A ghost story. “A Little Place off the Edgware Road” was the name of a ghost story. A fine one, in fact, by Graham Greene. It was included, with “Black Annie,” in the collection from which Storm had read. It was this, no doubt, that had brought the particular phrase into Iago’s mind when he was speaking of his inspiration.

Harper spent the next several hours in the basement of the London Library. Paging slowly through the bound volumes of newspapers twenty years old. She knew now what she was looking for. She suspected, at least, what she was going to find. But she couldn’t afford to rely too much on coincidence. To make a mistake now would be to lose what little time she had. She had to make certain she was right before she proceeded. So she went on, page after slow page.

Outside, the short winter’s day edged on towards evening. Within, the fluorescents shone their misty bluish light down on the tall shelves, the long wooden tables. It shone down on Harper’s bowed head, on her short, dull gray hair. On the stick propped against her chair, and on the hat set beside the open volume.

Her eyes scanned the newspaper columns slowly. And when, finally, she came upon the advertisement she wanted, she had a feeling inside her like a long, slow sigh. She wasn’t yet sure how this was going to help her. But the confirmation of her suspicions was encouraging. It indicated, at least, that Iago was like everyone else in one respect: whenever he spoke, he gave away much more than he intended.

The phrase that formed the ghost story’s title had no doubt come into his head unbidden as he thought back on the revelatory event. There was no reason it should have stuck with Harper, no reason she should have worried at it. But now, as she sat alone in the windowless basement under the fluorescents’ grainy glare, she understood why she had.

Because the little place off the Edgware Road was, in the Greene story, a cinema. Iago had been in a cinema twenty years ago when he’d had the revelation that started him down the story trail. And the newspaper advert before her was for the Odeon Cinema, on Church Street, just off the Edgware Road. The advert told her what, all this time, she had really known. That the inspiration that had led Iago to “Black Annie”—and the other stories and the monk’s confession at last—had been a film.

One day, twenty years ago, Jacob Hope had gone to see Spectre. Written, produced and directed by Richard Storm.

9