John Sinclair: Demon Hunter Volume 2 (English Edition)

By Gabriel Conroy and NAMCOOo

John Sinclair’s life is many things, but boring is not one of them. When an archaeological expedition ends in a series of questionable deaths, Sinclair’s old friend Bill Conolly begins to investigate. If one set of deadly digs wasn’t enough, an expedition in Yorkshire unearths a vampire graveyard with bloody consequences – including for Sinclair himself. Will he survive his own death and undeath, or wind up as part of a ghoulish banquet alongside the dregs of London?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J-Novel Club
• Release date: Jun 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781718351226

Book preview

Table of Contents

Cover

The Compilation

About the Author

Episode 5: Dark Pharaoh

Episode 6: The Vampire Graveyard

Episode 7: A Long Day in Hell

Episode 8: The Taste of Human Flesh

About J-Novel Club

Copyright

The Compilation

Episode 5: Dark Pharaoh

When a British expedition uncovers the tomb of an ancient sorcerer, they unwittingly open a portal into another dimension... and awaken a demonic force intent on destroying our world. This case takes John Sinclair and his journalist friend Bill Conolly from the back alleys of London to the Egyptian desert. A heart-pounding race against time begins, and John faces an evil that is older than our world.

Episode 6: The Vampire Graveyard

Dr Boscombe and his team are about to make a historic discovery: Britain’s only ‘vampire graveyard’, an unmarked cemetery at the edge of a marsh in Yorkshire. It was here, 230 years ago, that the villagers buried the victims of the mysterious widow, Simona Grace. Boscombe has no idea of the terrors he is about to unleash. When the only surviving member of Boscombe’s team is consigned to a madhouse in London, Detective Chief Inspector John Sinclair is sent to investigate, but what he encounters in Yorkshire is no ordinary evil.

Episode 7: A Long Day in Hell

When John Sinclair’s dying body is brought to the Accident & Emergency department at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, the unthinkable happens: minutes after his death, he jolts back to life, screaming in agony. The doctors have no rational explanation for his recovery. But Sinclair didn’t come back alone: there are voices in his head, and one of them belongs to Laura Cody, an eleven-year-old girl who is trapped with her brother in a crumbling mansion outside of London, about to be sacrificed to an ancient evil...

Episode 8: The Taste of Human Flesh

When young Cordelia Barnes dies of a drug overdose, her body is brought to Abbott & Sons, one of the oldest funeral parlors in South London. But Mr Abbott is no ordinary man. For one thing, what sort of undertaker performs funerals for free? When Bill Conolly and Sheila Hopkins get too close to the truth, they find themselves set upon by monsters. Soon, DCI Sinclair is called to the scene, determined to solve the case. Unfortunately for him, the slaughter is only about to begin...

About the Author

Gabriel Conroy was born in Los Angeles, California, in 1967. After high school, he joined the armed forces and was stationed in Germany for several years. He discovered his love for writing while traveling through Europe. When he returned to the States, he studied Journalism at Los Angeles City College and UCLA, and currently works as a freelance journalist, writer and translator. Mr Conroy is married and has a dog and a cat.

Episode 5: Dark Pharaoh

‘Professor Kenneth Brandon Hopkins died at age 38 due to unexpected heart failure. Beloved son, brother and friend, Professor Hopkins was an Oxford graduate and served as Department Chair of Ancient History and Egyptology at King’s College London. Credited for his discovery of a previously unknown tomb in the Valley of Shadows, Egypt. He is survived by his father, Sir Gerald Hopkins, and his sister, Sheila Hopkins. He will be sorely missed.’

— From The Times, Obituaries, 15 January

***

There was a whisper.

Somewhere out there, in the darkness.

Someone — or something — was calling to him.

‘Come...’ said the voice inside his head. It sounded like wind, filling his mind like a wave, rising and crashing, engulfing him, then retreating again into the void.

‘Come, Defiler. Let me show you...’

He felt himself falling, stumbling. For a brief moment, he was weightless.

