Lockhart interrupts: “But if she’s on a disused gas platform in the North Sea—”

“That’s what helicopters are for.” The Auditor looks at him. “We need to clear the stage for the next act of this little drama, so that the reluctant star can be tempted into the floodlights to deliver his soliloquy.

“See to it.”

• • •

THERE IS A BOOTH AT THE BACK OF THE TURK’S HEAD AND I plant Andy and Pete in it before I go to the bar to retrieve two pints of Adnams, a Diet Coke, and a bowl of olives. Having done my duty as honorary barmaid, I amble around the public rooms, sliding my way between knots of chattering post-work imbibers and idly patrolling past the various other booths and the former smoking room and lounge. The new and thoroughly tested ward I wear on a thong under my tee shirt stays cold and inert, which is good. This one isn’t only sensitive to sympathetic entanglement and glamours, it’s also supposed to pick up most electronic proxies for human malice. Sweeping for bugs in a public space like this is a fool’s errand in the age of the cellphone (all of which, by definition, contain sensitive microphones and radio transmitters), but I can be reasonably certain that nobody in here means to do me harm.

By the time I get back to the booth, Pete is a couple of centimeters down his Diet Coke and Andy is looking at me curiously. “Is this what I think it is?” he asks, tapping his e-cig on the table.

“Could be.” I slide into my seat. “I found the photographic negative of a smoking gun. Trouble is, an absence isn’t proof positive. Even if it’s a highly suggestive absence. How about you?”

“I got nothing.” Andy pauses. “Was it inside?” He glances sidelong at Pete, who is focussing on his glass but clearly paying quiet attention.

I address my next words to Pete. “If you think something’s smelly in the house, you talk about it outside. And vice versa. What Andy is asking is, do we have an internal problem. You may have noticed me walking around earlier. I was checking for listeners. Didn’t find any, by the way.” I look at Andy. “We had a very thorough monitoring program running for a very long time indeed. But it seems to have been de-prioritized in the late sixties, and cut off in ’69.”

“Oh, really?” Andy taps his cigarette again. The blue LED in the tip flickers on briefly: he fumbles with it for a moment, hunting the on/off switch, then gives up and takes a furtive hit, shielding it inside his cupped hand like an old lag. “Who do we know who’s been with the organization since 1969? Or earlier?”

“It’s not Angleton,” I say dismissively. Angleton may be unaging and extremely scary but he’s not a vampire: I’ve seen him in daylight. Besides, I probably know more about the Eater of Souls than anyone else in the Laundry. Certainly enough to rule him out as a suspect.