‘Are you going to interview Tunstall again?’ asked Lofthouse.

‘I’ll get that sorted for tomorrow,’ said Quill. ‘And this time we’ll all be bad cop.’

*   *   *

Sefton and Ross found the hotel that Gaiman’s agent had given them the address for. It was a simple three storeys, Victorian from the look of it, in the Seven Dials area, with the intersection of streets of that name visible from the door. Ross asked at the desk, and they were shown up to an ornate library, where armchairs were positioned in the sunshine and a breeze blew through the open windows. Nobody else was about. Sefton felt an ache in his legs as he sat down. He felt only half here, wanting to get on with finding the numinous in the world, but not knowing how. The Ripper, or rather his message, was exposing fault lines across London, and the bolder the rioters and rival groups of protestors became, the less the police seemed to be able to do to prevent them. His dreams made him feel as if he was being rifled through, and he woke with an urgent need to do something about all this. Still, he supposed, they were about to talk with someone who, according to Quill, might know more about occult London than they did. Background was always useful. But if Gaiman knew anything of direct relevance to the case, he’d be surprised.

‘Hullo.’ So this must be Gaiman, entering the room with a guarded expression on his face. He was all in black: a good-looking man, a long face, a lot of emotion around the eyes. Now he’d stopped and was looking startled at them. ‘You two are police officers?’

Sefton showed him his warrant card, and, as they all tended to do now, omitted to add that Ross technically wasn’t an officer.

‘I saw you both in the Goat.’ Gaiman motioned for them to sit down at a table by the window, and he followed. ‘Were you there undercover?’

‘That would be an operational matter,’ said Ross. She seemed burdened today, nervous about something. On the way over, she’d hardly replied to Sefton’s attempts to start a conversation.

Gaiman frowned at them for another moment, then seemed to decide on a more friendly course of action and extended his hand. ‘Neil.’ They introduced themselves in turn. ‘Thank you for blowing up my favourite bar.’

‘Sorry,’ said Sefton, ‘not deliberate.’

‘No, I think actually it was a mercy killing. You and your boss didn’t see the place at its best.’

‘Our boss?’ said Ross, raising an eyebrow.

‘The one who looked a bit lost there, stayed behind to help and looked like something out of The Sweeney.’

‘Our boss,’ Ross conceded.

‘He’s not an undercover,’ sighed Sefton.