There was a pause. But it wasn’t really surprising. Laura had mentioned something, hadn’t she? The Order of Marshals keeps track. I could count them on my fingers. If your entire organisation had grown up over centuries for no other purpose than to battle demons, any sensible set of risk assessments ought to include ‘and here are the individuals whom we know have the capacity to perform higher-level demon summoning.’

This man was most likely Laura’s boss’s boss’s boss. Magical security for multiple counties, including a city the size of London, was not a small job.

“How can I help you, Chief Ramamurthy?” she asked.

“Our team hasn’t found any sign of an arcane array in the area yet,” Ramamurthy said. “Perhaps you have some idea why.”

“There won’t be one,” said Walden. “That was a wild incursion, not a summoning. Pure chance and bad luck—a random magical weakness in the area, and an opportunistic push by whatever demons happened to be close by.”

“Except that this is the second incursion crisis that you’ve found yourself mixed up with in the last two months, Dr Walden,” said Chief Ramamurthy. “That’s very bad luck.”

There was a chilly little silence.

“I’m not sure I understand you,” said Walden icily at last. She understood him perfectly.

“It’s late and it’s a cold night,” said Chief Ramamurthy. “And I’m very sorry to spoil your evening,” with a nod that took in the stupid black dress. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation in the near future. Here’s my card. I’d like to have a friendly chat about all this soon. Tomorrow, or over the weekend.”

“I may forget,” said Walden, taking the card without looking at it. “It’s a busy time of year.”

“Then the Order of Marshals will be in touch, Doctor—”

“It’s Arjun, isn’t it?” said another voice. Walden looked up sharply. So did Chief Ramamurthy. “Nice to see you, old chap, it’s been a while. Can I have a word?” The tone was plummier than usual for Mark, in a way that was plainly intentional, all Oxbridge and Whitehall, connected, knowing. His friendly smile and bluff, manly handshake were not received with notable pleasure by Chief Ramamurthy. But he still stood up to accept the handshake; and now Mark was on Walden’s side of the table, giving her a hand up, a brief warm squeeze around the shoulder. Mark was a cool, manipulative bastard, and Ramamurthy obviously knew it, and knew him; knew him, despised him, and thought he couldn’t afford to offend him.

And where exactly had he been for the last forty minutes?

Walden couldn’t see Mark’s face, only his back in the casual blazer he’d been wearing under the winter overcoat. For the first time in some weeks, she thought: Who are you, Mark Daubery?