[Verse 8 — The Case Room] Through another door, the atmosphere changed. Photographs. Maps. Old newspaper pages. Boxes. Files. Names. Unfinished investigations spread across long wooden tables. She placed a brown folder in front of me. "You asked what happens next." I nodded. She pushed it towards me. "This." [Verse 9 — The Curator] A photograph of an old empty house. Another from better days. An elderly woman now living somewhere else. Her husband, long since dead, standing proudly inside a museum. A respected curator. "Respected?" I heard something in the way she said the word. Then came inventories. Missing objects. Transfers that never arrived. Artefacts supposedly destroyed without a single record to prove they'd gone. "So he was stealing?" "We don't know." "It bloody sounds like stealing." "It does." [Verse 10 — F. Sutherland] Old correspondence. Faded ink. Auction records. Private sales. Then one name appearing again... and again... and again. Never written fully. Only— F. Sutherland. "Who's that?" "We're not entirely sure." "A dealer?" "Perhaps." "Antiques?" "Perhaps." "A fence?" She smiled. "That may be closer." [Build] A dead curator. Missing artefacts. A forgotten house now waiting to be sold. A name buried inside old letters. A story half a century old. But something had happened recently. Someone entered the empty house. Not vandals. Not children. Someone looking for something. Someone who apparently knew exactly where to look. [Verse 11 — Frank] She pushed another photograph across the table. Older man. Tired eyes. Weathered face. Something about him felt familiar, though I couldn't say why. Then another page. One name. Frank Sutherland. I looked back at the old letters. F. Sutherland. Then back at the photograph. "His son?" "We believe so." "Did Frank break into the house?" "We believe so." "What did he steal?" "We don't know." "What was he looking for?" "We don't know." "Why was he there?" She smiled. And suddenly I understood. [Final Chorus — full band] Every answer opens another door. Every mystery leads to something more. A wallet on a wall brought me all this way— and now another stranger's name is pulling me away. From a dead man's secrets, to a house that's nearly gone, to something Frank Sutherland went back there looking for. What did he remember? What did his father know? And what could matter enough to bring him back after all those years? [Outro — music drops away] After the hidden gates... the secret number... the mysterious woman... the tailor... the key... Northwood House... my first grand adventure came down to one instruction. "Go and talk to Frank." I picked up the folder. "Where do I find him?" She stopped at the door. Smiled. "That... is your first mystery." [Long pause] I slipped the file beneath my arm. And somewhere in the back of my mind... three words followed me out of the room. "Don't trust them..." "Don't trust them..." "Don't trust them..."
