Amala, now armed with an image of Mardell, was talking to the previous victims’ colleagues and loved ones, finding out if their prime suspect had been observed making face-to-face contact with any of those who had since become statistics. So far, the staff at Streatham Motors were a negative.

Of course, it was still unclear whether the members of Millennial Dawn were guilty of anything more than holding slightly outlandish beliefs, and practising pre-enlightenment rituals. And unless some fairly serious proof to the contrary came in the next four hours, the whole gang was back on the street.

They were already playing with the limits of reasonable detention, having held six people since the previous night on suspicion of kidnapping, especially now the alleged victim of that crime had confessed her complicity. And yet, if Hawkins managed to establish that any of her detainees had even potential involvement in the previous deaths, she could apply for a lawful extension, to keep them all locked up while she completed her investigation. Having so many potential perpetrators neutralized was a definite plus, allowing her team to concentrate on the remaining loose end of Mardell.

But four hours wasn’t long.

Prior to visiting the chief superintendent, and having sent Amala after the earlier section of the deceased roll-call, Hawkins had decided her own priority would be Glenn Baker. Hence her return to Cavendish Square. She had already spoken to Joseph White, the head of Baker’s paranormal group, of course, but she also had other things she wanted to ask the founder about.

She had tried White’s mobile on her way to see Vaughn, but her attempt had gone unanswered, so she had decided to pay an unannounced return visit to his office.

If White wasn’t here, she’d grill his staff instead.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a weighty clunk from the far side of the large black door, which swung open to reveal the same face as two days ago.

‘Hi.’ Hawkins raised her voice above the rattle of traffic out on the square. ‘DCI Hawkins. Metropolitan Police. I was here the day before yesterday. Is Mr White available?’

She waited, feeling herself being studied by the almost colourless eyes staring out at her from the semi-darkness of the lobby. She was about to repeat herself when the reply came.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Actually, no.’ Hawkins held up her warrant card. ‘But I’m sure he’ll appreciate the update I’m here to provide.’

An expression skimmed the surface of the gatekeeper’s countenance, in which Hawkins thought she might have detected a hint of intrigue. Then he stepped back, nodding gently, waving her in.

She walked into the airy hallway. ‘Tom, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ The young man shut the door and turned towards her. ‘Please wait here.’