big guy. Much taller than me. Much broader too. His eyes were dark and cold. ‘Who’s here?’ he hissed. ‘Who else?’

‘No one,’ I said, then cursed myself for telling the truth. Why didn’t I say my friend the black belt was coming round for tea?

‘When will they be back?’

‘Who?’

He pressed the knife deeper into my side. ‘When will they be back?’

‘Soon.’

‘How soon?’

It’s difficult to think straight when you’ve got a knife pushing against your ribs, and so, like an idiot, I told him exactly what he wanted to know. I guess I was nervous. I even told him the restaurant was twelve miles away, whereas if I’d been thinking straight, I would have said it was just round the corner and my folks might be back any minute. I probably would have told him about being grounded and the unfairness of it all, but he interrupted me: ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tom.’

‘This way, Tom. And keep quiet. If you make a noise, I’m gonna hurt you. Got that?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on, then.’

He half-pushed, half-dragged me down the hallway and into the kitchen.

I knew who he was. I’d heard about this. There are thieves who read the local papers, looking for announcements of weddings and funerals, the days that houses will definitely be empty. He must be one of them. Well, he was wasting his time today. There was nothing worth stealing in Grandpa’s house. Not unless you wanted eleven tins of tomato soup or some very smelly socks.

The only thing was, this guy didn’t look like a crook. Not the type of crook who breaks into empty houses, anyway. His clothes were too nice.

If I’d seen him in the street or been shown a photo of him, I would have guessed he was a soldier or a sportsman. Maybe a tennis player. He was a big guy with broad shoulders and strong hands. He had a long face, a strong chin, and a great tan. He had to live somewhere sunny. So he wasn’t from round here.

He didn’t sound local, either. I couldn’t place his accent, but I was almost sure he wasn’t Irish. His words had more of a twang. He might have been a Kiwi or South African, something like that.

Once we were through the door, he told me to turn round. For a terrible moment I thought he was going to slit my throat. Instead he slipped a dishcloth into my mouth and tied it tight around my head.

I tried to scream, but I didn’t have enough breath in my lungs, and before I could suck in any more, he was tipping me forward and yanking my hands behind my back. He was too strong for me. I couldn’t wriggle away. I heard him opening a kitchen drawer. Slamming it. Opening another. He must have found what he was looking for, because he started worked quickly and efficiently, tying my hands behind my back with what felt like a piece of string, then sitting me down in a chair and strapping me to that.

He put his face close to mine.

‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘But if you make a noise or try to get away, I will kill you.’

I DON’T GET scared easily, but this guy filled me with fear. I don’t know what it was. His eyes, maybe, or his voice or simply the way he’d crept up on me and grabbed me out of nowhere. Whatever it was, I knew I didn’t want to mess him about. He was serious about killing me, I could hear that in his voice. I sat very still, listening to him pacing around the house. Was he a thief? If so, why had he bothered breaking into this house? And wouldn’t he leave as soon as he saw the way Grandpa had lived? The TV must have been a hundred years old and nothing else in the house was worth anything. What could this guy possibly be looking for?

I heard him moving through the ground floor, room by room, then heading up the stairs. His footsteps were directly above me. This was my chance. I didn’t want to stick around and allow him to kill me. Even if he heard me, he’d take a few seconds to come all the way downstairs. That should be enough time to get out of here.

I started wriggling my arms. My phone was in my pocket. If only I could stretch a little further…

No. Impossible. The string was tied so tightly, I could hardly move.

I shuffled from side to side. Pulled my arms up and pushed them down again. Shrugged my shoulders. Twisted my wrists. Strained every muscle.

Finally I got frustrated and started jerking my arms halfway out of their sockets, ignoring how much it hurt, just trying to get free. The chair’s legs suddenly lifted off the ground. I tipped forward and landed face-first, smacking my forehead into Grandpa’s floor. For a moment I was stunned. No problem, I thought to myself. I’ll crawl out of here. Take the chair with me. I scrabbled across the floor like a wounded crab, heading for the door.