His mind was racing. He couldn’t remember his name. There was only a dim awareness of being.

Suddenly, there was light.

He was in a desert. It seemed somehow familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He had been here before, though — he knew that much.

He looked up and saw something that resembled a cave.

Its jagged entrance was cast in shadows.

The Valley of Shadows.

A sudden awareness. A word, a name. This is it, he thought. I’m back. I’ve been here before, and now I’m back.

He walked towards the entrance of the tomb, a dark mouth etched into the side of a rock wall, ten yards above him. His feet made no sound on the sand.

The wind was quietly blowing.

Then the voice returned. It echoed in his mind, and he felt as if the force of it would crack his skull open.

‘Defiler,’ said the voice, ‘come...’

He crawled up the ladder towards the looming entrance.

It seemed as if the shadows ahead of him were moving... as if the darkness were a living thing.

And then he saw them. Insects. They were crawling out of the darkness. Towards him.

Tiny black beetles. Hundreds of them. Thousands. The swarm flooded around him — he could feel the creatures touching his feet, crawling up his legs, his arms, entering his open mouth...

Hallucinating, he thought. I must be hallucinating... I’m delirious...

He screamed...

And then awoke with a gasp.

He found himself in a dark box.

Everything around him was dark. And not just dark — pitch black. There was no light, nothing. He felt panic rising within him. A cold and terrible fear was seeping into his muscles, his bones.

Where am I? he thought.

He waited for a few moments, hoping that his eyes would adjust to the darkness, that he might make out a shape — but there was nothing to adjust to. Not even the slightest speck of light. The blackness completely engulfed him.

With shivering fingers, he reached around him. He was lying on his back. Right above him was wood; to his left and right, and below him, also wood.

The wood was lined with something. Some kind of fabric. His head was resting on a pillow.

He was trapped in an oblong box, and even though his rational mind refused to believe it, there was something deep within that knew exactly where he was.

And that tiny spark of a thought slowly, but steadily, rose to the surface of his mind with increasing force and certainty, gradually replacing everything else: buried alive.

He touched his hands to his face. He felt tears of panic in his eyes.

His breathing accelerated. He could hear his heart pounding.

‘This isn’t possible,’ he told himself. ‘Things like this don’t happen. This is a dream. It’s all just a bad dream.’

But it wasn’t.

He started pounding against the wooden planks above him.

‘Let me out of here!’ he screamed.

He was beating with increasing frenzy against the wood. Then he stopped. He was exhausting himself. That meant he was burning oxygen.

‘Stop,’ he whispered. ‘Stop and think.’

There had to be a way out of here. There had to.

Then, his rational mind gave in, and his fear took over. Once more, he started senselessly pounding against the coffin lid.

‘Get me out of here!’ he screamed. ‘Anybody? Please! Help! Get me out! Get me out of here...’

Kenneth Hopkins was a renowned Egyptologist. One week after his return from the Valley of Shadows, he suddenly died of heart failure. The attending physician at St John’s, the coroner, they all found nothing wrong with his heart — except that it stopped beating. For his family, the tragedy was hard to accept. Over a hundred friends and relatives came to his funeral. Saying farewell is never easy, especially to someone so young.

‘Help me! Somebody...’

His life had been so full of promise. But in the end, of course, all things must fade...

No one heard his screams.

No one... except the voice in the darkness.

The voice which now started to laugh...

***

London. 7.56 am.

Sheila Hopkins was screaming. Her body convulsed as she shot up, and suddenly, she was there. In her flat. On her bed.

The darkness outside was slowly fading. The first rays of light were coming through the curtains. She heard the soft sounds of morning traffic in the background.

She was breathing heavily.

She had dreamt of Kenneth. Again.

She dreamt he was trapped in his coffin, calling out for her.

When she looked at her hands, she saw that they were shaking.

Withdrawal, no doubt.

She climbed out of bed. She was feeling dizzy; her legs were weak.

