In the next room I see a man’s hunched back. He’s stirring something in a small, dented saucepan. There’s a smell of tomato soup.

I wait in the doorway. The room has the chilly feel of a cave. It seems even smaller than the painting studio, but that’s because against two walls are stacks of large canvas frames, all with their bare, pale backs to the room. The only light comes through two small skylights. There is a small black leatherette sofa, a low Formica coffee table with three legs, a wooden chair like the one in the first room, a row of kitchen cupboards with a stained worktop, on which stands a kettle and a single electric ring. On the drainer by the sink are a large number of mugs and an opened can of soup.

“I’m making lunch.”

When I don’t reply he stops stirring the soup and turns to look at me, straightening up as he smiles. He holds the wooden spoon in the air as he might hold a paintbrush and a reddish-orange blob drops onto the lino. “I’d like to paint you.”

I don’t think he’d get my eyes.

The man inclines his head. “Probably not. It would be a challenge.”

I don’t reply. Did I say that about my eyes aloud?

“You look like you could do with some.” He holds the saucepan up and raises his eyebrows in a question.

“Thanks.”

The man pours the soup into two of the mugs on the drainer and puts the pan in the sink. Then he picks up the mugs and offers me one, saying, “I’m afraid I’m out of croutons.”

He sits on the leatherette sofa, which is small and narrow.

“I’ve no idea what croutons are.”

“What is the world coming to?”

I sit on the chair and hold the mug to warm my hands. The room is remarkably cold, and the soup only just warm.

The man sits with his legs crossed, revealing how incredibly thin his legs are beneath his baggy trousers, and also one red sock. He twirls his foot around and around and sips his soup.

I swallow most of mine in one gulp.

His foot stops. “It’s the dampness that’s the problem in here. Even on a summer’s day it never gets any sun, and there’s damp coming up from underneath. It must be the river.” He sips his soup, pursing his lips after each taste, and then puts the mug on the table, saying, “And the electric ring’s on the blink and not giving out much heat.”

I savor the last mouthful of soup. It’s not as good as the BLT, but it’s good. And I realize I’m relaxed. I know it is him. He is definitely no Hunter. He is Bob.

“I’m serious, I’d love to paint you. Like that.” He waves a hand at me. “Sitting on the simple wooden chair, half starved and young. So, so young. And with those eyes.” He stops waving his hand and leans forward to stare into my face. “Those eyes.” He leans back again. “One day maybe you’ll let me paint you. However, that is not for today. Today is for business of a different nature.”

I’m about to open my mouth to speak and he puts his finger to his lips. “No need for that.”

I smile. I like this guy. I’m fairly sure his magic is mind-reading, which is incredibly rare and—

“I have a certain skill, but a bit like my painting it’s competent and practiced—workmanlike you might say, rather than . . .” He stops and gazes at me. “I’m no Cézanne. For example, I have to concentrate hard to pull the key thoughts from the scrambled egg that is your mind. But still it is obvious why you are here.” And now he taps the side of his nose.

I think loudly, I have to find Mercury.

“Now that I got clear as a bell.”

Can you help me?

“I can put you in touch with the next person in the chain. Nothing more.”

So it’s not going to be straight to Mercury from here. But I’ve got a deadline to work to. Two months away.

“Time enough. But you must understand, and I’m sure you understand better than most, that caution is vital for all concerned.”

Does he know who I am? Why would I understand better than most?

“I heard a rumor that a prisoner escaped from the Council. An important prisoner. The son of Marcus.”

Oh.

“Hunters are out hunting him. And they are very good at that.”

He stares at me.

I realize I have let a thought out of the bag.

“May I see them?”

I extend my hand toward him, but he gets up and goes into the far room. I hear a switch flick and the lightbulb above me dithers about coming to life. Bob returns and stands in front of me. He takes my hand in both of his. His hands are cool and thin and his bony fingers pull my skin so that the tattoo is distorted.

“They really are hateful, aren’t they?”

I’m not sure if he means the tattoos or White Witches.

“Both, my darling, both.”

He lets go of my hand. “May I see the others?”

I show him.

“Well, well, well . . .” Bob returns to his seat on the sofa and his foot starts to twirl round again. “We need to see if you are right, if these are some way of tracking you. If they are, well, my fate is sealed already.”

He holds his hands up. “No, no. No apologies necessary . . . Indeed I think I may have to apologize to you, because we are going to have to get someone to look at those. I suspect it won’t be a quick procedure, and I know it won’t be pleasant. The man I’m thinking of is a philistine.”

Bob gets up and takes the mugs to the sink.

“I don’t think I’ll bother clearing up. Time to move on. You know, I’ve always thought I should paint in France, search for Cézanne’s spirit in the hills. I can do better than this.”

Yes.

“Should I take the paintings?”

I shrug.

“You’re right, a clean start is best. You know, I feel better already.”

He disappears again into the far room and comes back with a piece of paper and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen worktop, he sketches. It’s good to watch him. His sketch is better than his oil.

“You’re very kind. I thought a picture would make more sense to you than some ugly words.”

The sketch is of me reaching up to feel on top of a locker, in what looks to be a railway station. There is a sign, but I don’t try to read it now. I’ll spell it out later.

He hands the drawing to me, saying, “You know you are beautiful, don’t you? Don’t let them catch you.”

I look at him and can’t help but smile. He reminds me of Arran, his soft gray eyes filled with the same silvery light, though Bob’s whole face looks gray and lined.

“No need to rub it in about my appearance. Oh, there’s something else. You will need money.”

I realize I haven’t given Bob anything.

“You have given me the chance of a new life and a little inspiration. You are my muse and, alas, I will have to make do with this merest fleeting glimpse of you. But others are less interested in life’s aesthetics and more in its grubbily begotten gains.”

How much will they charge?

Now Bob spreads his arms and looks around the room, “As you can see I am not an expert with money myself. I’ve really no idea about it at all.”

I now remember to ask about Nikita.

The girl who helped me—is she a witch?

“My dear boy, I hope you realize that if, twenty minutes after you leave here, I get a knock on the door from a man asking questions about you, it would be terribly rude of me to answer them. I would hate to talk about you behind your back and I would never dream of being that discourteous about anyone who comes here. Whether the knock comes in twenty minutes or twenty years, the same rules of conduct must always apply.”

I nod.

Thank you for sending her to help me. And for the sandwiches.

“I didn’t ask her to give you any food.” He smiles. “She’s a tough cookie with a bit of a soft center.”

I grin at him and turn to leave.

He calls, “Adieu, mon cher,” as the door closes behind me.

I walk quickly down the alley, sticking close to the wall on my left, eyes fixed on the far buildings, thinking, The end of the alley. The end of the alley.