𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐠𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃1┃

Chapter Fifteen - Archive Antics

"Anyone want a chip?" She asked, her voice muffled due to the fact her cheeks were stuffed with fried potato slabs. Her eyes, which were wide and innocent, flitted between the two boys. They both took a couple of chips each, before the three of them continued on their intended journey. 

"Now, this is not about us helping Annabelle. It's about her helping us." Lockwood began to explain as they all walked together in unison. "It's all about media exposure. Annabelle's disappearance was a huge story." 

George nodded along eagerly. "Well, it is much bigger than you two burning a house down." 

Nola rolled her eyes, popping another hot chip in her mouth. She plucked one from the cone and placed it in between Lockwood's teeth, knowing that he had been eyeing them up. "That's it, Lockwood. We need to change the board back to zero." She was referencing the small whiteboard that hung in the basement, by the high-security store room. Written across the top was the statement 'Days Since George Shamed Us for Burning a House Down', and a tally of 2 was scribbled underneath it. 2 was their highest record.

Lockwood laughed heartily, whilst George scowled. "We'll change it when we get home. Anyway, if we solve Annabelle's murder, the headlines we'll get will cancel out all bad press about the fire overnight." 

"I thought you said no more pet projects?" Nola asked, rummaging through her stripey cone for a chip that was covered in the most toppings possible. 

"This isn't a pet project. This is a main event!" Lockwood argued. 

George sighed. "It won't make us £60,000." 

"No, it might make us more. Think about all the millions of old people sat at home, with nothing to do but reminisce and read the papers. They love murder mysteries! It's a bona-fide front page splash." Lockwood sang cockily as he strutted down the street. 

Nola stopped eating for a moment. "Do leave me out of it, please. I don't want my name in any papers." 

A few minutes later, they had reached a quiet, leafy square a block behind Regent Street. It was dominated by an ugly, brick-fronted building of colossal size. An iron plaque on the door read:

THE BRITISH ARCHIVES

"This is where it all happens." George's spectacles gleamed as he smiled ecstatically at the building. This was his territory. "Here we go. Keep your voices down. The librarians are picky here, so behave, yes?" He led the way over an iron line, and through a set of revolving doors. 

Nola and Lockwood exchanged a look, simultaneously chuckling at George's bossy nature.

The British Archives was on a bigger scale than anything Nola had ever seen before. The complex had six enormous floors piled about a central concrete atrium. When you stood at the bottom, among palms and other indoor trees, the ascending levels of shelves and racks and reading tables seemed to reach to the sky. A large iron sculpture hung from the domed roof high above, part decoration, part defence. On every level, hunched figures flipped through yellowed newspapers and magazines. Some, perhaps, researched the Problem, looking for clues to the plague that beset the public. Others were agents: Nola recognised blue Tamworth jackets dotted about, the lilac tones of Grimble, and here and there the sombre dark-grey hues of Fittes. 

It was not the first time she had wondered why Lockwood hadn't chosen to clothe his company in a coordinated uniform of their own.

Like Nola, Lockwood seemed somewhat overawed by the building, but George bustled them along in a confident manner. Within a few minutes, he had taken them by lift to the fourth floor, sat them down at an empty desk and, after disappearing for a moment, plonked down the first great grey files before them.