‘But even if your father were to return, what then?’ he asked. ‘Will you follow in his footsteps? Will you be a criminal like him? Perhaps you already are?’

‘My father is no criminal,’ Artemis pointed out testily. ‘He was moving all our assets into legitimate enterprises. The Murmansk venture was completely above board.’

‘You’re avoiding the question, Artemis,’ said Po.

But Artemis had had enough of this line of questioning. Time to play a little game. ‘Why, Doctor?’ said Artemis, shocked. ‘This is a sensitive area. For all you know, I could be suffering from depression.’

‘I suppose you could,’ said Po, sensing a breakthrough. ‘Is that the case?’

Artemis dropped his face into his hands. ‘It’s my mother, Doctor.’

‘Your mother?’ prompted Po, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. Artemis had retired half a dozen counsellors from St Bartleby’s already this year. Truth be told, Po was on the point of packing his own bags. But now…

‘My mother, she…’

Po leaned forward on his fake Victorian chair. ‘Your mother, yes?’

‘She forces me to endure this ridiculous therapy when the school’s so-called counsellors are little better than misguided do-gooders with degrees.’

Po sighed. ‘Very well, Artemis. Have it your way, but you are never going to find peace if you continue to run away from your problems.’

Artemis was spared further analysis by the vibration of his mobile phone. It was on a coded secure line. Only one person had the number. The boy retrieved it from his pocket, flipping open the tiny communicator. ‘Yes?’

Butler’s voice came through the speaker. ‘Artemis. It’s me.’

‘Obviously. I’m in the middle of something here.’

‘We’ve had a message.’

‘Yes. From where?’

‘I don’t know exactly. But it concerns the Fowl Star.’

A jolt flew along Artemis ‘s spine. ‘Where are you?’