I’m getting closer, though. It was easier to put her worries to one side when the truth about her mother—and the Red Wolf—felt like it was just around the corner.

“Here, what’s that?”

They had reached one of the little country lanes and on the corner of a turn there was, standing half hidden in a bush, a strange figure of twisted metal. Heather and Nikki wandered over for a closer look.

“I didn’t expect to see something like this up here. I mean, wandering down Peckham Road, you’re falling over stuff like this, but here?”

It was about five feet tall, and made of graceful twists of silver and copper-colored metal. The figure stood with its hands held out in front of it, each curving finger like a melting knife.

“Look, there’s a sign.” Nikki reached out and tapped the palm of the left hand: there was a small metal tag there, letters neatly pressed into it. She read it out loud. “The Shifting Man, a work by Harry Bozen-Smith. Commissions accepted. Follow the signs to my studio.”

Heather straightened up and looked down the turning. The road there was narrower, the bare trees crowding in on either side, but she could already see the next “sign”—another figure of metal, this one with its arms raised and body bent, like a ballerina stretching.

“Let’s go and have a look.”

They wandered down the narrow lane, spotting another three figures made from metal before they found another turn off. This one led straight into a field, the grass snipped down to make a tidy path, and in the middle of it was a caravan and a shed. The shed doors were open wide, and it was possible to see a jumble of machinery and tools, half-finished statues and what appeared to be a very elderly car in the midst of being reduced to its parts. The caravan was old, too, but clean and shiny, with a neat sign on the side: Harry Bozen-Smith, Artist.

“Hello?” Heather called, and after a moment a man emerged from the shed, wearing a pair of dungarees streaked with oil and paint, and a black t-shirt. He was rubbing his hands on a rag, and as he emerged into the daylight, Heather glanced quickly at Nikki, catching her raised eyebrow.

Harry Bozen-Smith was unreasonably attractive. He had untidy dark hair, a carefully trimmed beard, and large brown eyes framed by a pair of thick expressive eyebrows. His arms, as he moved to throw the rag into a bucket, were firmly muscled, although not excessively so. Seeing them both, he smiled—a dreamy Disney prince sort of smile.

“Holy shit,” muttered Nikki.

“Are we in a jeans advert?” muttered Heather back.

“Hello!” He walked down to meet them. He was wearing a battered pair of Dr Marten boots, and had a tattoo that circled the top of his bicep, almost hidden under his t-shirt. “Can I help? Have you come to buy something? You’d make my day.”