It was mid-morning when Kipling shepherded them through the door of the Hyde Park police station, the writer having insisted that Kingsley and Evadne catch a few hours’ sleep and eat a proper breakfast before approaching the authorities.

The rain meant that the front desk was lonely apart from a sergeant. As soon as they entered, he goggled at Evadne and put his mug on the bench in front of him. ‘And what can I do for you, young lady?’ he asked as he brushed at the front of his blue serge. Then he noticed Kipling and Kingsley, who was still dressed in his black tie stage costume. ‘And you, sirs?’ he asked in a tone that Kingsley suspected was very useful in interrogations.

‘Is Superintendent Norris in yet?’ Kipling gave the sergeant his card. ‘I’d like a word with him.’

The sergeant glanced at the card, then studied it again. ‘He should be here, Mr Kipling. I’ll find him for you.’

‘Norris is an old acquaintance of mine. He’s sure to be able to straighten out the mess you’ve found yourself in, Kingsley,’ Kipling said after the sergeant disappeared past the charge station, where an officer was organising a lumpish fellow who didn’t look at all unhappy at the prospect of being thrown into a cell. ‘When I came back to London, being an old newspaperman I couldn’t help but renew our acquaintance. I always feel better if I know a few of our law enforcement officials.’

‘Professional curiosity,’ Evadne said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Professional curiosity. I see it in many occupations, and writing is one of them.’

Kipling’s moustache twitched. ‘A neat way of putting it, my dear. I am, indeed, inquisitive, and I’ve found that our police officers are often the first to know about anything. Fine storytellers, too, many of them.’

‘They’d have a few stories to tell,’ Kingsley said. He rocked back and forth on his heels impatiently. He hoped that Norris was as understanding as Kipling suggested. The horrible demise of Mrs Walters and the intruders Kingsley had disturbed had certainly made the matter of his foster father’s disappearance even more worrying.

The sergeant returned, looking puzzled. ‘I can’t find the super, sir, but someone from the Yard is here. A Commander Harvey, said he wanted to see you.’

‘Ah.’ Kipling shared a significant look with Kingsley and Evadne. ‘I think we might know what that’s about, but I’d rather wait and see my friend the superintendent.’

‘The commander was insistent, sir, when I told him you were here.’

Kipling protested, but the sergeant showed them to an office towards the rear of the station. A tall, uniformed man stood behind the desk. ‘The boy,’ he said. ‘I want to see the boy.’

Kipling wasn’t happy. ‘I thought we could work things out, the superintendent and I, but now I’m not sure that we shouldn’t have some legal representation.’

‘They can wait,’ the commander said. Kingsley shifted uncomfortably. The man’s gaze hadn’t moved from him. ‘The girl and the man. They can wait.’

‘I say,’ Kipling burst out as the sergeant hustled Evadne and him away. ‘This isn’t what I expected.’

‘Close the door,’ the commander said. Kingsley swallowed. He didn’t like the man’s voice. It had all the warmth of an icicle wrapped in a snow blanket.

‘Sit.’

The commander’s eyes were as flat as his voice. He was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, and his skin had a peculiar greyish quality.

Kingsley shifted on the hard wooden chair as the commander studied him silently, conscious that his animal self was becoming increasingly unhappy. The commander disturbed him – all sides of him. Every detail about the man was deeply unsettling. The way he stood was slightly awkward, the way he held his head wasn’t right, the whole line of his balance was askew.

When Kingsley became aware that the man also smelled wrong, his lips began to curl and the skin at the back of his neck tighten. Flee! his wildness screamed. Leave this place! Get away from him!

Kingsley was half out of his chair when two peculiarly grey-faced constables burst in. One swung a baton and darkness carried him away.

When Kingsley woke, he instantly knew where he was: he was in a lightless confined space that smelled of motor exhaust. Since it jolted and rocked, and since the sound of an engine hammered at him, it didn’t take him long to conclude that he was in the back of a lorry. The question of how he’d made the transition from being in a police station to this predicament eluded him, thanks to the waves of nausea that kept him doubled up on the floor of the van. But after the events of the night before, had had to assume he’d been taken by Kipling’s immortal sorcerers. The implications were chilling. If they’d been able to cast a net like this so quickly, their reach was fearsome.

Grimacing with every bump and every lurch, Kingsley crawled to the doors. Panting heavily, with pain swirling inside his skull, he found the lock with a hand. Even in his distress, he managed a chuckle. The locksmith who made this was taking money under false pretences.

At that moment, however, the van conspired to test Kingsley’s skill. It both jolted and lurched, so much so that his forehead hit the lock sharply enough for his teeth to snap together – right onto the tip of his tongue, which he customarily stuck out while working. He reeled back in time for a second violent lurch to hurl him against the door again. He managed to protect his hands by the novel method of taking the entire force on his nose, thus making his head a veritable explosion of pain.

He lost control. His wolfish state came roaring out to possess him.

Immediately, he howled and backed away from the door. The noise, the smell and his physical distress frightened him. Scrabbling at the metal floor, he levered himself up and threw himself from side to side, furious and afraid of the confines of the moving prison. He growled until his throat was sore and then, finally, he cowered in a corner, shivering. Finally, he took the last refuge of the beast: he slept.

When he awoke, the vestiges of nausea were still with him, enough to make him wince when the doors of the van were dragged open. He put a hand up to shield his eyes. Two uniformed figures were reaching for him and he was reasonably sure they weren’t matadors. As one, they leaped into the back of the van and dragged him out. Kingsley protested, and lashed out with a few aimless punches, but he was weak – both from the energy uselessly expended when his wolfish self was in charge and from the effects of whatever had rendered him unconscious.

He was carried through a lane that smelled of rotting onions. Face down, he could make out shouting nearby and the sounds of traffic, generic enough noises to make them almost useless in identifying his surroundings. He smelled steam and thought he was near a station, but then a wave of fishiness and the sight of water told him that he’d been brought to the Thames. The glimpse was short, for he was hustled into the stony darkness of a warehouse and thrown against a wall.