“It’s of a German type,” shouted Nightingale. “But judging from the components it was manufactured quite recently. I’m going to attempt to disarm it, so Peter, I’d like you to stand by just in case.”

I shouted that I was ready.

The vestigium that came before the blast was exactly like the sensation you get when cresting the highest rise on a roller coaster, the moment of terror and excitement before the plunge. And then a confused jumble of sensations, the feel of velvet on my cheek, the stink of formaldehyde, and a sudden panting surge of sexual desire.

Then the physical blast wave hit us, a rolling wall of overpressure that was like having someone slap me in the ears from behind and made me and everyone stagger backward. I heard the Somali ninja girl say something short and Coptic and someone else behind me wanted to know what the fuck that was.

“Demon trap,” I said trying to sound knowledgeable and just in time for all the floodlights to blow out simultaneously. Suddenly in the dark Larry the Lark’s cabinet lit up with a gay sparkle of small colored bulbs, the bladders filled with air, and he opened his mouth and shouted—“At last!” And with a choking rattle the bladders of air emptied themselves for the last time. Then silence and then a clonk as Larry’s jaw fell off his face and hit the base of the cabinet.

I fumbled in the dark for my torch, turned it on, and quickly got it trained on the foyer. Other beams of light stabbed out of the darkness. Everyone else was as keen as I was to make sure that whatever came back through the foyer was somebody we knew.

The rope was slack in my hands.

“Inspector,” I called. “Are you okay?”

The rope went taut suddenly and I had to brace not to be pulled over.

“I’m quite all right,” said Nightingale. “Thank you for asking.”

I coiled up the rope as he returned. His face was pale in the torchlight. I asked him if he was all right again, but he just gave me a strange grimace as if remembering some serious pain. Then he unclipped the rope and went over to talk to the head forensics guy. Whatever he said, the forensics guy wasn’t happy. When Nightingale had finished, the man called over two of the younger-looking techs and told them something in a low voice.

One of the techs, a young man with Trotsky specs and an emo fringe, protested. But his boss shut him down and sent him and his mate packing up the stairs.

Nightingale came over and asked the Somali ninja girl to run upstairs and tell Stephanopoulis that the building was secure, but that we hadn’t found any suspects.

“A demon trap?” I asked.