Nicky smelled of Old Spice over other, more astringent chemicals, and the dark patches within his death-white pallor were more noticeable than they usually are. He was five years dead and doing pretty well, all things considered, but the loss of Imelda Probert’s professional services had hit him hard. Before Asmodeus killed her, the Ice-Maker was a faith healer for the dead: by a laying on of hands, she claimed to be able to lower a zombie’s core temperature and slow the processes of decay. Sounded like bullshit to me, when I first heard about it, but Nicky used her regularly and Nicky was unliving proof that whatever she did actually worked. Now though, he’d been thrown back on his own resources.

Nicky makes sure that the Walthamstow Gaumont, the long-disused and recently renovated cinema he’s made his home, is as cold as an Eskimo’s sock drawer; and he flushes his system with ferociously potent chemical cocktails every few days, effectively pickling his flesh to keep it from going bad. But from the look of things, he was facing some kind of a crisis on the preservation front. I decided the tactful thing was to avoid mentioning it, and since I’d walked in on him in the middle of setting up a late-night triple bill, another subject was ready to hand.

‘You’re slipping, Nicky,’ I said. ‘I can actually see a link between those three movies.’

‘So?’ Nicky was even more pugnacious than usual. Something was eating him, so to speak, but if it was my complicity in Imelda’s death, I wasn’t feeling up to that conversation just yet. I felt - for about the twentieth time that day - an overwhelming, almost crippling desire to get rat-arse drunk. Nicky had one of the best wine cellars in London, but he limited himself to inhaling the breath of the wine: the perfect companion for a boozy voyage into oblivion, in that he stayed sober and could be the designated driver on the return journey. But it was a joyride I couldn’t afford right then.

‘So, normally when you go for a triple bill it’s, like, they all had Filboyd Studge as key grip or something. It’s nice to see you go for something as obvious as conspiracy thrillers.’

‘Meta-conspiracy thrillers,’ Nicky said, clipping the film reel onto the projector’s massive horizontal spindle. We were up in the projection room, which was so cold that my breath wasn’t just visible, it hung in the air like a thickening fog and refused to dissipate. Nicky ignored the cold. He didn’t exactly enjoy it, but it didn’t bother him, whereas bright sunshine made him duck and run for cover. If you’re serious about the zombie lifestyle, you have to become as narcissistic as a professional bodybuilder. You’re sailing into eternity in a leaky boat, so it helps to have an obsessive nature. Nicky was born and bred for the gig.

‘Meta-conspiracy thrillers,’ I repeated, deadpan, inviting him to hit me with the punchline.

‘They’re all movies where the conspiracy is part of a bigger conspiracy,’ he said. ‘Where you think you’ve worked it out, but all you did was tear away the first layer of wallpaper. Like those dreams where you wake up sweating but, hey, you’re still asleep and it’s just another dream.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I get it. Is that how you see the world, Nicky?’

‘That’s how the world is, Castor. You just didn’t figure out yet who’s dreaming you. Maybe it’s Jenna-Jane Mulbridge, because the psycho-bitch-queen certainly seems to have a soft spot in her heart for you.’

I grunted non-commitally. That wound was still a little raw. But Nicky seemed happy to stick with the subject.

‘So what did you tell her?’ he demanded. ‘Did you use adjectives? Gestures? I want a slow-motion action replay.’

‘I just walked out,’ I said, which was the truth. I hadn’t trusted myself to answer Jenna-Jane without going for her throat, which would have brought her pet Nazis down on me in all their goose-stepping fury. So I just turned round and headed for the door, walking past Gil McClennan, whose face as he stared at me was full of contemptuous amusement. J-J let me go without a word. At least when demons try to steal your soul they snarl and slaver and make a show out of it.

