‘My team are a bit perplexed,’ said Lofthouse, sitting down.

‘What about?’ asked Rita, a look of mock innocence on her face.

‘They wonder why Jack the Ripper so conveniently committed suicide, having written such a specific note, incredibly, if accurately, incriminating the late Russell Vincent.’

‘Oh, I saw that in the papers,’ said Sue. ‘Very neat, I thought.’

‘It does give Londoners the feeling that things are back under control,’ said Rita.

‘Let’s say that the still-unidentified corpse wasn’t really Jack the Ripper. Hypothetically,’ said Lofthouse. ‘Where would someone get such a corpse?’

‘I would imagine, said Sue, ‘assuming whoever did this had the interests of the great British public in mind, it would have been ethically sourced.’

Lofthouse considered all the ways in which an organization with the Security Service’s resources could find and doctor a fresh corpse and decided that she was willing to believe her. But still she was angry. ‘You worked out early on that Russell Vincent had something to do with the Ripper—’

‘The list of victims was indicative,’ said Rita.

‘—and you let my team get mangled as they tried to figure out what.’

‘We picked right,’ said Sue. ‘They did a great job.’

‘They even, though we’re still not sure how, arranged for Vincent to be hoist by his own petard,’ said Rita, ‘fatally.’

‘They’re not pleased about that,’ said Lofthouse, amazed. ‘But you are, aren’t you? You’re happy he ended up dead.’

‘Russell Vincent,’ said Sue, reaching for her knife to butter a piece of bread, ‘was somehow learning other people’s innermost secrets.’ She grinned hugely at Lofthouse and dropped her voice to a stage whisper. ‘Only we’re allowed to do that.’

*   *   *

Lofthouse took a taxi home. At least now she had something to tell Quill’s team. She wished she could tell them everything. She looked to the key on her charm bracelet. There were times when she wanted to throw the damn thing out of the window. But the consequences of that were too terrible to think about.

*   *   *

Gaiman looked down at London at night as the aircraft he was in banked to begin its climb westwards over the Atlantic. He hadn’t known Quill was going to come back, had been surprised to hear, from the same friends that were now also suddenly alive and well, that the policeman was too. He was glad. He had stayed in hiding, got out of Britain when it felt safe to do so. He didn’t want to face any more questions. He believed he had managed to do as much good as anyone could, in circumstances which few people understood.

But, he thought, as London vanished under the clouds below, that’s what they all say.

*   *   *

Quill lay in bed with Sarah. She’d been looking at his new body parts, pink and tender. He’d told her everything, though he knew she’d be horrified. Everything, that is, apart from one thing – that sign he’d seen on entering Hell. That would make too much of a difference to her life, to everyone.