‘Yes.’

‘He did all right, I thought. Bloody good, actually.’

‘Sure.’

Latimer hesitated. ‘It’ll be great, having him back.’

Hobbes stayed silent. There was too much on his mind, too many loose ends still, not least the Nicholas Graves case. But he knew the death of Adeline tied it all together.

‘I’ve arranged for the team to start at nine tomorrow. On the dot. Is that good?’

He nodded.

DC Fairfax came out of the building. He was walking with two other officers, both of them laughing at one of his jokes. Latimer took charge of him, offering a smile. They all walked away. Hobbes was alone. He stayed where he was for a moment, until the cold got too much, then went back inside and took the lift up to the bullpen. His desk was littered with papers. Tomorrow, after the search, he’d make a start on—

‘Sir. I’m glad I’ve caught you.’ It was PC Barlow. ‘I thought you might have left by now.’

‘No, lad, still here.’

‘I have that report for you.’

‘Report?’

‘About the plant, the fungus, I mean.’

‘Oh, right.’ Hobbes had forgotten about it. He took a cardboard folder from the constable and looked inside at the few sheets of paper it contained.

‘It’s fascinating, sir, actually.’

‘Is it?’

‘I’ve found out that fungi aren’t plants.’

‘That a fact?’

‘They don’t use photosynthesis. That’s the transformation of light—’

‘I know what it is.’

Barlow nodded, taking it in his stride. ‘Anyway, this particular specimen is new to urban areas. Usually, it’s found in the countryside. It’s a saprophyte.’

‘Elucidate, would you? I’ve had a hell of a day.’

‘I will, sir. It’s a species that takes its energy from decomposing organic matter, plant or, as in this particular case, flesh.’

‘It feeds off it?’

‘It does. Off decaying flesh.’

Hobbes skimmed through the report, noting the use of fancy words and Latin phrases. Then he asked, ‘What’s this bit? “Use as a drug.”’

Barlow was enthusiastic. ‘It’s a psychoactive. People have started to use it, just this last year or so, mainly because it’s still legal. It’s very powerful, but it’s not been classified, not yet. It gives the user very specific visions. On the street, it’s known as musk.’

Barlow went on his way. Hobbes sat down and tried to write down his thoughts on the Camilla Greene interview, but soon got lost in the words. The page was a blur. His hands shook. A sudden pain had started in his head, and he felt tired beyond measure. He stood up and collected his things. He bought a Mars Bar from the machine in the corridor, and went out to his car. The sugar helped. And the city, of course, as he drove along: this beloved place, the streets, the people making their own way home. Some, a few, were criminals, but most were good people, law-abiding citizens, just going about their business.

It was half past seven by the time he got home. His journey to Margate and Jack Collingworth seemed like a distant memory. Yet the flickers of imagery from The Spell Makers remained strong, and became mixed with Camilla’s testimony in his mind: brother and sister. Somewhere between the two stories, where they mingled, the truth existed. But Hobbes doubted he would ever find it, not completely, not in all its details.