‘Aims one to three … achieved, just about. The “Summer of Blood” is over. Everyone’s lapping up Mary Arthur’s story and this new revelation about the Ripper, fictional though it is. Vincent’s rival media barons have seized on it.’ The riots were dying down, and every party in this exhausted general election campaign was falling over itself to say it would negotiate with the police. Gaiman’s guess that the mood of London had been linked to solving the Ripper murders seemed to have been correct.

‘Where did that fake Ripper corpse come from?’ asked Sefton.

‘Lofthouse says she’s asked for a meeting with those she feels are responsible and will report back. It’s done some good for London, anyway. I don’t know if that wheel you and I saw on our adventures is turning the right way again now—’

‘It’s not.’ Sefton anticipated Quill’s question and shook his head. ‘I just know.’

Quill looked back to the list. ‘Aim five … I’d like us to go after Gaiman, but he seems to have vanished. Besides, since the man he successfully conspired to murder – that is, me – is now alive again, and because of the difficulties we’d have in walking a jury through that, I’m tempted to say let’s wait until he pops up again, then lean on him as a source rather than arrest him. And aim six … was achieved. But…’

‘But look at us,’ said Costain.

There was silence. Sefton looked again at the faces of his friends who’d betrayed and been betrayed and exhausted themselves and grieved and been to Hell, and remembered his own taking of a life and his own sacrifice. They had been pummelled by their experiences. They were so changed, once again almost strangers to each other. He didn’t see how they could continue to function as a team. Even Quill, who’d been trying to jolly them along with procedure, couldn’t seem to find the words to continue.

‘There is hope,’ said Ross. They all turned to look at her. She wasn’t looking back at them. She didn’t want to look at Costain at all, Sefton got the feeling. Her voice had sounded very small, very calm. ‘The Tarot of London,’ she said, ‘when that fortuneteller consulted it for me at the New Age fair during the Losley case, she said that the Hanged Man, who was my dad…’ She had to stop for a moment. ‘He was supposed to bring hope for us in summer—’

‘He did,’ said Quill, ‘during that case, and it was where he normally was in Hell that made me think of getting to a higher vantage point.’

‘—but,’ she said, ‘he’s meant to bring hope in autumn too.’ She shrugged, slowly. ‘So there’s that.’

Sefton wanted to go over there and hold her. But the shape of her shoulders said she really didn’t want to be held.

*   *   *