Nicky was looking disappointed. He was clearly hoping for something more in the way of dramatic byplay. To forestall any further questions I held up my phone, which was displaying the chunk of grey stone I’d found in Pen’s front garden, with the red pentagram flaring on its upper face. Nicky squinted at it for a second, then waved it away. ‘My eyes don’t resolve down that far,’ he said. ‘You got anything bigger?’

‘I’ve just got this,’ I said. ‘Can’t you scale it up?’

Nicky returned his attention to the film, which he was threading through the projector’s complex series of spools and rollers. ‘Probably,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Send it on to my phone. I’ll see what I can do.’

While he was still working on the film, I composed a message with the photo as an attachment and forwarded it to Nicky’s mobile. It took a long time, because I’m far from slick with technology, but finally his phone buzzed and he reached into his back pocket to turn it off. Then I had to wait until he threw the mains power switch and turned on the projector to let it warm up. He leaves that to the last moment for reasons already given: warm isn’t good in Nicky’s world.

He didn’t bother to look at the display on his own phone, because the screen-size problem would still apply; he just relayed it on to one of his computers by means of some wireless skullduggery and opened it there.

‘Summoning,’ he said at once, seemingly without even reading the words in the ward.

‘How do you know?’ I demanded. I was supposed to be the practising exorcist here, so it pissed me off a little that Nicky was able to lecture me on my own craft. But then I’d never been big on the grimoire tradition, which boasts a common-sense-to-bullshit ratio somewhere in the region of one to a thousand.

‘Disposition of the runes between the inner and outer circles,’ Nicky rattled off absently. ‘Presence of outwardly radiating fan lines in the five negative spaces defined by the five arms of the pentangle. Use of aleph sigils to stand in for candles, as in the Gottenburg ritual.’

‘Okay,’ I said, giving up the point. ‘It’s a summoning. What’s being summoned?’

‘Not sure,’ Nicky admitted. ‘Let me check.’

He tapped at the keyboard, opening up some more files. At least one was a table of Aramaic letters. Another seemed to be a set of scanned pages from a very old book - probably one of the bat-shit grimoires aforementioned. As Nicky browsed and muttered to himself, I went to the window at the front of the projection booth, leaned on its sill and stared down into the auditorium below. It was silent and empty: most of the time Nicky plays his movies for an audience of one.

Not completely empty though. A single figure sat in the exact centre of the front row, barely visible as a silhouette against the diffused light bouncing back off the screen. Someone was watching the opening credits of The Usual Suspects, silent and motionless.

‘Tlullik,’ Nicky said from behind me. ‘Or maybe Tlallik. It depends whether this diacritical mark here is meant to have a curve or an angle.’

‘So who’s Tlullik?’

Nicky looked round at me and gave an expansive shrug. ‘Never heard of him,’ he said. ‘Her. It. Them. Probably a demon, judging from the name, but it can’t be a big one or else I’d have come across it elsewhere. The major heavies leave big footprints.’

‘Nicky, this was painted on a rock shoved under Pen’s rhododendrons,’ I told him. ‘I thought she’d put it there herself, but she doesn’t mess with necromancy. You think Asmodeus could be trying to get at her in some way?’

Nicky nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘A guy wants to drive you crazy, he can summon a minor Hell-spawn to crawl inside your head and fuck you over. It’s becoming kind of a fashion statement in gangster circles - if you don’t pack demon heat these days, you’re nobody.

‘But if Asmodeus is behind this, he’s using two very different MOs. He ran Ginny Parris through with the sharp end of a broken chair leg, according to the police report. There’s kind of a mismatch between that and hiding in the bushes with a permanent marker.’

He was right, of course. But if not Asmodeus, then who? If it was aimed at me rather than Pen, it could be almost anyone. There’s no shortage of people sufficiently pissed off with me to traffic with Hell if it would give me some grief. ‘Can you find out what this Tlullik is?’ I asked Nicky.

‘I can try,’ he said. ‘Are we done now?’

‘One more thing.’

Nicky rolled his eyes, conveying how much faith he had in the number ‘one’ in that sentence.

