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your comic. He knew you’d never allow him to borrow it, or anything like that.
But when the doorbell went, and he was left alone in that room, he spotted the opportunity of a lifetime. Purely by luck, his forgery was to hand, and he made a snap decision. While you were gone,
just for a few seconds, he swapped the real comic for his fake. He gambled that when you came back in, you’d put the comic in the safe straight away, without examining it closely. And
that’s exactly what you did. You assumed that was your comic back in its plastic case. It wasn’t. Rippa slipped the real Tomb of Death in amongst his catalogues, and he walked
out with it, right under your nose.’
    ‘But he must have known I’d spot the forgery eventually,’ said Ed.
    ‘Oh, eventually, yes,’ I said. ‘But he knew you never, ever normally took that comic out of the safe, let alone out of its protective case. It might have stayed in there for
months, or even years, before being discovered. I said to you when I examined the safe that only a pretty stupid and desperate thief would try to snatch that comic, but I was wrong. Rippa took huge
risks, but he wasn’t daft.
    ‘Think about it. If you, months or even years later, discovered the fake, and even if you linked the fake to Rippa, what actual evidence would you have? None. Even if you told the world,
and ruined Rippa’s reputation for good, he’d hardly mind, would he? He’d have sold the real comic and be living off a mountain of cash.
    ‘He took a risk, and it appeared to pay off. The only problem was, he now had a genuine Tomb of Death and needed to get rid of it. He needed money to finance his trip to America, so
he started selling off stock from his shop. He’s been selling loads and buying little, to make sure he had enough money to make the earliest trip to America he could. Today. And once
he’d sold the comic . . .’
    ‘. . . No evidence again,’ said Ed, grinding his teeth. ‘Unless I spent a fortune following the comic around America and tracking its sale.’
    ‘Right,’ I said.
    Ed flicked the indicator and the car sped towards the exit off the motorway. By the little clock that was Blutacked to the dashboard, the time was 3.22 p.m.
    It was 3.27 p.m. when we raced into the car park opposite the main entrance to the airport. Charlie and I hurried over to the terminal building while Ed hunted through the rubbish in the
car’s glove compartment for some change to pay for parking.
    3.28 p.m. The glass doors slid aside and Charlie and I stepped into a swirling river of people, trolleys and baggage. Tugging at Charlie’s sleeve to get him to follow me, I headed
straight for the enormous Departures screen, hanging above a nearby coffee stall.
    3.29  p.m. ‘Let’s see, let’s see,’ I muttered. ‘Look for LAX. That’s Los Angeles. No, wait, that’s arrivals. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,
LAX, LAX, LAX . . . I can’t see it. Wait, the screen’s changing . . .’
    Charlie poked his head into view. ‘There’s one flight to LA today; passengers have just been called to the departure lounge, over there, Gate 22B.’
    I glanced back and forth between him and the screen. ‘That’s genius. How did you work that out?’
    ‘I asked that air stewardess over there.’
    ‘Ah, right,’ I said, nodding a thank you to a woman in a ghastly green uniform.
    3.30 p.m.
    We sped up a short staircase and across a wide area covered in shiny floor tiles and bolted-down seats. The departure lounge was directly ahead of us. Passengers were lining up at a row of
scanners, ready to have their bags checked.
    And there was Rippa! He was facing away from us, a holdall in one hand and a pack of sandwiches in the other. He was almost at the front of the queue.
    ‘He hasn’t seen us,’ said Charlie.
    ‘But if he gets past those scanners, he’s gone!’ I said. ‘Airport security means we won’t be able to follow him any further!’
    We hurried towards him, worried in case we