I had learned a lot at the teahouse. It was only now I realised how little we had known about each other.

‘Try to sense Anne,’ he said to me.

This must be a test of my ability. I concentrated on my sixth sense, the way Jaxon had taught me.

‘She’s close,’ I whispered.

‘Yes.’

Slowly, I sat back in my seat and tried to look casual – but something had been bothering me all day, and after our conversation, I found I had the confidence to voice it.

‘Why here?’ I said. Nick glanced at me. ‘Why did Anne come to Farringdon?’

‘Nobody knows that. Poltergeists usually return to places that are significant to them, but in Anne’s case she might have deliberately chosen somewhere unrelated, so that Metyard would never think to look there. So … it could be random.’

‘Right. It could be random,’ I said. ‘And if it has no connection to her, surely Metyard wouldn’t think to come here.’

He turned a page, but I could tell I had his full attention. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking Metyard might not come here at all. She’s been dead for hundreds of years – why would she know Anne was here?’

Nick’s brow knitted. ‘I see. We all assumed this would be the obvious place, but … maybe not. Say you’re right, and given that we have no other leads – what do you propose?’

I mulled it over.

‘We could drive Anne from her haunt. Set her off, the way Didion’s binder set Metyard off,’ I said. ‘That might get Metyard’s attention – the prospect of a chase.’

‘That would be a big risk. Creating another rogue poltergeist to catch the first one.’

‘From what Ognena Maria said, Anne isn’t dangerous – but Metyard is. We need to catch her, today.’

An approving glance slid in my direction. ‘You’re a quick thinker, Paige.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It could be worth a try. I’ll need to call Maria and okay it with her, though.’

He discarded the newspaper and headed back to the stairs, taking them three at a time. I followed.

We stepped back into the autumn chill and lingered near the entrance to the station as Nick dialled. Twilight had fallen over London; ice-blue streetlamps were pulsing to life. He was lifting the phone to his ear when someone stopped in front of us.

‘Hello, Red Vision.’

I tensed.

The owner of the unctuous voice had dark, chin-length hair that hung like strings from beneath a bowler hat. Two small eyes – round and black, like a shark’s – sat in a gaunt face. Even his mouth had a whiff of shark about it. A gold pocket watch was in his hand.