Seaward didn’t sound happy. ‘Who is this? Do you work for Abbott?’

Ben knew that if he told Seaward at this stage that Abbott was dead, he would clam up and call the police, and it would be impossible to get any more out of him. It was easier just to lie. ‘I represent Mr Abbott’s interests, yes.’

‘Well then, please tell your employer what I thought my associate had already explained to him, that our agency is most definitely not interested in witches, demons, hobgoblins, bloodsuckers or lycanthropes or anything else he might have cooked up in his fevered imagination, and that he should look elsewhere for literary representation. I hope I’m making myself clear. Goodbye, and please do not call this number again.’

Ben said, ‘Wait—’ But Seaward had already slammed down the phone.

‘That was a good start,’ Wolf said.

‘He’ll deliver what we want. If I have to put a gun to his head.’

Wolf shrugged. ‘That might work. Be fun to watch, even if it doesn’t.’

It was pushing three in the afternoon by the time they parked the Alpina in Leonard Street, found the address and walked inside the fine Victorian building. A sign in the entrance lobby gave a listing of the various firms whose offices occupied its four floors. The agency was on the uppermost floor, at the top of a winding, creaky stairway. Ben pushed through a doorway and into an old-world reception area with potted plants and stacks of books everywhere, a large desk and a closed office door to each side. The door on the right had a plaque with the name R. SEAWARD and the one on the left said A. LAVERACK. Behind the desk sat a plump woman in her late forties with silvering hair primly tied in a bun. She was tapping on a computer and looked up with a smile as Ben stepped into the reception area, Wolf right behind him.

Ben smiled back. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she said cheerily. Ben noticed the little gold crucifix hanging from a slender chain around her neck. ‘I’m Georgie Seaward, the administrator. Did you have an appointment, Mr—?’

‘My name’s Paul Harris,’ Ben said. ‘This is my associate, Mr Cullen. We’ve come to see Mr Laverack.’

‘It would have been better to call first,’ she said, still smiling. ‘But I’ll see what I can do to help. Are you two gentlemen co-authors making a submission?’

‘No, we’re here regarding a book manuscript called “The Pandemonium Club”.’

Ben thought he saw a tightening in her expression at the mention of the name. But before she could reply, the left-hand office door swung open and a tall, thin man appeared. He was wearing a sleeveless cardigan over an open-necked shirt and held a coffee mug. Ben said, ‘Mr Laverack?’

‘I’m Andrew Laverack.’