‘Could you find out if Rafi Ditko has any living family or friends, besides the ones I know from Oxford?’

‘That’s a pretty open-ended search, Castor. What’s it worth?’

‘At the moment,’ I admitted, ‘more than I can pay. But I know a man who knows a woman who knows a goatherd in the Yemen who can get me a line on a 1940s Lester Young jam session.’

Nicky feels about early jazz the way heroin addicts feel about heroin, but he did his best to look unimpressed. He huffed out air, which he had to inhale specially for the purpose. ‘Jam tomorrow . . .’ he said sardonically.

‘The jam’s seventy years old,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s not going to spoil in a day. It’s an interesting item, I heard. On lacquer, with some kind of note from Shad Collins scribbled on the sleeve.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Castor.’

‘All I can ask for, Nicky.’

‘Is it?’ Nicky examined his thumbnail, rubbing at the cuticle with the little finger of his other hand. ‘You surprise me. I was sort of expecting you to say, “How do you get a demon out of a close friend?” Something of that nature.’

The slight smirk that marred his studiously casual expression made me want to walk out without asking the question. Well, that and the fact that we’d been down this road a hundred times when Rafi was at the Stanger without finding a damn thing that would stick. But even when hope doesn’t triumph over experience, it can still make you go through the motions.

‘Are you onto something, Nicky?’ I asked him.

‘Something,’ he admitted. ‘I’m still trying to put it together. Ask me about it next time you come over.’

I was about to leave, but I had to pass the window on the way to the door and I looked down into the auditorium again. The silhouette was still there; it didn’t seem to have moved at all. There was something very familiar about it.

‘Nicky,’ I said. ‘Your guest . . .’

I turned to look at him. He was wearing the expression of a man who had been waiting for the penny to drop for a long, long time, and was both surprised and saddened at how long it had taken.

‘She’s been waiting for you for three hours,’ he said. ‘And she’s in a shit-awful mood. If I were you I wouldn’t make her come up and get me.’

At first I thought that Nicky had exaggerated. She didn’t look angry or agitated; in fact she was preternaturally still, like one of Antony Gormley’s iron men who’d wandered in off the street for a breather.

But as I opened my mouth to speak her name, she turned to look at me, and her eyes shone in the dark with a red light, self-luminous like the eyes of a cat.

‘Castor,’ she said. Her voice was a bass chord that started sympathetic vibrations in my guts and loins.

‘Hey,’ I said lightly, dropping into a seat three along from her. That meant I could look at the screen instead of those eyes. It wasn’t that glowing red eyes were unusual accoutrements for a demon; it was just that Juliet had never had them before, and they scared the living shit out of me. ‘Rosebud was his sledge.’

Juliet didn’t get the joke, and didn’t bother to ask me to explain it. I felt a wash of psychosomatic heat spill across my cheek. She was still staring at me through the intervening dark, which hid me from her about as effectively as a throw rug hides a rhinoceros.

‘You talked to Sue,’ she said, in the same low, burry voice.

‘Yeah.’ I nodded. ‘She’s . . . worried about you. So am I. Is there something I should know?’

‘You should know not to talk to her behind my back,’ Juliet growled.

That made me turn to meet her gaze again. ‘Behind your back?’ I said. ‘Juliet, you hurt her. You hurt her and you terrified her. You think it’s wrong that she should want to talk about that?’

Juliet stood, so I did too. It wasn’t that I had any more of a chance against her on my feet than I did sitting down, but that old fight or flight reflex dies hard. Looking at her grim face, I wondered if I was about to do the same.

‘What’s mine is mine, Castor,’ Juliet said. ‘You know what I can do to you, so I’m telling you to leave her alone.’