Sheila was six years younger than her brother. She had studied anthropology, but she was the black sheep of the family. Whiskey, cocaine, even heroin... she thought that she had conquered her addiction. She’d been clean and sober for four years.

Until recently. Until her brother’s death...

She went into the bathroom and used the toilet. Then she ran cold water over her face.

‘Rise and shine...’ she said with a bitter tone in her voice.

Her face looked pale and haggard in the mirror. All her life, Sheila has been trying to drown out some inner voice that was tormenting her, but it had never been as bad as this. Her fingers shook as she reached and turned the water off. Something wasn’t right. She could feel it.

Then she heard the voice.

‘Defiler...’ it said.

As if someone were whispering in her ear.

‘Who’s there?’ Sheila asked, barely masking the terror in her voice.

‘Defiler...’

The voice echoed through the room. The morning was grey and overcast. For a brief moment, Sheila thought she saw something...

The curtains were fluttering in the wind.

Even though — Sheila noted — the windows were shut.

She saw shadows moving on the wall.

And suddenly, she felt as if she were weightless.

This isn’t possible, she thought.

The shadows seemed alive.

She felt something on her arm.

And when she looked down, she screamed.

A small black beetle was crawling on her skin. Instinctively, Sheila’s hand slapped down, killing the insect. A smear of blood stained her pale skin...

I need my medicine, Sheila thought. Oh dear God, I need my medicine. I’m going crazy...

***

London. 2.38 pm.

Bill Conolly used to be a paparazzo. Now he was a reporter, specialising in inexplicable phenomena. When he read the obituary in the paper a few weeks ago, he felt he had a story on his hands, and indeed, everything seemed to point in that direction. Dr Kenneth B Hopkins had led an expedition into the Valley of Shadows, but almost everyone involved had come to a bad end.

He came here in hopes of talking to Sheila Hopkins, the deceased’s sister, but no one responded to his knocking...

‘Miss Hopkins?’ he called out. ‘Hello?’

He heard a heavy thud. It sounded as if a person had fallen.

Alarm bells went off inside his head.

‘Hello?’ Conolly said, but there was no response.

He decided to try the backstairs. They were located in what used to be the servants’ entrance. Sheila Hopkins lived in a posh flat in Chelsea: the family was rather well-off. Hopkins Industries was a household name in England.

In the old days, when he was still stalking celebrities to take their picture, Conolly knew no bounds. Jumping a fence, sneaking into a garage, blagging his way into a hotel kitchen... he did anything to get the shot. In hindsight, he was glad to have left that life behind. It wasn’t healthy. Chasing the shot had been like an addiction. He was willing to do anything to feed his craving, and now, looking back, he felt a vague sense of shame.

And yet...

He did learn a few highly useful tricks back then. Most of all, he learned never to stop in pursuit of his goal.

Today, his goal was the truth. Conolly worked for a London tabloid, The Daily Echo. The position had opened up rather unexpectedly when one of their reporters, Anne Baxter, died in a tragic train crash in Scotland. Conolly took over her desk and her beat. While The Daily Echo mostly concerned itself with grisly crime, naked girls, and football, there were, on page seven, a few short items about unusual or inexplicable occurrences. Most readers barely glanced at them, but a few did. It was better than nothing. And that’s what Conolly did these days. The ‘spook beat’, his colleagues called it.

He went to the back of the building and saw a wall in front of him. He stepped on a dustbin, then swung his left leg over the wall, followed by the right. He landed noisily on the other side.

He held in a small moan of pain, and then checked his ankles. Nothing sprained or broken. Everything was all right.

He looked around and found himself in an inner courtyard. The sky was grey and overcast. The back entrance was right in front of him.

He hobbled towards the door and tried the knob, but it was locked. He crouched down and peeked into the keyhole. A ward lock. Easy, he thought. People need to be more careful. He pulled a crowbar out of his jacket pocket. With a few turns, the door was open. Conolly went up the backstairs. Despite being wooden, they were well polished and hardly creaked at all. It wasn’t exactly legal, but at this point, Conolly didn’t care. He was like a hunting dog. Once he picked up a scent, he never let off.

