Two figures walked towards the middle of the round floor. One was wearing a black robe speckled with gold embroidery, his bald patch surrounded by thick grey hair that cascaded down to the middle of his back. The other was . . . stunning: long ginger curls, elfin face, little upturned nose, and a perfect bow of a mouth. Nichole Fyfe. Much more impressive in the flesh than she was on the TV yesterday morning. A dark scar jagged down through her pale skin, starting at her left temple, across her big blue eye, and all the way down her cheek, separating the freckles. Black jeans, black leather frock coat, red silk shirt, black leather gloves. A long-handled old-fashioned pipe jutted out between her teeth – just like the one he’d found in Agnes Garfield’s Harry Potter hideaway – puffing smoke signals out in the studio lights.

A camera dolly followed them along the track – its operator sitting on the round stool mounted to the metal framework, fiddling with knobs and buttons, while someone else pushed the thing back into place.

A voice crackled out through speakers, hidden somewhere on the set. ‘OK, that was great, but this time, Nichole, can you break in across Charles’s line about the bodies all bearing the devil’s mark? You’re not interested in his superstitious nonsense.’

Jack pulled a face, then jerked his head towards a cluster of monitors and cables. ‘Oops, better be quick.’ He hurried over, beckoning Logan and Steel after him.

Enthroned on a folding director’s chair, at the heart of the nest of cables, was a huge man – tall and wide, with a bizarre hairstyle that looked as if he’d attached a lopsided shark’s fin to his head then sprayed it scarlet. The goatee beard was an unnatural shade of Just-For-Men black. His thin rectangular glasses glinted in the reflected light of a little TV screen. ‘OK, everyone, we’re running scene three-sixty-two. . .’

‘Excuse me, Zander, sir, you’ve got visitors.’

The big man didn’t look up from the monitor. ‘I’ve told you, Jack, you don’t have to call me “sir”. We’re all artists here. . . Aaaaaaaaaand: action!’

The whole place went silent.

Then a voice crackled through the speakers. ‘Three-sixty-two, take four.’ Followed by a clack.

Nichole Fyfe looked up at the man in the robes. ‘She has to be stopped.’

A sigh. ‘I understand your concerns, but she’s a good finder. One of the best we have.’

‘She’s a psychopath! A monster!’ Nichole’s blue eyes blazed. ‘She’s worse than the people we’re hunting.’

Steel tugged at Logan’s sleeve, then warm stale cigarette breath whispered in his ear. ‘Is the shagging going to start soon? Only I’m no’ looking forward to the old git getting his knob out. Even if he manages to get it up, it’ll be all grey and wrinkly.’

‘You have to understand: we have an obligation to uphold the peace.’