Oh man. We were really on slippery ground now. But I’ve never let that stop me from trying to tap-dance. ‘Juliet,’ I said, ‘she doesn’t belong to you. We talked about this way back in the day, when the two of you were . . .’ I hesitated. ‘Going out together’ is the default phrase, but the way I remembered it, Juliet and Sue spent most of the first month of their relationship indoors, barely surfacing for long enough to put out the empty milk bottles and feed the cat. If you start a romance with a succubus, you have to be prepared to clock up some serious hours in the bedroom - and probably on the sofa, the carpet, the kitchen table and the top of the bookcase. I settled for ‘. . . getting to know one another,’ and pressed on quickly so the pause wouldn’t show. ‘Sue isn’t your pet or a conveniently warm and cuddly sex toy; she’s a human being. I know that doesn’t mean the same thing to you that it does to me, but for the love of Christ! You can’t pick her up and put her down whenever you want to; you can’t dictate who she does and doesn’t talk to; and you can’t beat the shit out of her when she doesn’t come up to scratch. Understand?’

Juliet laughed. It had a chilling ring to it. ‘Who tells me that I can’t do these things?’ she asked, her voice caressing me roughly like the tongue of a cat. She has minute control over those harmonics, and she knows what she’s doing. She knew, right then, that she was bringing me to a painfully intense erection: a casual show of force intended to remind me of what else she could do to me if she had a mind to. ‘You, Castor? You’re giving me commands? I might be inclined to take that personally if your words were backed by anything besides insolence.’ She took a step towards me, those luminous eyes flashing like beacons in the dark. Another step and she was right in front of me, her head leaning in towards my throat. ‘But they’re not,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘Are they?’

She brushed past me, allowing the curve of her breast to press briefly against my arm in passing. The small area of my skin that had felt the contact tingled as she walked away, as though an electric charge had passed through me.

On the screen above and behind me Spacey opined that the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was making people believe he didn’t exist.

My heart was hammering. My nostrils were filled with her sex smell and my mind with pornographic imagery. Something inside me was still rising, still opening, ready to meet her halfway as she feasted on me and threw me away, but the crisis was over. Juliet was just making a point, not actually moving in for the kill.

I sat down again - then slithered down onto my knees - as the crash hit me: all those homeless hormones, crashing against the walls of my veins and arteries like miniature tidal waves, my mind afloat on the flood like a pathetic Noah’s Ark preserving my last two functional brain cells.

When I was able to take stock of my surroundings again, I looked up and saw Juliet standing in the aisle at the end of the row, as motionless as she’d been sitting earlier. Her back was to me, her head tilted slightly down.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ she said, her voice suddenly flat and dead.

‘You mean you lost control?’ I translated.

‘I mean I don’t know what happened. I was hitting her. Hurting her. There didn’t seem to be any conscious decision involved. Or rather . . . the moment of decision was elided. The action seemed to take the place of the decision.’

I climbed to my feet again, partly to see if I could and partly because I felt a little stupid taking the moral high ground from so close to ground level. Juliet still hadn’t turned to face me. ‘Suppose you saw a man beating his wife or his lover,’ I said, ‘and he gave you that bullshit by way of an explanation?’

Juliet sighed, an odd and disconcerting sound. ‘It is bullshit,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s true all the same. I was like that when I was younger: I rode the impulse, because impulse comes faster than thought, and then afterwards I thought about what it meant.’

‘When you were younger?’ I repeated.

‘Your race hadn’t invented written language yet.’

She made a gesture, clenching her fist and then opening it again, as though she was giving up on the effort of self-analysis. ‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘I imagine someone else hurting her, and I feel anger. A really simple, strong anger. It’s arousing.’

I thought I must have misheard that last word. ‘It’s what?’ I asked.

‘Arousing,’ Juliet repeated impatiently. ‘It turns me on to think of hurting someone who’s injured Sue. Making him pay for it, making him beg for his life, and devouring him while he’s still begging. It’s pleasurable to think of things like that.’ She made a move that I couldn’t interpret: a twitch of the shoulders, sudden and swift. ‘If I think there’s a danger I might really harm her,’ she muttered, ‘I’ll send her away.’

