Artemis was safe in Butler’s bear-hug. The bodyguard had anchored himself against a solid door frame, folding the flying boy into his arms.

And they had several other advantages over Spiro’s assassins: their teeth were intact, they did not suffer from any compound fractures and the sonic filter sponges had sealed, saving their eardrums from perforation.

Butler surveyed the room. The assassins were all down, clutching their ears. They wouldn’t be uncrossing their eyes for several days. The manservant drew his Sig Sauer pistol from a shoulder holster.

‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘I’m going to check the kitchen.’

Artemis settled back into his chair, drawing several shaky breaths.

All around was a chaos of dust and moans. But once again, Butler had saved them. All was not lost. It was even possible that they could catch

Spiro before he left the country. Butler had a contact in Heathrow Security: Sid Commons, an ex-Green Beret he’d served with on bodyguard duty in Monte Carlo.

A large figure came into view, blocking out the sunlight. It was Butler, returned from his reconnoitre. Artemis breathed deeply, feelingly uncharacteristically emotional.

‘Butler,’ he began. ‘We really must talk regarding your salary. .’

But it wasn’t Butler. It was Arno Blunt. He had something in each hand. On his left palm, two tiny cones of yellow foam.

‘Ear plugs,’ he spat through broken teeth. ‘I always wear ‘em before a fire fight. Good thing too, eh?’

In his right hand, Blunt held a silenced pistol.

‘You first,’ he said. ‘Then the ape.’

Arno Blunt cocked the gun, took aim briefly and fired.