‘Most of us go back to before you lot could stand upright. He’s just a kid, relatively speaking. But he’s made himself very powerful, very quickly.’

‘I always sort of thought he was, you know, the Devil.’

The Rat King burst out into a staccato laugh that became a wheezing cough. ‘Oh, no, dear me, no – the delusions of a child.’ He threw an arm theatrically around Sefton’s shoulders. ‘Everyone you’ve met or heard about during this case has had good and bad sides to them, correct? That’s one thing that’s getting in the way of your search for meaning: that these days everything’s got a bit mixed up. Anything seems to be able to mean anything; all the signifiers have been thrown into a barrel and are being picked out at random and assigned to just about anything, and the choice of what means what, as always, seems to be down to those with money and power. You despair about making accurate judgements about anyone. Well, I’m here to tell you, boy, it was always thus. And that doubt of yours is the first sign of wisdom. I liked it when you pondered, on the dance floor, the loveliness of Barry Keel, not that I myself share that opinion. That doubt of yours must be why Brutus picked you.’

‘He “picked” me?’ Even though it had surprised him to hear it said, Sefton sort of knew it to be true

‘My point is that what you call the Smiling Man isn’t “a force for evil”. He’s a bloke who’s not real, like me, with his own aims and plans and maybe even a good side.’ The Rat King considered for a moment. ‘Maybe. I don’t know if the shape he’s made in lets him have one.’

‘The shape he’s made in?’

‘By you lot. Don’t look so startled. You people make all of us. And that’s all you’re going to get about him. I’ve already said more than I’m allowed. But the shape I’m made in allows me always to do more than I’m allowed.’ He sniggered at his own cleverness. ‘Oh dear, since you have walked this path and unfortunately found only me, I am obliged to offer help. What would you like for Christmas? No, wrong holiday.’ He started to look in the pile of rubbish, throwing aside items which ranged from things that looked rotten to things that looked like precious jewels. ‘This is the rubbish of London,’ he said. ‘It all descends to my level. Ah, here we are.’ He pulled out a water-stained police notebook, which Sefton saw was one of the ‘special’ notebooks Quill had set aside for the work of his team that a judge might find unbelievable.

Then he realized. It was Quill’s own notebook.