“One with the humans,” he answered. “It is difficult to remain hidden on the vodyanoi, who usually wear no clothes in the water.” Rudgutter nodded.

The two men were silent, pondering.

“We’ve tried working from the inside,” said Rudgutter eventually. “This is far the most serious strike to threaten the city for . . . over a century. Much as I’m loath to, it seems we may have to make an example . . .” Rescue nodded solemnly.

One of the speaking tubes on the mayor’s desk thumped. He raised his eyebrows as he unplugged it.

“Davinia?” he answered. His voice was a masterpiece of insinuation. In one word he told his secretary that he was surprised to have her interrupt him against his instructions, but that his trust in her was great, and he was quite sure she had an excellent reason for disobeying, which she had better tell him immediately.

The hollow, echoing voice from the tube barked out tiny little sounds.

“Well!” exclaimed the mayor mildly. “Of course, of course.” He replugged the tube and eyed Rescue. “What timing,” he said. “It’s the home secretary.”

The enormous doors opened briefly and slightly, and the home secretary entered, nodding in greeting.

“Eliza,” said Rudgutter. “Please join us.” He gesticulated at a chair by Rescue’s.

Eliza Stem-Fulcher strode over to the desk. It was impossible to tell her age. Her face was virtually unlined, its strong features suggesting that she was probably somewhere in her thirties. Her hair, though, was white, with only the faintest peppering of dark strands to suggest that it had once been another colour. She wore a dark civilian trouser suit, cleverly chosen in cut and colour to be strongly suggestive of a militia uniform. She drew gently on a long-stemmed white clay pipe, the bowl at least a foot and a half from her mouth. Her tobacco was spiced.

“Mayor. Deputy.” She sat and pulled a folder from under her arm. “Forgive me interrupting unannounced, Mayor Rudgutter, but I thought you should see this immediately. You too, Rescue. I’m glad you’re here. It looks as if we may have . . . something of a crisis on our hands.”

“We were saying much the same thing, Eliza,” said the mayor. “We’re talking about the dock strike?”

Stem-Fulcher glanced up at him as she drew some papers from the folder.

“No, Mr. Mayor. Something altogether different.” Her voice was resonant and hard.

She threw a crime report onto the desk. Rudgutter put it sideways between himself and Rescue, and both twisted their heads to read it together. After a minute Rudgutter looked up.

“Two people in some sort of coma. Odd circumstances. I presume you are showing me more than this?”