Logan stepped through into the Department of Various Things, leaving them nipping at each other in the corridor. The props department was about the size of a school assembly room, laid out with racks and racks of costumes in neatly ordered rows on one side, and modular shelving units on the other, laden with various bits and pieces. Everything from standard lamps to swords, bibles to handguns, all marked with little cardboard tags.

He picked a Glock 9mm from the collection. Hauled back the slide, then clacked it back into place.

A voice at his shoulder: ‘Good, aren’t they? ’

Logan turned. ‘You just leave these lying around? ’

A little woman with big glasses smiled back at him, small fleshy lumps speckling her dimpled cheeks. She was wearing a T-shirt with ‘BECAUSE PROP MISTRESS SAYS SO, THAT’S WHY!’ on it. ‘They’re using them this afternoon for three-seventy-one, if they get that far. Need a good clean first, checked for blockages – I’m not having a Brandon Lee on my watch, thank you very much. Otherwise they’re kept in the safe, with the ammunition and the firing pins.’

She dug into a shoulder bag and produced an iPad in an identical red leather cover to Excitable Jack, the film’s go-to guy. ‘The tags are all barcoded, they’re scanned when the guns are signed out and when they’re signed back in again.’ She held the pad up and pressed something. A click, then a bleep. She turned the screen to face Logan. It was a spreadsheet with names, dates, times, and scene numbers. ‘We’re very, very strict about it.’

‘So you’ve got a list of everything that’s gone missing? ’

That produced a small grimace. ‘Don’t get me started. I know this place looks like a junkshop, but every single thing in here has been handpicked for a set or a scene. And anything we couldn’t buy we’ve made, so replacing this stuff isn’t just a case of nipping down to Asda with a shopping list. When we started out we were way too trusting: cloaks, hats, props, daggers, medals. . . You name it, someone would nick it.’

She wandered over to another set of shelves, this one full of red leather notebooks. The bottom three shelves looked brand new, but the ones on the fourth were in varying stages of wear and tear. ‘These are always the favourites. You wouldn’t believe how many Dittay books we’ve had to make.’ She picked one up and handed it to him. ‘Started off tooling the designs on the leather by hand, but so many went missing we had to get a die made. Everyone wants a souvenir.’

Logan ran a finger over the intricate pattern of curlicues and swirls set into the cover. It was identical to the one he’d found in Agnes Garfield’s bedroom under the stairs. ‘Dittay books? ’