They arrived at the skyscraper offices of a company that Quill would never have associated with Vincent. Costain used more muscle than the threat of the law to march them past the front desk. Quill got into an elevator as security guards rushed in with urgent questions, and the last thing he saw as the doors closed was Costain holding them at bay with his warrant card, starting to bellow at them. His part of this plan would keep him down there.

Quill wanted to do this alone.

NOW

‘How did you know?’ asked Russell Vincent.

‘Because I’ve just come from Hell. Where, as part of my continuing investigation, I interviewed witnesses.’ Quill didn’t want to say that his team had come to the same conclusion before him. Vincent wouldn’t know anything of what they’d been up to since the night before the raid on the Keel shop that Costain had described to him. Quill wanted to keep what they might be up to now well away from Vincent’s thoughts.

‘So the Bridge of Spikes worked.’ He was staring at Quill as if he was a fascinating lab specimen. ‘I assume that’s how you did this? Damn. Maybe I could have got my hands on it.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ said Quill.

‘I thought it was still at a very well-defended property, and I was hoping to give my people a lot more occult knowledge before I sent them to have another go.’

‘Occult knowledge gained from us?’

‘Absolutely.’

Quill looked over from where he was still holding Vincent against the wall. There, on the desk, was the scrying glass – the real thing, blood red. It was small, quite insignificant looking, but the Sight gave it great weight. It was the centrepiece of a lavish private office decked out like something from the Fifties, all green leather and polished wood, but with enormous picture windows that, given what was outside, gave the place the feel of a palace that was looking down onto the many plumes of smoke of a besieged city.

There was something else in here too. The Sight indicated an enormous, mocking presence, with a feel to it that Quill found familiar. He couldn’t pin down exactly where it was. As soon as he looked in one direction, it flitted out of the corner of his eye. He recognized it, though. The Smiling Man was watching them, letting Quill know he was here, but doubtless keeping his presence a secret from Vincent. ‘Do you see that?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ said Quill. He flung Vincent to the carpet, and before the man could do anything, marched over to the desk, grabbed the scrying glass and smashed it against the corner of a table, again and again. The glass didn’t shatter. It didn’t even break.