I finished the caution and led him to one of the waiting cars. We didn’t bother to handcuff him, which surprised Agent Reynolds. Kittredge told her it was Metropolitan Police policy to avoid handcuffing suspects unless physical restraint is necessary – thus avoiding the risk of chafing, positional asphyxiation and injury sustained by falling over your own feet and smacking your face into the pavement. It was most assuredly not because I’d forgotten to pick up my handcuffs.

We sat him down in the interview room, set him up with some plain digestives and a cup of tea, let him settle for five minutes, and then I went in. Seawoll reckoned we had about half an hour before his brief arrived – so no pressure.

I introduced myself, sat down and asked him if he needed anything.

His face was pale and drawn and his hair was damp with sweat but his eyes were blue and alert behind his spectacles.

‘Did I ask for my lawyer?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure I still have all sorts of human rights.’

I indicated that he had, and that we expected his solicitor along any minute.

‘But in the meantime,’ I said, ‘I thought we’d have a chat about the things that probably won’t make it into court.’

‘Such as what, exactly?’ he asked. Obviously he was regaining his balance. I couldn’t be having that.

‘The Quiet People,’ I said and he looked genuinely blank, which was a worry. ‘Dark glasses, pale skin, live in the sewers, keep pigs and make pots. Any of this ringing a bell?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You mean the Whisperers.’

‘Is that what you call them?’ I asked, and thought that what we needed was some bloody agreement about nomenclature. An EU directive perhaps, looking to harmonize the terminology appropriate to the uncanny on a Europe-wide basis. Maybe not – it would probably end up all being in French.

‘Did you not notice all the whispering?’ he asked.

‘And the groping,’ I said.

He gave me a half smile. ‘That was more in the way of a perk,’ he said.

‘You don’t seem very surprised that we’re talking about it,’ I said.

‘A race of people living under West London like Morlocks,’ he said. ‘Your actual Victorian submerged nation complete with flat caps and steam engines. I’m Irish so I’m not really that surprised to find that the British security apparatus extends even there.’

‘You would be if you bloody worked for it,’ I said.

He smiled thinly.

‘If you know about the Whisperers,’ he said. ‘What exactly is it you want from me?’

‘You understand that no matter what, you’re going to get done for the murder of James Gallagher,’ I said.