He reached Sheila Hopkins’s flat. The back door had a pane of milky glass. Conolly peered through it.

The figure behind the cloudy glass was distorted, but there was no doubt.

Someone was lying on the floor.

Conolly knocked.

‘Hello?’ he said, but there was no answer.

Something was wrong — he was sure of it. People don’t just rest on the kitchen floor and ignore somebody knocking.

He put down his camera bag and took off his sport coat. Then he made a fist with his right hand and, using his left, wrapped the garment around it to protect his hand from the glass.

With a quick, calculated punch, his fist slammed through the glass pane. The sound was no louder than a teacup shattering on the floor, but it seemed to tear at the silence in the empty staircase.

Conolly’s heart was beating fast.

He looked around, but there was no one there checking on the noise.

He carefully reached through the broken pane and twisted the doorknob from the other side. With a click, the door swung open. Conolly impatiently removed his arm and stepped inside.

He found himself in a tasteful kitchen, with sleek, modern countertops, a gleaming, white refrigerator, and some artfully placed antique chairs.

Sheila Hopkins was lying on her back, in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway.

She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were closed.

Conolly rushed over and reached for her wrist.

Her pulse was weak, very weak. He slapped her face, but there was no reaction.

‘Miss Hopkins!’ he called out. ‘Miss Hopkins, are you all right?’

Nothing.

He pulled open her eyes. She was alive, but barely. He slapped her again, but she didn’t react.

‘Come on!’ he said in a sharp whisper. ‘Stay with me!’

When he looked up, he saw the syringe on the floor... and that’s when he noticed the needle tracks in her arm.

‘God...’ he whispered.

He ran over to the telephone, which was on a table in the corner, and dialed 999.

‘Ambulance!’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘I need an ambulance!’

***

It only took a few minutes for the ambulance to arrive. They rang the doorbell and Conolly let them in, as if he owned the place. There were two of them, a young Asian man and a pale blonde woman who looked a bit worse for wear. They carried a stretcher and various bags with them.

The man — his name was Khalidi according to the tag on his jacket — put down the stretcher and looked at his assistant. Her name tag identified her as Burton. Funny, Conolly thought. Like Richard Burton. Except, of course, it wasn’t funny at all.

The two of them barely spoke. They communicated with almost inaudible grunts, eye contact, and hand gestures. Together, they quickly lifted Sheila Hopkins onto the stretcher.

It occurred to Conolly how beautiful she was. She looked, of course, a tad rough — drugs will do that to a person — but she had a sort of natural beauty that could make a man’s heart melt. Unruly strawberry blonde hair, pale skin, some freckles on her cheekbones. She was wearing a nightgown.

‘Are you her husband?’ the man named Khalidi asked.

Conolly was taken aback for a moment. Then it occurred to him that this was, in fact, a perfectly sensible conclusion to come to. Why else would he be in her flat?

He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

They rushed her down to the ambulance and pushed the stretcher into the back. Being a ‘close relation’, Conolly was allowed to ride with her.

The driver, Khalidi, put the vehicle in gear, turned on the alarms, and took off.

Burton attached a drip to her arm and re-checked her pulse.

Then, Burton put a breathing mask over Sheila’s mouth, strapped it tightly to the back of her head, and handed Conolly a plastic pump.

‘Hold this,’ she said. ‘Make yourself useful. Keep pumping.’

Conolly nodded. He started squeezing the pump, perhaps with a tad too much enthusiasm.

‘Easy now,’ Burton said. ‘Keep it steady. She needs steady bursts of air.’

‘Right,’ Conolly said, feeling oddly embarrassed. ‘Yes, miss.’

Burton shot him a glance.

‘Don’t call me miss.’

‘Yes, miss,’ said Conolly.

After a few seconds, he found a good rhythm and kept pumping. He looked at Sheila’s face. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment of connection and then shut again. They were green, with specks of hazel. For a brief moment, Conolly was hypnotised...

