Sefton finished his coffee. He was inside the usual pub, in his usual place, sitting looking towards the window but far enough back from it that he wouldn’t be seen by anyone looking back from his target. He’d started to come here a few weeks ago and had previously treated this part of his duties reasonably casually. Now, though, he’d been asked to begin to make use of the progress he’d made in getting a look at people involved in London’s occult community. So today was going to be a bit different and he was now in the mental space he associated with being undercover, lightly wearing a role which could basically be described as ‘definitely not a policeman’. He’d always come here on Thursdays because that was the day when more of the particular sort of people he was interested in – the people who could make a little use of what his team called ‘the London shit’ to do impossible things, the people Losley had called Privileged – tended to go into the particular shop on Greek Street, across the road from the pub. In fact, there was one of them now, a bloke whom Sefton now knew well enough by sight to be able to follow him in a crowd: white male; early twenties; around six foot one; slim build; neatly trimmed beard; always wore a waistcoat and tie; a bit tweedy. Student, most likely. Straight. Whether or not everyone who made use of the power of London also had the Sight was an open question, one which Sefton had made a lot of notes about in his special notebooks. More certain was the fact that neither those who had the Sight nor those who knew how to use the power necessarily stood out as being important to someone Sighted. The team hadn’t been able to follow Losley just by feeling her presence. From his own studies, and this was something he was planning to share with the team soon, he suspected that he knew of at least one way in which those who understood how to use this stuff went into stealth mode.