It wasn’t every man, he thought now, feeling the strength of his fifty-four-year-old body as he paced the room, who got to enjoy this almost Roman sensation of absolute power. The Herald had the best coverage of what had happened tonight – that’s what they’d say tomorrow morning. He’d actually done what so many other newspaper owners had failed to do, and through the use of multiple anonymous accounts and by taking advantage of the nature of London, had actually imposed his own meaning on Twitter.

He had played the police, even those special ones who knew a bit about this stuff, at their own game, and he had won. If Mary Arthur dared show her face again, next time he’d just get some bloke to hire some other bloke to put a bullet through her head, then use the Ripper to get rid of both blokes.

Then the Ripper could take a holiday. For a while. When the Coalition disintegrated tonight, and his friends from a different sort of politics stepped forward with their plan to crack down, the Ripper would vanish in the light of their golden dawn. It could always appear again if some new nightmare was required to scare the plebs.

Maybe it was time to stop luxuriating and move on to the next name on the list. He slid his finger down the list on his iPad … oh, that comedy actor who’d made a fuss about invasion of privacy and long lenses and got an out-of-court settlement back in the day. Well, he was about to get a lesson in just how much power he’d poked at.

Vincent sat again in the comfortable chair at his desk and prepared to make the gestures that would activate the scrying glass and connect his mind with the entity he called upon for the power to create the Ripper. He clicked the joints of his fingers and licked his lips, willing himself to do once again what was necessary.

There came a knock at the door.

Vincent stopped.

He’d said he wasn’t to be disturbed. His PA knew that. So something must have happened that was truly extraordinary for her to go against his wishes, for her not even to send an email or call him. He went to the door and opened it.

He gasped at who was standing there, but before he could call for help or slam the door closed—

The man had marched into the room, his hands grabbing the lapels of Vincent’s suit, his strength turning him and slamming him against the wall.

‘Yeah, you slag,’ said James Quill. ‘I’m back from the dead. And I haven’t had any dinner.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

TWENTY-SIX

TWO NIGHTS AGO