And then, suddenly, something flickered in her eyes. For a brief moment, she looked straight at Conolly, and he saw that there was life in her yet.

‘Don’t give up...’ he whispered.

***

The ambulance arrived at King’s College Hospital in South London with screeching tyres.

The moment the vehicle stopped, the driver’s side door opened and Khalidi jumped out. He rushed to the back and tore open the doors.

Together with Burton, he pulled the stretcher out. The wheels unfolded as they did so, and the stretcher met the asphalt with a clunking noise.

‘I’ll take over from here,’ said Khalidi, as he took the air pump from Conolly.

For a moment, Conolly was confused. Then he came to, and released his grip on the pump.

‘We’ve got it,’ Burton said to him. Her face and voice was all business.

Conolly let go. Of the pump and, by extension, of Sheila Hopkins, whose green eyes had somehow burned into his soul and left an indelible mark on him.

He watched, feeling as helpless as a small boy, as the two ambulance people rolled the stretcher into the hospital. The glass doors opened, then closed, and Sheila Hopkins was gone. Conolly watched as they wheeled her into A&E. Others would take over now. He was no longer needed. He stood outside in the cold January air and suddenly felt alone.

***

Brixton, London. 8.35 pm.

There wasn’t much traffic this time of day, though the streets were wet with rain and the occasional snowflake. Ever since returning from Egypt, Wendell Carson found himself living in fear. He couldn’t put it into words, but he felt, at the edge of his mind, as if he was never alone anymore. As if someone — or something — was watching him.

Every hour of every day.

He was on his way back home after a day at the university. He put his key in the lock and turned it. The door creaked as he pushed it open. He could feel his heart beating in his chest.

‘Hello?’

His voice was strained and nervous.

He stepped inside. The house was warm and comfortable, but the chill never left his bones.

Then he heard the voice.

‘Mr Carson?’

He screamed and spun around, dropping his keys.

And then, just a moment later, he felt foolish.

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was a woman in her mid-sixties. She had a kind look on her face.

‘Mrs Chopra,’ he said, exhaling with relief.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Dr Carson was renting a room in Brixton, in South London. His landlady was a widow from the Punjabi region of India. She had immigrated to the UK with her husband after the war. When her husband died of cancer, she decided to take in lodgers. It alleviated her loneliness and helped pay the bills. She had rather taken to Wendell Carson — something about his shy, boyish demeanour reminded her of her own son.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ she asked.

Carson shifted uncomfortably. No, he was not all right. Far from it. But he couldn’t very well tell Mrs Chopra about it. About the voices, and the nightmares.

‘I’m fine, Mrs Chopra, thank you,’ he said, but he certainly didn’t sound fine.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mrs Chopra with a smile. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘That’s quite all right. I’ve been a bit tense lately.’

‘I’ve noticed,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

She reached for him, but he flinched back.

‘Perfectly fine,’ he said, his voice tense. ‘Thank you, Mrs Chopra.’

She stood awkwardly in the hallway, her hand still stretched out. She slowly lowered it. The dim light made her face seem older than it was. Carson felt she must have been an attractive woman in her youth.

She cleared her throat and touched her hair with her hand, a gesture she habitually employed when she didn’t know what else to do.

‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ she said.

Mrs Chopra, like so many people in England, believed wholeheartedly in the healing power of a nice cup of tea. It was another one of her fallback gestures — if all else fails, offer some tea.

Carson smiled gratefully.

‘Yes,’ he said with an exhale. ‘Actually, that would be lovely...’

‘Take off your coat,’ she said. ‘Have a seat. I’ll be right back.’

‘Thank you,’ Carson replied. He took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack in the hallway. Then he took off his boots and went into the living room. A pleasant fire was crackling in the fireplace.

He rubbed his hands together and held them in front of the flames.

And then he saw it.

The flames in the fireplace seemed — for a brief moment — to be forming a human face, which stared out at him.

