The door in the wall was smaller than the others, about half the height. When Charlie tried the handle, they found it locked.

‘Maybe it’s just a cupboard or . . .’

Georgie never finished. She jumped as Charlie took aim and kicked the door at its weakest point. The latch splintered as if it was made of balsa wood and the door swung open revealing a set of stairs descending into the gloom.

‘You could have warned me before you did that,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

Georgie stared – she couldn’t see anything beyond the first three or four steps, the rest was consumed by blackness. A feeling of unease at the darkness below clawed at her chest. The air wafted through, carrying with it a strange smell. An odour that made Georgie’s stomach clench.

‘I can’t go down there,’ she whispered. She was nauseous but whether it was the smell or the dark, she wasn’t sure. Probably both. The room was spinning, the door drifting in and out of focus. She was vaguely aware that Charlie had activated the torch on his phone. Intense light showed that the stairwell turned at a right angle ten or more steps down.

‘Stay here,’ he instructed. She nodded, knowing that she couldn’t have done anything other than stand rooted to the spot even if her life depended on it. The smell . . . I’ve smelt that somewhere before . . .

She watched as Charlie took the stairs one at a time. The light of his torch probed further and further downwards. If this house is alive, then here is the giant’s throat.

A minute passed in which Georgie felt as though she was going to be sick.

Then Charlie emerged and her head was flooded with relief just to see him, but it was short-lived. He looked spooked, pale and restless.

‘Let’s go outside,’ he said. ‘I need to make a phone call.’

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Tiff Rowlinson sat back in the green leather armchair he had been offered and surveyed his three interviewees carefully. They all looked like rabbits caught in the headlights, although the woman was marginally more composed. He got a bad vibe from the leader, Tomas Jansen. He sat unnaturally upright and maintained too much eye contact. They would tell you at the NPIA – the National Policing Improvement Agency – that these were classic signs of a liar, although Priest would have said that was a pack of shit. We’re all liars, he would say, just some of us are better than others.

He was damn right, at least on that point.

‘Tell me about Simeon Ali,’ he said to no one in particular. He was interested to see if Jansen would act as spokesman.

‘What do you want to know?’ asked the Dane, right on cue.