‘Dildo got stabbed.’

‘I know. But he’s going to be OK, so. . .’ A shrug. ‘You going to read more Witchfire to me? ’

‘Can’t.’ Logan stuck his feet up on the bed. ‘Got a meeting with Professional Standards.’ He checked his watch. ‘Started . . . ooh, just over an hour ago.’

Silence. Then Samantha folded her arms across her chest. Never a good sign. ‘We need to talk.’

Here we go. ‘Can’t we just—’

‘It’s about time you got your finger out and got the flat refurbished. They finished the roof two years ago. You’re lucky the architect’s still speaking to you.’

‘I just haven’t had time, and—’

‘I’m not going to be in here forever. Might be nice to have a home to go to. Don’t get me wrong – I love my caravan – but. . . It’s too close to the road, and it’s a really busy roundabout. We’ll need somewhere safer for Cthulhu to live.’

Brilliant: first Jackie, now Samantha. He was not stuck like a bug in amber. ‘It’s not—’

‘Logan, it’s been two years: finger-out time.’

He slumped further down into the chair. ‘OK, OK, I’ll see what I can— Sodding hell.’

Steel’s theme tune sounded deep inside his jacket pocket. No prizes for guessing what she wanted. He dragged the thing out, fumbled it, and the mobile went clattering to the floor, spinning under the bed. Darth Vader’s theme tune got louder.

‘God’s sake!’ Logan wriggled out of the seat and peered under the bed. Bloody thing. . . He got down on his knees, and reached for it. The floor was cool to the touch, the smell of bleach and pine-scented disinfectant strong enough to make him blink. ‘Come on you little sod. . .’

His fingers wrapped around the thing, just as the music died.

Samantha’s head popped over the opposite edge of the bed, upside down, long scarlet hair sticking up like she’d been electrocuted. ‘What does Her Wrinkliness want? ’

He glanced back. ‘She hung up. Probably wants a rant about me skipping out on Napier and his Professional Standards whinge. . .’ Logan stared.

‘What? ’ A hand appeared, brushed across her cheek. ‘Have I got something on my face? ’

There, hanging from the network of hydraulic rods and metal struts under the bed, was a knot of three small bones, held together with bright-red ribbon. The same shade as Samantha’s hair.

Agnes Garfield’s calling card.

She’d been there, in Samantha’s room.

‘Bastards. . .’ He stood.

Samantha frowned at him. ‘What? ’

‘Useless bloody halfwit bastards. . .’ He wrenched open the door, and stuck his head out into the corridor. ‘GET YOUR ARSE IN HERE NOW!’

Back to the room.

She was lying face down on the bed, dangling over the edge, peering underneath. ‘What? What’s going on? ’

‘Supposed to be keeping you safe!’