50’.Gran swayed sedately through the police station, a victorious battleship sailing back to port. She gave a wave to the officer on desk duty. ‘That,’ she told Minnie, ‘is how you get things done. You go straight to the top.’
Minnie thought she’d take advantage of Gran’s good mood. ‘I said I’d see my friends this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s OK if I’m out until tea?’
‘I don’t see why not. I’ll rearrange our bedroom while you’re out. I feel I can take on anything, even that cramped room. You see your friends, especially that lovely girl Sylvie.’
Minnie wanted to say just what she thought of Sylvie and her demand for an apology – the king of Ife himself could order it, and there was still no way Minnie would say sorry! – but she bit her tongue. She’d been given permission and she did not want to rock the boat. She gave Gran a solid kiss on her cheek. She’d been so amazing, standing up to the police commissioner, that Minnie just couldn’t help herself. Gran gave a pleased grin, then waved Minnie away. ‘Go on, see your friends.’
Minnie raced to the bench where Andrew and Piotr were still sitting.
‘Anything happening?’ Minnie asked.
Piotr shook his head. ‘Nothing. Some customers. But Omar hasn’t left the shop once, and there’s no sign of a kid at all.’
Minnie plonked down on to the wooden slats. They were scored and magic-markered with the names of people who’d sat there before her – Katie 4 Eva, JonnieBoy, and she smiled to see Anna 4 Lowdog.
‘You’re here early,’ Andrew said. ‘I was hoping that I could solve this case and find the boy before you showed up. Another ten minutes would have done it, I reckon.’
Minnie rested her elbows on the back of the bench and looked at the dry cleaner’s. It seemed so ordinary: a single-storey shop with a sign that had once been new and hopeful but was dusty now and faded by the sunlight; an ‘OPEN’ sign hanging by the door at a wonky angle. All normal, pretty much like Mum’s salon.
Then she paused. ‘It will have a back door, won’t it?’
Piotr and Andrew looked at her.
‘I mean, on the other side of the shop there’ll be a back door? Like at the salon.’
‘You think we’re watching the wrong door?’ Piotr asked.
‘I think we’re watching the wrong door,’ Minnie agreed.
‘How do we get around the back?’
There was no obvious alleyway that would lead there, no path or side street.
‘Perhaps you can only get to it through the shop?’ Andrew suggested.
‘Well then,’ Piotr said, ‘that’s the end of that. We can hardly go into the dry cleaner’s and ask Omar if we can go through the shop so that we can spy on him.’ He toed a hollow of dirt underneath the bench, kicking up a mini sandstorm in disgust.
‘No,’ Andrew said. ‘But we could go through Marcus’s shop next door. Marcus is the gallery owner. He was really nice yesterday. I bet he’d say we could.’
Minnie felt a sparrow flutter of excitement. The gallery was right next door to the dry cleaner’s; their backyards must be right next to each other. They would probably be able to see inside the back of the dry cleaner’s from the gallery’s yard. The boy might even be standing at the window!
She leaped up from the bench. ‘Come on, Andrew, time for you to be charming.’
Andrew stood and gave an elaborate bow. ‘At your service,’ he said.
‘I’ll wait here’ – Piotr hadn’t moved – ‘just in case anyone does come to the front door to see Omar.’
Minnie and Andrew left Piotr on watch duty. They crossed the road carefully, nipping between cyclists and cars.
‘Are you sure he’s nice?’ Minnie said, with one hand on the gallery door handle.
‘I’m sure,’ Andrew said, and gave her a gentle nudge. The door opened and they were both standing inside.
‘Andrew!’ a warm voice said. ‘The art lover returns. And brings another acolyte to the altar of Apollo.’
‘You what?’ Andrew said.
Marcus spread his arms wide before Minnie and urged her into the shop. ‘Forgive me. I mean to say that you have returned with another young lady who may also come to love the arts.’
Andrew still looked a little confused. ‘Er, Marcus, this is Minnie. Minnie, Marcus.’
‘Hello,’ she said. She didn’t think she’d ever met anyone quite like Marcus. His suit was crease free and elegant; his bow tie looked as though Marcus had actually tied it, not like the clip-on one Dad had worn to Bernice’s wedding.
‘Although it is a pleasure, of course, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,’ Marcus said. ‘What brings you to my neck of the diminutive forest?’
‘The diminted …?’
‘The woods. What brings you to my neck of the woods?’
‘A mission,’ Andrew said.
‘How enthralling!’ Marcus looked at Minnie more shrewdly than she expected. ‘We must feed the imagination, don’t you think?’ he stage-whispered to her. ‘I sense that Andrew has a very vivid imagination. I too am given to wild ideas. You seem to have your feet more firmly on the ground.’
Was Marcus insulting Andrew? She glanced at Andrew, just to check, but Andrew didn’t look at all offended. He was grinning proudly. If he had a very vivid imagination, then he was pleased about it.
‘When you’ve got size six feet,’ Minnie replied, ‘it’s difficult to get them off the ground.’
Marcus laughed. ‘You’re a tonic,’ he said. ‘Let me bring you both a drink and you can tell me all about the “mission”.’ He did stupid air quotes with his hands. Minnie decided she didn’t like him.
Marcus’s body was all angles, but he moved gracefully, like a heron, as he went to the back of the shop. Minnie and Andrew were left alone beside the counter.
‘I don’t think we should tell him why we’re really here,’ Minnie hissed.
‘Why not? He’ll help us,’ Andrew said.
She shook her head vigorously. As she did, her eyes caught sight of something on the desk. Something very, very odd. She felt a tingle spread from her tummy out to her arms and legs. She wanted to yelp, but forced herself to be quiet.
In the wire tray was a cream-coloured envelope. The address of the gallery was handwritten. The thing that made Minnie stifle a yelp were the stamps. There were three of them in the top right-hand corner – a smiling black girl stood against an orange and blue background. In bold letters, the stamps were marked ‘Nigeria 50’.
Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was just a letter from a pen pal. Or maybe a bill from a Nigerian artist.
But maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe a letter arriving from Nigeria the day after a Nigerian suitcase had been stolen from her flat and a Nigerian boy was missing was too much of a coincidence to ignore.
‘Andrew,’ Minnie said, ‘we’re going to need a distraction.’