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Two LEP chutes emerged in the south of England. One in London itself, but that was closed to the public due to the fact that Chelsea Football Club had built their grounds five hundred metres above the shuttle port. The other port was in Wiltshire, beside what humans referred to as Stonehenge. Mud People had several theories as to the origins of the structure. These ranged from spaceship landing port to pagan centre of worship. The truth was far less glamorous. Stonehenge had actually been an outlet for a flat-bread-based food. Or, in human terms, a pizza parlour. A gnome called Bog had realized how many tourists forgot their sandwiches on above-ground jaunts, and so had set up shop beside the terminal. It was a smooth operation. You drove up to one of the windows, named your toppings, and ten minutes later you were stuffing your face. Of course, Bog had to shift his operation below ground once humans began talking in full sentences. And anyway, all that cheese was making the ground soggy. A couple of the service windows had even collapsed. It was difficult for fairy civilians to get visas to visit Stonehenge because of the constant activity on the surface. Then again, hippies saw fairies every day and it never made the front page. As a police officer, Holly didn’t have a visa problem; one flash of the Recon badge opened a hole right through to the surface. But being a Recon officer didn’t help if there was no magma flare scheduled. And the Stonehenge chute had been dormant for over three centuries. Not a spark. In the absence of a hotshot to ride, Holly was forced to travel aboard a commercial shuttle. The first available shuttle was heavily booked, but luckily there was a late cancellation so Holly wasn’t forced to bump a passenger. The shuttle was a fifty-seater luxury cruiser. It had been commissioned especially by the Brotherhood of Bog to visit their patron’s site. These fairies, mostly gnomes, dedicated their lives to pizza and every year on the anniversary of Bog’s first day in business, they chartered a shuttle and took a picnic above ground. The picnic consisted of pizza, tuber beer and pizza-flavoured ice cream. Needless to say, they did not remove their rubber pizza bonnets for the entire day. So, for sixty-seven minutes, Holly sat wedged between two beer-swilling gnomes singing the pizza song:

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Artemis left through the back door, mingling with the crowds of locals and sightseers. The police would have someone photographing the crowd, so he did not linger at the cordon, or even glance back towards the restaurant. Instead, he made his way to Harrods and found himself a table at the gallery cafe. Once he had assured the waitress that he was not looking for his mummy, and produced sufficient cash to pay for his pot of Earl Grey tea, Artemis pulled out his mobile, selecting a number from the speed-dial menu. A man answered on the second ring. ‘Hello. Make it quick, whoever you are. I’m very busy at the moment.’ The man was Detective Inspector Justin Barre of New Scotland Yard. Barre’s gravelly tones were caused by a hunting knife across the gullet during a bar fight in the nineties. If Butler hadn’t been on hand to stop the bleeding, Justin Barre would never have risen beyond Sergeant. It was time to call in the debt. ‘Detective Inspector Barre. This is Artemis Fowl.’ ‘Artemis, how are you? And how’s my old partner, Butler?’ Artemis kneaded his forehead. ‘Not well at all, I’m afraid. He needs a favour.’ ‘Anything for the big man. What can I do?’ ‘Did you hear something about a disturbance in Knightsbridge?’ There was a pause. Artemis heard paper rip as a fax was torn off the roll. ‘Yes, it just came in. A couple of windows were shattered in some restaurant. Nothing major. Some tourists are a bit shell-shocked. Preliminary reports say it was some kind of localized earthquake, if you can believe that. We’ve got two cars there right now. Don’t tell me Butler was behind it?’ Artemis took a breath. ‘I need you to keep your men away from the freezers.’ ‘That’s a strange request, Artemis. What’s in the freezers that I shouldn’t see?’ ‘Nothing illegal,’ promised Artemis. ‘Believe me when I say this is life or death for Butler.’ Barre didn’t hesitate. ‘This is not exactly in my jurisdiction, but consider it done. Do you need to get whatever I’m not supposed to see out of the freezers?’ The officer had read his mind. ‘As soon as possible. Two minutes are all I need.’ Barre chewed it over. ‘OK. Let’s synchronize schedules. The forensics team is going to be in there for a couple of hours. Nothing I can do about that. But at six-thirty precisely, I can guarantee there won’t be anyone on duty. You have five minutes.’ ‘That will be more than sufficient.’ ‘Good. And tell the big man that we’re quits.’ Artemis kept his voice even. ‘Yes, Detective Inspector. I’ll tell him.’ If I get the opportunity, he thought. ICE AGE CRYOGENICS INSTITUTE, OFF HARLEY STREET, LONDON The Ice Age Cryogenics Institute was not actually on London’s Harley Street. Technically, it was tucked away in Dickens Lane, a side alley on the famous medical boulevard’s southern end. But this did not stop the facility’s MD, one Doctor Constance Lane, from putting Harley Street on all Ice Age stationery. You couldn’t buy credibility like that. When the upper classes saw those magic words on a business card they fell over themselves to have their frail frames frozen. Artemis Fowl was not so easily impressed. But then he had little choice; Ice Age was one of three cryogenic centres in the city, and the only one with free units. Though Artemis did consider the neon sign a bit much: ‘Pods to Rent’. Honestly. The building itself was enough to make Artemis squirm. The facade was lined with brushed aluminium, obviously designed to resemble a spaceship, and the doors were of the whoosh Star Trek variety. Where was culture? Where was art? How did a monstrosity like this get planning permission in historic London?