There’d been nothing she could do, except get herself killed: Bert would have understood that. But she’d liked the old sod; he’d been quiet and steady, with that sarky sense of humour that always appealed to Ellie. They hadn’t been close, but he’d been there. Solid. Part of the furniture, even the architecture. And now he was gone. The bastards had taken him and she’d done nothing to prevent it.

Well, what was that old saying? Don’t mourn, organise. Where’d she heard that? Noel, it might have been – it was a quote from an American union activist, framed and murdered by the cops. Funny choice of inspiration for a British bobby either way. But it fitted. There was stuff to do. And she had people to convince.

She’d been driving almost on autopilot, turning back onto Blackfield Grove, then Hollybeck Row. The Audi’s headlights caught the crowd still gathered outside the surgery. Christ, hadn’t they fucked off yet?

She parked on Hollybeck Row, realising too late that the crowd were between her and the surgery and swarming towards the car. Thelma Graham’s perm was bobbing above the crowd as if they were bearing her severed head as a trophy. I should be so lucky.

She thought of restarting the car and reversing back into the alley, but it was already too late; the crowd had already encircled the Audi. No way to manoeuvre it without the risk of hitting someone. She had to stay calm. Above all else, she must remember that. She had to convince people. Persuade.

Convince and persuade them they’re surrounded by monsters? Good luck with that.

A fist rapped on the driver’s window. Thelma, no doubt: Ellie could hear her shouting, but the words were blurred and unclear; ironic, considering how the sounds from Annable Farm had been so horribly, nightmarishly distinct.

Fuck it. She unlocked the door, put her hand on her baton – just in case – and got out.

“Here she is,” said Thelma. “Finally come out of hiding, Ellie Cheetham?”

Ellie mustn’t be drawn. She had to take charge. There was a danger to the public. But her thoughts were a horde of cats, resisting order. “All right. Now everybody listen –”

“Where’s my husband?” Thelma’s voice was ragged with grief, her eyes red, and just then Ellie could only pity her. “What did you do with him?”

“Sergeant Graham is missing,” said Ellie, with all the authority she could muster, “and I’m sorry, Thelma, but we’ve got to assume the worst. I’ve reason to believe it’s the work of the same individuals responsible for the –” Attacks? Disappearance? Murders? She mustn’t hesitate, should have rehearsed this properly before speaking “– incidents at –”

“Stop lying!” shouted Thelma. “You were getting drunk in the pub when –”