Until finally it was all dropped in my lap through an anonymous tip. Now, it’s not easy to be anonymous around a Drood; we can See right through most glamours and disguises, and we’re almost impossible to sneak up on. Nevertheless, this quiet voice whispered in my ear, soft as a dove’s fart: If you’re interested in the Tower of London job, you need to speak to Big Oz. Over there, by the Universal Exports stall.

“Who is this?” I said quietly, careful not to look around. “Why are you telling me this?”

A breath of laughter warm on my ear. Perhaps because even the most unrepentant villain can, much to his own surprise, turn out to be a patriot.

I waited, but there was nothing more. I looked around, but there was only the crowd, shoving and jostling and shouting each other down, doing business. I considered the situation. Big Oz? Really? If the Emerald City was mounting an operation in London, I should have been informed. Unless it was in one of those damned memos I hadn’t got around to yet . . .

But no; it turned out the man I’d been pointed at was Big Aus, a fanatical republican Australian. I introduced myself, and he crushed my hand in a big meaty fist. He was a large man, broad in the shoulder and wide in the belly, wearing a suit that looked like he’d ordered it from a photograph. He had a broad cheerful face, with sharp piercing eyes and a ready smile. He knew my name and reputation and said he was very pleased to see me.

“Call me Big Aus,” he said. “Everyone does. And you are a sight for sore eyes, Shaman. I’m a man short for a really sweet scheme, and you fit the part perfectly. Dame Luck must be smiling on me today. You want in? You’re in!”

“Hold it,” I said quickly. “It’s nice to be wanted, Big Aus, but I’m not agreeing to be a part of anything until I know just what it is I’m getting into. And what the money’s like.”

“Of course! Of course! Wouldn’t want a fella who was willing to just dive in blind! We can’t talk here. You come along with me to this nice little watering hole I know around the corner. The rest of the gang’s already there, just waiting for me to fill the last gap with the right man. You’ll love them; they’re all real characters, just like you. Come with me, Shaman, and I will tell you how we’re going to make ourselves really bloody wealthy and stick it to the whole bloody British monarchy. We are going to pull off the crime of the century and help make God’s own country of Australia the republic she was always meant to be!”

Big Aus took me firmly by the arm and escorted me to a tacky little theme eatery just a few streets away from the Hiring Hall, an almost unbearably twee faux-Irish chain called the L’il Leprechaun. I knew of the chain but had never thought I’d actually be required to eat in one. The L’il Leprechauns have about as much in common with real Irish cuisine and culture as a plastic shamrock, and even less dignity. If the real Little People ever find out what’s being perpetrated in their name, they’ll declare a fatwa on the whole damned chain.

The eatery was decked out in loud primary colours, the tables were shaped like great flattened-off mushrooms, and there were pots of gold in which to stub out your herbal cigarettes. Cartoon leprechauns gambolled cheerfully across the walls and ceiling and even peeped playfully out from behind the big stand-up menus. Most of the food, and even some of the drinks, came in shades of green. I made a mental note to steer well clear of the beef burgers. A sulky waitress done up as a Bunny Colleen, complete with sprayed-on freckles, tottered over on high heels and led Big Aus and me to a table at the back, where three other people were already sitting.

I knew them, and they knew me. Big Aus had heard of me in the way most people have heard of Shaman Bond, but these three were very familiar faces. I don’t know that I’d call them friends, exactly, but we’d all worked together in the past at one time or another to our mutual profit, and we all moved in the same social circles. I pulled up a plastic chair so I could sit with my back to the wall while Big Aus dropped his great weight onto a plastic chair with such impact that it actually shuddered beneath him.

As always, Coffin Jobe looked like he’d just been dug up out of his grave and then hit over the head with the shovel. He was a tall, thin, sad affair, wrapped in a long grimy coat with food stains down the front, topped with a thick scarf to keep the cold out. He wore heavy old-fashioned spectacles with the kind of thick lenses normally employed to fry ants with the help of the sun, behind which his gaunt face had the kind of pallor usually found only on things that live at the bottom of the sea. Coffin Jobe was cursed with an unusual affliction. You’ve heard of narcoleptics, who have a tendency to fall suddenly asleep and then wake up again? Coffin Jobe is a necroleptic. He has the tendency to suddenly fall down dead, and then get over it. A serial resurrector, as it were. He’s been dying and coming back to life again on a regular basis for some years now, and no one knows why, least of all him. (Though there are those who say he’s doing it in order to get used to being dead, so he can develop an immunity.) However, as a direct result of his many assignations with the Other Side, Coffin Jobe can See the world with more than usual clarity. This has made him very useful on many a criminal endeavour, as there’s no one better at spotting hidden traps and unexpected dangers.

He’s also as crazy as a sewer rat on amphetamines, but you have to expect that. People make allowances.

I’ve always suspected that Coffin Jobe can See the torc around my throat and therefore knows I’m really a Drood, but he’s never said anything. He’d never betray a friend and a confidant. Not unless there was really serious money involved.

The Dancing Fool, on the other hand, would sell his own granny for the promise of a bent penny. He was the fastest fighter in the world and made sure that everyone knew it. He could move so fast you didn’t even know you’d been hit until the ground jumped up to slap you in the face. All the best martial arts are based on dances; he claimed his was based on an old Scottish sword dance. He practiced the deadly martial art of knowing exactly what an opponent is going to do before they do it. He called it déjà fu. He liked to style himself as an international assassin, but really he was just hired muscle. He was talented enough, but not all that bright, and was cursed with a terrible temper. When the red mist descended he was a danger to anyone around him, including his own allies. A broad, bluff Scottish type, he wore clan colours I knew for a fact he wasn’t entitled to and affected a lilting Highlands accent.

He also had no sense of humour. You could tell that from his clothes.

And finally, there was Strange Chloe. A disturbing young lady, with a permanent scowl and a stuck-out lower lip. A Goth, of course. In fact, a Goth’s Goth, dressed in black, complete with fishnet stockings and a black velvet bow holding back long jet black hair. Her stark white face was dominated dark makeup and stylings she’d actually had tattooed in place. The eyelids in particular must really have hurt. Strange Chloe had a mad on for the entire world, so much so that when she really concentrated, the world actually crumbled under the force of her gaze. She could make walls fall down, rivers evaporate, and people crumble into dust, and she did. Fortunately, she lacked the energy to get into any real trouble and hadn’t the ambition necessary to make herself a major player, for which the rest of us were very grateful. She did just enough to get by and spent most of her time sulking in bed.

I couldn’t help feeling that the quality of her life would improve greatly if she just got her ashes hauled on a regular basis. But it would be a brave man who tried.