saying over and over again that she would miss us and the children were sobbing because me and
Oliver had become their “agaa” and “ajaa”, like an elder sister and brother. The man stood there
stiff as iron, not uttering a single word. Then we left.
Sarah Barkley’s office was barely twenty meters from the restaurant, not a rigorous stride for
me compared to the sojourn in the Gobi. When we arrived, a pretty lady showed us to a room.
There sat a small woman with a pointy nose and dark purple glasses. She wore a blouse, coat,
and a pair of pants. “You must be Sarah Barkley,” I said shyly. “Indeed. And from what I have
heard, you have been delayed in the Gobi. Tell me your names,” she replied, not bothering to force
a smile. “Well, I am Hazel Gopher,” I said. “I am Oliver Anders,” Oliver said. “And I am Brandy
Solomon-Dashiell,” Brandy said. “Oh and Anna Sanders is in the toilet.” I said. “Anna Sanders,
how peculiar. You know someone has stolen a treasure, a statue, from a museum on the Gobi. The
Interpol have traced a fingerprint left on the inside of the glass casing for the artefact. Apparently
the fingerprint was traced back to a person named Anna Sanders.” I couldn’t believe my ears! How
could the criminal be one of our own investigative journalists?
