She wasn't worried about Flasheart or Freddy; those two would be running all night under the moonlight. Chester Puceley, however, was wide awake. He was standing in the room that had been Sir Hotspur's study, looking out at the bright moon and whispering into the telephone. 'And so the wolf came, exactly as I told you?' He gave a croaky laugh. 'You shot him with a tranquilliser? Excellent.' The small man stroked his moustache and listened. 'No! I may need him alive, but if he tries to escape – shoot him.' Chester put down the phone and turned to his daughter, who was sitting in the leather chair, yawning loudly. 'Well, my precious jewel . . .' Chester chucked his daughter under the cheek. 'Your plan worked. You led him straight into our little trap.' 'Oh, Papa, it was sooo easy. That idiot Freddy would do anything for me . . . and of course his daddy had to protect him . . . how pathetic. But I'm so tired.' 'I know, my princess, but we don't have much time. The wolf is out of the way but who knows where that idiot boy is.' Chester pulled out an old piece of parchment as he spoke.
