We’re not getting anywhere. So it’s time for me to do something I’ve been putting off. Something a bit scary.’

‘You know,’ said Quill, ‘Ross called five minutes ago, and she said almost exactly the same thing.’

Chapter Nine

NINE

It was Sunday morning. Sefton stood at the familiar bus stop in Kensington. Nobody else waited there. The streets were quiet, still calm, despite that now omnipresent smell of smoke. You could actually hear the birdsong. The occasional jogger or dog walker passed him.

He heard the bus approaching. He looked down the road and concentrated … and yes, now he knew what he was looking for, there it was: the number 7 bus, to Russell Square, as indicated by the display on the front. This wasn’t a modern bus. It was a very old one. As Sefton knew from terrifying experience, you needed the Sight to see it, let alone board it.

He put his hand out. He tensed up as the bus slowed down. He could see nothing behind its dark windows. It stopped, and he got onto the rear platform. Brutus had said that each time he had to find a new, more dangerous way of coming to see him, but surely if he made it again through what had been an overwhelming passage, at least he’d get a hearing. He braced himself to encounter what was in this darkness, taking a step forwards as the bus accelerated away from the stop at—

He turned. This was different. They were travelling incredibly fast.

A force that he could not have argued with thrust every inch of his body at once towards the door.

He had time to yell and—

The bus vanished. He hit the road. There had been a moment in his head of knowing he was going to. That moment was the worst thing of all.

He bounced. He rolled. He missed the wheels of a car that swung suddenly out of his way. His body hit the kerb and he yelled.

He lay there, taking big, slow breaths. He was okay, but only because something had made sure he was okay. It wouldn’t do so next time. That had been a warning.

Brutus had meant what he said. He’d been stupid enough to try it anyway. It would need something new. It would need something worse.

*   *   *

The middle-aged Asian woman who answered the door of what had been Ross’ family home in Bermondsey was the same one as the first time Ross had come here. That had been months ago, during the Losley case. The woman seemed to recognize her, but then looked suspiciously at Costain beside her.

‘I’m afraid we need another look upstairs,’ she said. ‘Police business. Nothing you need to worry about, but we’d really appreciate it. My colleague is a detective sergeant.’

Costain showed her his warrant card.