‘Brutus!’ I called. ‘Come here, you bugger, and show me how to catnap again.’

He padded into the room and jumped onto the coffee table. That was strange – he normally ignored me when I shouted.

‘Problem.’ His whiskers quivered.

‘Problem with what?’

‘Problem.’

Honestly, he was more trouble than he was worth sometimes. ‘If you’re not going to elaborate…’

He lifted his head and stared at a high point on the wall behind me. Either I was being haunted or there was a spider. Brutus hates spiders.

‘Problem.’

‘You’re not going to let it go, are you?’ I pulled myself upright. ‘There’s nothing there, Brutus. Not even a cobweb. And behind the wall there’s nothing because that’s Eve’s flat.’ Then I froze. Brutus looked at me as if to suggest that I was incredibly dim-witted but I was finally beginning to understand. ‘Is it Harold?’ I demanded. Damn it, Eve would be devastated if anything happened to him while she was away.

Brutus started to wash his face. I grimaced and swung to my feet. That was clearly all I was going to get out of him; I’d have to see what was wrong for myself.

I pressed my ear against the wall. There was a dull thud from the other side. Someone was definitely in there; the question was who.

If Eve weren’t a witch, with her own specially pre-prepared magical wards (considered vital for anyone in the Order, even though they’re nothing more than a drain of energy and useless against non-magical invasions), I’d simply have cast a rune or two to work out who was in her flat. I wouldn’t have even had to open my front door. Alas, I knew my magic couldn’t penetrate her spells. I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Cursing under my breath, I went into my Spare Room of Doom, so-called because it has become a dumping ground for everything I don’t need and now resembles a hell cave filled with mini-mountains of un-ironed clothes, random boxes and goodness-only-knows-what. Maybe, I thought hopefully, by the time I’d found what I needed, Eve’s visitor would have already vanished.

Poking underneath a pile of wrinkled blankets, I found my old canister of pepper spray, purchased for me by a well-meaning friend who’d been concerned that working as a taxi driver was an open invitation to be raped and dismembered, not necessarily in that order. Nah. I tossed it to one side in favour of a slightly smelly navy anorak and battered baseball cap. Then, at the last minute, I spotted an old ID badge from my short-lived, post-Order stint as a receptionist at a large pharmaceutical company. I grabbed it and pinned it to my chest, using a scarf to obscure most of the lettering. Once I was satisfied, I picked up the nearest cardboard box and headed out, whistling.

I ambled down the corridor, pausing when I reached Eve’s door. The low murmur of voices reached my ears: there was more than one would-be burglar. That didn’t bode well. Shifting the box in my arms, I raised my hand and knocked.