Wrong prices, broken glass

In Petaling Street, they found a fruit seller arguing with an old woman. She wanted to pay two ringgit for a whole durian, because that was what the label said. Someone had moved the label for the cheap rambutans onto the durians. The durian label was now on a bag of oranges.

"Did you do this inadvertently?" Hana asked.

The seller shook his head. A short man in glasses had stood by the fruit for a long time. Later, he came back looking sheepish, said sorry for "the mix-up", and bought the oranges at the durian price.

"Forty ringgit for oranges," the seller said, still dumbfounded. "Then he gave them to the tall man and walked off towards the Lake Gardens."

Further along, a bookshop owner was sweeping up broken glass, but she was smiling.

"A little man with an umbrella came in and gave me a hundred ringgit," she said. "I asked what it was for. He said, 'You'll see.' Five minutes later, on his way out, his umbrella went straight through my window."

Arjun laughed. "Your librarian is a disaster."

But Hana's hunch was growing stronger. Each accident was small, strange and easy to remember. Together they marked a long, circuitous path through the city, always moving towards the Lake Gardens.

It was a trail, left discreetly, one small anomaly at a time, for anyone tenacious enough to keep following it.

"Arjun," Hana said. "I don't think the thief is leaving these clues. I think Mr Brown is."