She recognized several faces from the crowd that had been at the Goat and Compasses. Judging by the startled looks among those people, they were recognized in return. They had something to do with the death of Barry Keel. There were none of the wannabes here from the top floors of the pub; they were amid the serious people now. Among the crowd, though, were a scattered handful who looked a bit different: smart people in business suits finding quieter corners to talk on their phones. Ross glanced to Costain, who shook his head, neither of them had any idea what that different demographic was about. Ross felt a few attempts to ‘read her bar code’ and used Sefton’s blanket technique to foil them. They died down after a few moments. If only Ross could read bar codes herself.

Ross saw that people were starting to look at the fob watches they’d pulled from their ancient pockets, and that a crowd was forming in front of a low wooden stage. In its normal life, this place must be some sort of lecture space used by school groups and the like. There was no sign of any chairs, so the crowd stood, or in some cases just sat on the ground, presumably ready to haul themselves up when an auction item they were interested in was announced. Ross and Costain got as far forward as they could, to a place where they could see the stage.

A door at the back of the stage opened, and without any ceremony, into the room walked an elegant elderly woman with long silver hair, dressed in a grey ball gown that was actually covered in cobwebs. Ross could see a couple of spiders on it; one of them was moving.

‘Madams and Messiers!’ the lady called. Her accent was pretend posh, not even an attempt at French, a music hall barker, playacting ‘above her station’. The crowd applauded. ‘Welcome once again to this high point of the Seen season, the place to be Seen, our quarterly quantifying of quality, your refreshment on the way to your revels, a palimpsest of prognostication, prestidigitation and parsimony!’ The crowd went ‘ooh’ at every long word. The host leaned closer to someone in the front row, and put her hand to her mouth in a stage whisper. ‘It’s the stuff of London, on the cheap, dear!’ Then she straightened up again. ‘The truce is in place, so mind your fucking manners. I am your ’ost, Miss Haversham with an “er” as well as an aitch, not Havisham like that berk Dickens ’ad it.’

Ross heard the crowd chanting along with that bit, a mantra they’d obviously heard many times before.

‘I can tell you good people are itching to begin. Bit hot out there, innit? Bernie the Bitch, distribute the catalogues!’