Mo heads towards an anonymous industrial estate in the suburbs out near Croydon, where some of the more technical departments have relocated while Service House is being rebuilt. She travels by tube and then commuter train, and finally by bus, keeping one hand on her violin case at all times. It takes her an hour and a half to make the journey: strap-hanging in grim silence, alone with her worries about the evidence she removed from Mr. Dower's workshop. She travels under the gaze of cameras; cameras on the tube platforms, cameras in the railway station concourses, cameras on the buses. Many of them are linked to the SCORPION STARE network, part of the huge surveillance web the government is spinning to keep the nation safe in the final days. But the final days may be about to arrive with a bang, two or three years earlier than anticipated . . .

She walks the hundred meters to the car park entrance, then enters an anonymous-looking office reception area in an otherwise windowless building. A plain signboard on the high razor-wire-topped fence outside proclaims it the property of Invicta Security Ltd., and the portrait of a slavering German shepherd beneath the sign promises a warm welcome to would-be burglars. Both signs are, of course, lying: the building currently houses most of the Occult Forensics Department, and there's no easy way to visually depict the protean, gelatinous horrors that ooze around the premises by night.

"Hello, Invicta—" The blue-suiter behind the counter pauses. "Dr. O'Brien. Can I see your pass, please?"

Mo presents her warrant card. "Hi, Dave. Is Dr. Williams in?"

"I think so." Dave pokes at his computer terminal. "Yes, he's booked in. Do you need to see him?"

"I've got a job on. Can you page him?"

"I'll do that." Dave points a webcam on a stalk at her, then prints off a temporary badge. "Here, wear this. It's valid for zones one and two, you know the drill."

"Yes." Mo doesn't smile. Whereas the New Annexe mostly deals with paper (apart from the armory), the OFD handles physically—and in some cases spiritually—hazardous materials. Access to the inner zones is restricted for good reason.

While Dave pages Dr. Williams, Mo plants herself on one of the powder-blue waiting area seat-things, and idly pages through some of the magazines on the occasional table: Forensic Sciences Digest, Gunshot Wounds Monthly, Which? PCR. Her attention is a million kilometers away from the articles, but they serve as a distraction for her eyes. She has one of the magazines open at a color spread of spent bullets retrieved from victims of crime when a shadow falls across her. "Mo! What brings you out here?"

She looks up, forcing a smile. "Nick? Are you busy? Can we discuss this in your office?"