Which left him with Harper, the devil forgive him. Fancy him making arrangements with that sanctimonious old cow after all these years. It was against his religion, no question. But there he was at the end of the day. When he’d balanced all, she was his safest bet. He could evade Iago if he had to. Been doing it on and off for years, hadn’t he? Master of shrouding himself in darkness, that’s what he was. Enough safe houses to become an estate agent and all the powers of Hell on his side.

But Harper. Now she had connections. She seemed to be able to find him wherever he was. Turn up right in front of him like Hecate herself, she did. And she’d set the Yard on him too. She’d said so. At the kitchen doorway, he shivered again, grumbled again: “Too old.” Too old for prison, that was for bloody sure.

He switched on the kitchen light. The fluorescents crackled, flickered on. The old warlock blinked against the sudden brightness. The linoleum tiles felt cold against his bare soles.

This was why he’d always favored this house: the kitchen. A nice big one. Nice big larder behind the door to his left. Nice big fridge, lots of worktop space round the basin. Dr. Mormo liked to cook. It relaxed him. And he could do with a bit of relaxation just now.

He opened the fridge and stuck his head in. American-made—you could practically walk right into it if you had a mind. It was comforting just to hear the hum of it. The place was too quiet, almost creepy here all by himself.

He gathered up the onions, tomatoes, scallions, prosciutto. Brought the whole armload to the worktop and laid it out beside the cutting board.

He rummaged through the cutlery drawer, removed a formidable cook’s knife. Lifted it, held it expertly to the light to make sure it was clean. It was plenty clean. The stainless steel was gleaming.

Iago’s grinning face was reflected on the blade.

Mormo saw it, let out a weak mewl of terror. The knife fell from his slack fingers as he spun to face the open larder door. He felt his legs turning to water, his bowels turning to water. He felt the front of his corduroys going hot and damp.

The shiny knife fell down and down to the floor, turning and turning in the air as it fell. The reflected wedge of that cruel, leering countenance flashed on the blade, disappeared, and flashed again as the knife spun.

The thud of the steel on the linoleum was very loud in the silent house.

3

“I won’t do it!”