I heard his laughter before I saw him. ‘What are you doing? You think I don’t know how to tie a knot? Come on, kid. Let me help you.’ He must have heard me clattering around and come back to the kitchen. He bent down, reached out a hand and yanked off my gag. I was still gasping for breath when he picked up the chair, swung it round and plonked me down as if I weighed nothing at all. We were face to face, me sitting and him bent double, peering into my face. ‘You all right?’

‘I won’t tell anyone you’re here,’ I begged. He sounded sympathetic, but I didn’t believe a word of it. He’d just threatened to kill me; why should he suddenly be worrying if I was all right? ‘Please, just let me go.’

‘I will. In a minute. First we need to talk. What’s your name again?’

‘Tom.’

‘That’s right. Now, Tom, I need you to help me. Your gramps and me, we were doing a deal together. He’s broken his side of the bargain by dying, but I want to keep mine. I’m looking for something. It’s in this house, but I don’t know where. You’re going to help me find it.’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Just some old papers. Nothing interesting.’

He reached into his belt and pulled out his knife. Before I could even think about screaming, he was slitting the string that bound my wrists.

‘You can get up if you want,’ he said. ‘But don’t bother trying to run away.’

I stood and flexed my wrist, getting the blood moving into my veins. Why was he being so friendly? Was it a trick? I glanced at the door. Should I make a run for it? I looked back at him and I could see he knew what I was thinking, but he wasn’t worried. He knew I wouldn’t get three paces before he tripped me up, knocked me down and stuck a knife in my ribs.

‘I’m Marko,’ he said.

‘Mark-oh?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Nice to meet you, Marko. Not.’

He grinned. ‘You’re like the old man, aren’t you?’

‘You knew him?’

‘We were good friends.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Maybe not exactly friends. You can call us colleagues if you’d rather. We were working together. He had something I wanted. I was going to buy it off him. Now he’s gone and I can’t find it. Where is it, Tom? Where would the old guy hide something he wanted to keep hidden?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You can do better than that.’

‘I really don’t.’

‘Do I have to tie you up again?’

‘No. But I don’t know where your stuff is.’

Marko looked at me for a moment as if he was trying to decide whether I could be trusted. Then he said, ‘Do you want to earn five hundred euros?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’m looking for a bundle of old papers. I want them, Tom, and I’m willing to pay for them. Help me find these papers and I’ll give you five hundred euros.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I find the papers, you’ll just steal them.’

‘You’re wrong, Tom. I’m an honest guy. If I make a deal, I keep it. Here’s the money.’ He took out his thick wallet and counted five notes. He offered them to me. I reached for the money, but he pulled it away immediately. ‘Find the papers first,’ he said.

Five hundred euros. That was a lot of money. Enough to buy a new computer or a new bike.

I didn’t like Marko. And I certainly didn’t trust him. But I could do with five hundred euros.

‘What’s in these papers?’ I said.

‘They’re just some documents.’

‘What sort of documents?’

‘Historical ones.’

‘Why do you want them?’

‘I’m working for a collector,’ said Marko. ‘He loves all this old stuff. He wants it for his collection.’

‘How much is he paying for them?’

‘That’s my business, Tom.’

‘How much were you going to pay my grandfather?’

‘A decent amount.’

‘More than five hundred euros?’

‘A bit more.’

‘How much more?’

‘Like I said, a bit more.’

‘I’m not going to help you unless you tell me.’

‘If you really want to know, we agreed on two thousand euros. It’s a fair price. Your grandfather got in touch with my boss and said he had something to sell. How were we meant to know if he was telling the truth? So I came over here to have a talk with him and see what he was selling. We had a nice chat. I went back to talk to my boss. Next thing I heard, your grandpa was dead.’

‘So you thought you’d break into the house and steal these documents instead?’