‘And how long do you think she’ll last after that?’

Juliet half-turned to stare at me over her shoulder: a silent query.

‘Come on,’ I said irritably. ‘You kissed me once, two years ago, and I still wake up sweating. She’s shared your bed for sixteen months. If you make her go cold turkey, Juliet, she’ll crash and burn faster than the fucking Hindenburg.’

She scowled. ‘It’s possible,’ she agreed. ‘Or else she might survive, as you did. I’m not reponsible for every man or woman who sniffs my crotch, Castor.’

She seemed to be waiting for me to disagree with her, but I thought there was a certain mileage to be got out of just letting the words hang in the air. It was kind of a resonant image, after all.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Juliet said, after a strained pause. ‘I don’t equate her with you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Or with any of those I hunted. What we have is different from that. It’s . . .’ She seemed to grope for words, but she was trying to explain something that was inherently inexplicable - not just for her but for anyone who ever went looking for a quick shag and got more than they bargained for. ‘It’s not a hunt,’ she finished testily.

‘Tell her you’re sorry,’ I suggested.

‘Mind your own business,’ she snapped back.

She headed for the door. I was going to call her back and ask her about Tlallik, or Tlullik, but I chickened out. Juliet may be refreshingly open about sexual matters, but when it comes to her own species she closes up again real fast. Get a finger caught in that door and you could easily lose it, she’d warned me, very explicitly, a very short while ago.

I sat down heavily. Now that she was gone, there was no need for me to keep up appearances.

‘So how did that go?’ Nicky asked. I looked up to see him standing over me. Incongruously, he had a shotgun in his hands.

‘Could have gone better,’ I admitted, hearing a slight tremor in my voice and hoping he didn’t hear it too.

‘I did warn you she was pissed off.’

‘Yeah. You did. Nicky, what is that thing you’re holding?’

‘A homage.’

‘To . . . ?’

‘Someone else’s good idea. You told me the first time Juliet tried to love you to death, your landlady shot her with a air gun filled with rosary beads. I liked that a lot. And we live in a wicked world, so I keep this baby loaded day and night. Twelve ounces in each barrel.’

I shook my head to try to clear it. ‘Jesus! Have you got a licence?’

‘I’m a dead man, Castor. The law doesn’t apply to dead men. Legally, this is a gun without an owner.’

I tried to stand, managed it with only one slight stumble. Nicky didn’t put out a hand to steady me, but I didn’t expect him to. Like I said, he’s very chary of his own flesh, and even more so of his bones. He doesn’t have any way of healing from a wound or an injury any more.

‘Thanks for coming to my rescue, masked man,’ I said, tilting the shotgun’s barrels a little away from me so I didn’t have to look them in the eye.

‘Hey, for Lester Young I’ll go out on a limb. You’re looking a little sick, Castor. Whatever she did to you, she stuck it in deep. You should go home and sleep it off.’

I nodded, knowing that I wouldn’t. ‘Get onto that ward, Nicky,’ I said. ‘I want to know what Tlallik is, and what it does.’

‘I’ll call you,’ Nicky said. He looked up at the screen, where Gabriel Byrne was leading his dysfunctional team to its destruction, trying to steal illusory riches for an illusory employer, conspiracy meeting meta-conspiracy. ‘I guess she’s only reverting to type,’ he mused. ‘Demons are like wolverines: they don’t domesticate all that easily. But if she goes rogue, Castor . . .’

He didn’t have to finish the sentence, and I didn’t offer to finish it for him. My friends were already an endangered species, and going up against Juliet meant I’d have one fewer, win or lose. That was taking the optimistic view, of course, and assuming I survived.

I stayed for the rest of Nicky’s triple bill. It felt like watching home movies.

