She clutches the BLT to her breast and ducks, slipping to the side and away. Glances back at the end of the chiller cabinet to watch it sniffing the sacrificial offerings.

Right, past the little forests in the little pots. Then more plastic statues, these ones wearing dresses and cardigans.

Exit. Exit. EXIT.

A hand on her shoulder makes her squeal.

She spins around, and a puzzled face stares back at her: skin like midnight, hair like dark curly wool.

‘Sorry, miss, but I think you forgot to pay for that.’

Rowan looks down at the sandwich. The paper container is crushed against her chest, the shards of dead pig sticking out between the bread, like blades. Then back up at that kind face with the beautiful eyes and the halo of gold. ‘Someone’s following me.’

The angel in the security guard’s uniform looks over his shoulder. ‘What does he look like? ’

‘A man, with jeans and a leather jacket and his hair all over the place. . .’ She points back towards the food section. It’s a lie, but the truth would only hurt him, the beasts are too powerful. Rowan digs in her pocket and comes out with a crisp five-pound note, presses it into the angel’s hand. ‘Please, don’t let him know I was here.’

The angel nods, then turns towards the tills. ‘I’ll get your change.’

And as soon as he’s two steps away she’s out the door, running.

Logan pushed through the double doors into the cutting room. The little speakers mounted to the tiny stereo unit were droning out Jim Morrison’s tone-deaf call for an infant to set fire to him. Not exactly appropriate.

Dr Graham was perched on a stool, hunkered over the cutting table at the far end of the room, fiddling with what looked like a box filled with blue rubbery lumps. A skull sat on a white plastic tray beside her, next to a pile of books opened to display thick blocks of graphs, figures, and tables.

Logan turned the music down. ‘All on your own? ’

Dr Graham looked up at him. ‘Miss Dalrymple let me in. Hope that’s OK? Wanted to get cracking.’

She took a Stanley knife down one corner of the box and peeled off the cardboard like the skin of an orange, exposing the blue rubbery flesh below. ‘Moment of truth. . .’ Dr Graham dug her fingers into the blue stuff and pulled – ripping it away to reveal a yellowy-white skull. Then held it up and scrubbed at it with the palm of her hand. ‘Perfect.’

‘This our victim? ’