She smiled. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? ’ She flipped Witchfire over in her hands and frowned at the back for a bit. Then cleared her throat.

‘“Belief can get you killed.

Forbes St John is one of the most powerful and feared men in England: leader of the Holy Inquisition, fourth in line to the throne. So what’s he doing lying on his back in a condemned council estate in central Scotland, with his chest ripped open and his heart torn out?

It’s 1999, two and a half centuries since a captured Charles III was beheaded in Edinburgh, bringing an end to the Act of Union. As Scotland’s ruling body – the Kirk – prepares to celebrate the 250th anniversary of Headsman’s Day, the last thing it needs is a diplomatic war with its militant Catholic neighbour.

Rowan Knox, one of the Kirk’s elite Fingermen, will have to catch St John’s killer without anyone finding out he’s been murdered. But that might be the least of her problems. Talk of dark magic, demons, and witches is rife in the inner cities, children are disappearing, and the police are powerless to help.

The darkness is gathering, and Rowan is the only one standing in its way. And if she doesn’t move fast, it’ll tear her to shreds.”’

Samantha shrugged. ‘Sounds OK.’ She tossed it into his lap. ‘Read to me.’

‘Do I look like Jackanory? ’

‘But I’m bored.’

‘Then you read it.’

She crossed her arms, thumped back into the pillows. ‘Thought the whole point of getting the book was you finding out what Agnes Garfield was up to? ’

Sodding hell. ‘Fine.’ He picked the thing up. ‘Acknowledgements. Writing any book is a labour of love, and—’

‘Don’t be a prat, no one reads that bit. Start at the beginning.’

He flipped forward a couple of pages.

‘And do the voices.’

So this was what it was like to have small children.

He took another sip of Stella. ‘Chapter one.

“The old woman’s hands left bloody smears across the cloth as she smiled from the kitchen door. The whole place stank of meat and lavender and cats, of rendered fat and fear and rubbing liniment.

She dropped the cloth on the coffee table, amongst the jars and bottles. ‘Now, are you sure he doesn’t want an anaesthetic, dear? It’s—’”’

‘You’re not doing the voices!’

It was going to be a long night.

Logan eased back into the room with a mug of tea from the nurses’ station in one hand and a couple of pilfered custard creams in the other. He settled into his seat. ‘Quarter past ten, and it’s like Night of the Living Dead out there. All oldies shuffling about in their slippers wanting to eat people’s brains.’ He dunked a custard cream then sooked off the rind of mushy biscuit. ‘Where were we? ’