It must have been getting on for midnight when I left the Gaumont and headed for the Tube. Nicky had broken open a bottle of some Lebanese wine which he swore was as good as a French premier cru, and I’d accounted for most of it, but I felt depressingly sober as I hopped the last train back into London so I could slingshot back out to Turnpike Lane.

The Tube is a good place for me to think, usually. Very few people die on trains, and when you’re moving fast you don’t pick up emotional resonances from the landscape around you. Radio Death wasn’t broadcasting. I was alone with my thoughts. The trouble was, my thoughts were a sea of turbulent shit.

Asmodeus was still out there, and he was hunting. Not just me, but everyone who’d ever meant anything to Rafi at any point in his life. He’d decided to celebrate his independence with a murder spree, starting (I had to hope it was starting) with Ginny Parris, the woman who’d played midwife when he was born again into Rafi’s flesh, and with me, the one who’d welded him in good and tight once he was there.

In a way, it could work in my favour. If I had a plan, I could use myself as bait: bring the demon in close and then spring some kind of trap. But I didn’t have a plan and I had no idea what form that trap might take.

It was maddening. There was a tune out there somewhere that would do the job, I knew that. I’d even heard it once, when Asmodeus himself played it for me in Imelda’s parlour on the night she died. But then he’d done a number on me before I had a chance to get my whistle to my mouth. That space in my memory no longer existed. When I replayed the events of that night, there was just a hole where the tune ought to be, a wound in my mind that wouldn’t heal.

But even if I found the tune, or reconstructed it, how in hell would I ever get to use it? If I summoned Asmodeus or got in close enough for him to be bound by the music, he’d tear me into sticky confetti before I got to the end of the first bar. Maybe with Juliet to run interference for me I’d have a fighting chance, but somehow this didn’t seem like a good time to ask her.

That left Jenna-Jane’s offer. My mind did a handbrake turn and shot off down a side street into places no less dark.

What was eating Juliet? Over the past couple of years she’d perfected her ‘nobody here but us human beings’ act to the point where you could almost forget what she was and mistake her for just another unfeasibly beautiful woman whose very existence impugned your manhood and left you feeling hollow and worthless. But now she was as bad as when she first came up on the express elevator from Hell, maybe worse. She’d sworn never to take another soul, but tonight I’d felt about three heartbeats away from oblivion. And those eyes . . . This wasn’t the Juliet I knew. And I didn’t like the glow-in-the-dark model one bit.

I was meant to be heading home, that was what I was telling myself. But somehow, without ever making an actual decision, I found myself taking the Northern Line and getting out at Archway. Whittington’s Hospital is a short walk back up Highgate Hill, its new frontage looking cool and suave in white and blue.

Visiting hours must have wrapped up long ago, but nobody challenged me as I walked in off the street. Running the gauntlet of the restless dead for the second time in one day, I made my way to the coma ward. Once there though, I was faced with a locked door. Access to the ward was determined by a buzzer and intercom system - or in my case by waiting until an inattentive nurse came out and walked past me, then catching the door again before it swung closed.

Lisa Probert was in a side ward, by herself. A single bouquet of white lilies stood at the foot of the bed, in a plastic bucket serving as a makeshift vase. She looked worse than I remembered - she’d always been a big, loud-mouthed, sassy kid - unconscious, tied up with tubes and gauze, fed by drips and drained by catheters. She’d already lost enough body mass for it to show. She looked like a bird that had crashed into a kitchen window and fallen half-broken to the ground. On the dark skin below her eyes, which were only three-quarters closed, darker semicircles showed like bruises. Her lips glistened with gelatine, but the skin was dry and cracked just the same.

I sat beside her for a while, listening to her. I can do this with the living as well as the dead: open the doors of perception and catch the spoor of some immaterial essence, a soul or atman or whatever you want to call it, distilled into music. Lisa’s music was a riotous polyphonic jumble. Its strength didn’t depend on the strength of her body, and it didn’t correlate in any direct way with what she was like as a person. It was just there, propagating outward from her at an acute angle to the world we know.