‘That’s right,’ said Marko, smiling as if he had nothing to be ashamed of. ‘But I can’t find them. You know this house better than me. What do you say? Will you help me?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘For two thousand euros.’

‘That’s not the deal, mate. We said five hundred.’

‘Two thousand or nothing.’

He laughed. ‘You really are just like the old man, aren’t you?’

‘He was my grandfather.’

‘I guess he was. Let’s say a thousand.’

‘Two.’ I smiled, trying to look a lot braver (and more relaxed) than I actually felt. I remembered how Uncle Harvey dealt with negotiations. He just smiled and pretended he didn’t care. So that’s what I tried to do too.

It must have worked, because Marko raised his price. ‘I’ll give you fifteen hundred.’

‘Two thousand euros or nothing.’

Marko thought for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘Fine. You got me. It’s a deal. Where are they?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I thought you said … You little creep.’ His hand reached for the knife.

‘Wait.’ I backed away, my arms up. ‘I’ll find them.’

‘You just said you didn’t know where they were.’

‘I don’t. But I’ll find them.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll search this house.’

‘I don’t believe this.’

His lip curled and I suddenly thought I’d made a terrible mistake, trying to play him. I backtracked as fast as I could. ‘You don’t have to worry. I’m going to find them. I will. I promise.’

‘You’d better.’

‘I said I will.’

‘Come on, then. Where are they?’

‘Give me a minute. Let me think.’

‘We don’t have time for thinking. Just find them.’

I glanced at the knife, then Marko’s face. If I actually gave him these documents, would he really pay me two thousand Euros? Or would he grab what he wanted and stab me?

I didn’t want to think about that now.

I just smiled and said, ‘Let’s go this way.’

I remembered my grandfather. I thought about my uncle. I told myself: This is the way to be a real Trelawney. I don’t want to be the type of person who surrenders to fear. I’m not going to give up. I’m a Trelawney! Sure, I was scared. Of course I was. This guy was probably planning to kill me. I just had to keep him talking, make him think I was going to give him the documents, and hope my folks hadn’t ordered another bottle of wine to toast Grandpa’s memory.

We did the sitting room first, then the kitchen and the downstairs loo. Marko must have been through the lot already, but he just stood back and watched me search again, opening drawers and cupboards, lifting carpets, tapping floorboards, hunting for hiding places. I could sense his eyes on me all the time.

We went upstairs to Grandpa’s bedroom. Under the bed, I encountered three socks, a beer bottle and an apple core so ancient that it crumbled into dust as I tried to pick it up, but no historical documents, nothing that could possibly be worth two thousand euros.

There were two more rooms on that floor and an attic above, accessed by a shaky metal ladder. We went through everything, even pulling up loose floorboards and checking the water tank.

We were walking downstairs again, heading for the garden and its mossy old shed, when I finally heard the noise that I’d been waiting for: a car pulling up outside. Marko hurried to the window. A second car was parking behind the first.

Marko glanced at me. He didn’t ask me if that was my parents and my uncle; he must have recognised the cars. So he’d been spying on us.

For a moment I thought he was going to pull out the knife and shut me up permanently. Or would he kidnap me, force me to go with him? Instead he said, ‘I need those letters, Tom. You’d better find them. I’ll be watching you.’

Then he was gone, running down the stairs and leaving the house through the back door.

A MOMENT LATER there was a knock at the door. I opened it. My brother and sister were standing there, looking smug and well-fed.

‘Hi, bro,’ said Jack.

‘Hi.’

‘We brought you a doggy-bag.’ Grace held up something wrapped in silver foil. ‘We thought you must be hungry.’

‘I’ve had lunch, thanks.’

‘What did you have?’

‘I found a tin of soup.’

‘Was it delicious?’

‘It was OK.’

‘Ours was delicious. I had smoked salmon, followed by lamb noisettes on a bed of creamed spinach, and a chocolate pudding for dessert.’ Grace takes notes whenever she eats out. She wants to be a celebrity chef when she grows up.

‘I had steak and chips,’ said my little brother.

I got mugged by a guy with a knife, I could have said. Instead I thanked my sister for the doggy-bag and scooted into the house before Mum and Dad arrived. I was surprised they hadn’t commented on my appearance. Didn’t I look like a guy who’d just been tied up, knocked over and pushed around? Obviously I didn’t. I must just have looked like my normal self.

Once I was safely inside the sitting room, I stood for a moment with my back against the door, waiting for my parents to come and bug me, but they must have decided to leave me alone. That was lucky. I needed some time to myself. I had to check out these historical documents, whatever they were. I wanted to know why they were worth two thousand euros.

As soon as Marko started talking about them, I knew where they would be hidden.

While he was interrogating me, I had tried to push the knowledge out of my mind, not wanting to give any sign that I’d solved his mystery for him.

As I’ve explained already, we didn’t visit Grandpa often. He and Dad couldn’t spend more than a few minutes in the same room without arguing, so we never came to stay, but we once went on holiday nearby and stopped here for lunch. Mum, Dad, Grace and Jack went for a walk in the afternoon, leaving me with Grandpa. He talked to me, telling me some stuff about his life and giving me several pieces of advice, which I’m sure were very useful, although unfortunately I can’t remember a single thing he said. But one thing did lodge in my mind. He had shown me something that he called his treasure box.

Shelves filled the niches on either side of the fireplace. Most of them were crammed with all kinds of junk – old magazines, tangled wires, jam jars stuffed with nails, a stack of dodgy DVDs – but two of the shelves held books. I scanned the spines, running my eyes over the titles and the names of the authors. None of them meant anything to me. None of the books looked familiar. Had it gone? Had he moved it? Or was it there and I just couldn’t remember what it was called?

Then I saw what I was looking for. A thick hardback, the creased leather spine embossed with faded gold letters:

Cornish Highways and Byways; a Description of Some Rambles around Penzance, Land’s End and Zennor, Incorporating Illustrations of Local Personalities and Wildlife

Edward Charles Trelawney

It was the type of book that no one would ever want to read. You could be confident that a visitor, left alone in this room for a few minutes and wanting something to occupy the time, picking a random book to flick through, would choose something more interesting.

I pulled the book from its shelf and opened the front cover. The pages had been cut away, leaving a gap, a space, a place to keep your valuables.

The day that I was last here, my grandfather had pointed it out on the shelf. He said, ‘Do you want to see a book written by one of your ancestors?’

When I pulled it down and opened it up, he started giggling. ‘You didn’t really think a Trelawney had written a book, did you? Most of us can’t even read.’

This was his secret hiding place. Then it had contained a wodge of twenty-pound notes and a chunky gold necklace.

Now it was full of letters.

Two thousand euros worth of old letters scrawled in faded ink on crinkly paper.

Was Marko really going to be watching me?

He said he would and there was no reason to doubt him. He might be parked across the street. I just had to walk out of the front door, holding the letters. He couldn’t steal them from me in broad daylight. He’d have to make a deal. Give me the money. Give me the two thousand you’d agreed with Grandpa.

No, I didn’t want to hand them over right away. I wanted to know what they really were, and why they were worth so much to Marko.

I opened the door. I could hear voices from the kitchen and the clatter of cutlery and crockery. The rest of my family had got to work. They were tidying the house. We had to make it respectable before the estate agents arrived on Monday morning, the day after tomorrow.

Hoping no one would hear me and tell me to come and help, I sneaked upstairs to Grandpa’s bedroom. His bed was saggy and damp – the sheets probably hadn’t been changed all year – but it was comfy enough, so I sat with my back against the headboard, picked the first letter from the top of the pile and started reading.

7 June 1795, Southampton, Hants.

Dear Miss Pickering,