When I had the music fixed in my head, I took out my whistle and started to play it. It sounds stupid, but it’s been known to work. I did it for Juliet once, when she was almost killed in a fight against the demon Moloch, and the tune had given her strength. It’s the summoning, essentially: the first part of an exorcism, when you raise the spirit up and make it attend you. I was calling Lisa back into herself, or trying to. But after ten or fifteen minutes of playing she hadn’t moved and there was no visible difference in her condition.

‘Could you please tell me what you’re doing here.’ The voice yanked me out of the half-trance I sink into when I play. I looked up to see a ruddy-faced man in a white doctor’s coat standing over me. The badge on his chest read DR SULLIVAN. He didn’t look happy.

‘The door was open,’ I lied. ‘I’m Felix Castor. I made the call to the emergency services the night Lisa was brought in here. I think you’ve got me down as next of kin.’

The doctor’s expression changed, but it didn’t soften. ‘Oh,’ he grunted. ‘That’s you, is it? We’ve tried to contact you a dozen times.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve been away.’ It was as good an explanation as any - as good as I felt like giving him, anyway. ‘I understand you want me to sign some permissions.’

‘We did,’ Doctor Sullivan corrected me. ‘But we decided we couldn’t wait any longer. Since Lisa has no living relatives, we were able to have her declared a ward of court. It went through yesterday, in your absence since you didn’t respond to the court summons.’ I remembered the large brown envelope on Pen’s hall table. ‘So there’s nothing more we need from you now, Mr Castor, and your visiting rights are at my discretion. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

‘I’d prefer to stay a while,’ I said. ‘I’ll stop playing, if that will make a difference.’ What I meant was that I’d hum under my breath. The tin whistle is a conduit for the power and helps to keep it focused, but it’s not an essential part of the process.

‘It won’t,’ said Doctor Sullivan. ‘I’m asking you to leave right now. If you refuse, I’ll call security.’

I weighed up the pros and cons, found that there weren’t any pros. If I pissed this guy off, he could shut me out of here altogether. I had to be meek and mild now if I wanted to come back another time and try this stunt again.

‘Visiting hours,’ I said. ‘When would they be?’

‘Two o’clock until eight o’clock, seven days a week.’ He remained in the doorway of the room, staring in at me. He obviously wasn’t going to leave before I did. He didn’t seem to trust me to find my own way out.

I gave it up, and let him escort me to the door. ‘Is she responding at all?’ I asked him on the way. ‘Has there been any change in her condition?’

‘None,’ he said bluntly.

‘And . . . the prognosis . . . ?’

‘It’s too early to say. There are lots of different physical and psychological mechanisms that can induce this kind of extreme fugue. Until we understand the aetiology of Lisa’s condition, we can only treat the symptoms.’

‘The aetiology? She saw her mother murdered . . .’

‘And that was certainly a factor. Probably the dominant factor. But we can’t assume it’s the only one, and we’re not in the habit of prescribing treatment on the basis of unsupported opinion.’ He went on talking about brain chemistry and traumatic shock, but I’d stopped listening because something had begun niggling at the back of my mind. Since Lisa has no living relatives . . .

I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘Who left the flowers?’ I demanded.

‘What?’ Doctor Sullivan looked mystified.

‘The lilies!’ I didn’t wait for an answer. I was already striding back down the corridor and into the small room where Lisa lay. ‘Mr Castor!’ the doctor yelled at my back. ‘I’m calling security! I’m doing it right now.’

There was a note with the flowers, in a white envelope about three inches square, but since Lisa couldn’t read it, nobody had bothered to open it. It was still tucked into the white ribbon that bound the stems of the flowers together. Lilies. White lilies for the dead.

The card inside the envelope bore a bloody thumbprint and ten words written in a tortured, angular hand so large that they filled the available space and in places overlapped each other.