Carson gasped and stumbled back a few steps.

When he looked again, the face was gone.

Probably just my imagination, he thought.

He went to one of the armchairs and took a seat. He sat carefully on the edge, not allowing himself to sink in too deep. Like a nervous schoolboy.

At 26, Wendell Carson was the youngest member of the Hopkins expedition. He was an expert in ancient languages. His translation of the relevant passages of the Al Azif had revealed the whereabouts of Sakuro’s tomb.

That’s how it all started — with that damned tomb.

He heard Mrs Chopra humming in the kitchen. Then there was the characteristic and enticing whistling of a tea kettle coming to a boil.

Carson kept staring at the kitchen door. He didn’t want to look at the fire anymore. He didn’t want to risk seeing the face again.

After a few minutes, Mrs Chopra came back in with the tea. She was wearing beige slacks and a brown cardigan. Her grey-black hair was tied loosely at the nape of her neck. She had a shining red-and-silver bindi on her forehead.

She carried the tea on a small metal tray. She carefully set it down on the coffee table and handed him his teacup.

‘Here you are,’ she said.

‘Thank...’ replied Carson, but his words died in his mouth. He stopped abruptly, listening intently.

He heard the voice.

Again.

‘Defiler...’ said the voice.

His hands started to shake. The teacup was rattling on its saucer.

‘Did... Did you hear that?’ Carson asked in a hushed whisper.

Mrs Chopra wiped a stray lock of hair from her forehead and blithely said: ‘Hear what, dear?’

And then Dr Carson saw the overhead lights flickering... ever so slightly.

He inhaled sharply. He heard the sound of wind, but he couldn’t tell if it was real or in his imagination.

‘You will be mine...’ said the voice.

Suddenly he saw a shadow on the wall. It was moving...

He sat frozen in his seat, clutching the teacup. All colour drained from his face. His heart pounded. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead and his breath was strained and nervous.

His head was, quite suddenly, filled with whispering and that maddening sound of wind, howling at him from some great, bleak wasteland.

‘...or lemon?’ said Mrs Chopra quite unexpectedly.

The wind and whispering stopped as abruptly as they’d begun.

‘Sorry?’ Carson was scared now. He hadn’t been that scared since he was eight years old and trapped in his parents’ attic.

‘Milk or lemon, dear?’ Mrs Chopra said. But Carson paid almost no attention to her words. His eyes darted furtively through the room.

‘Both, please,’ he said absentmindedly.

Mrs Chopra gave a small laugh. ‘Well, you can’t have both. The milk will curdle.’

Like flesh sizzling in a skillet, the whispers rose inside his head again, filling his mind and soul with a cold, infinite dread.

‘I’ll have your soul...’ said the voice.

And then he saw it.

A black beetle was crawling over his foot.

Carson screamed and jumped up from his seat.

His teacup shattered on the floor. Mrs Chopra looked disapprovingly at him: ‘Oh dear!’ she said, and this time, her voice was scolding. ‘What is the matter with you?’

Carson was close to tears. That’s what happened to him in the attic: he was so afraid that he had simply cried.

‘I’m... I’m so sorry...’ he said between gasps, then suddenly turned around and ran.

He fled into the hallway and up the staircase to his room.

‘Mr Carson?’ his landlady called after him.

But all she heard in response was his door slamming shut.

***

London. 9.49 am. Two weeks later.

It was an unusually cold winter. The air was crisp and almost clean, and the cold cut like a knife. The sun was shining, but it gave no warmth.

Bill Conolly stood outside the Carlton Rehabilitation Clinic, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his wool coat. He was freezing. He could see his breath in the air, rising like puffs of smoke.

Then he saw her. Sheila Hopkins. She was accompanied by an older man. They walked quickly towards a Jaguar that was parked by the side of the road. A chauffeur held the door open.

‘Ms Hopkins!’ he said as he approached. ‘Ms Hopkins, can I talk to you?’

‘Who are you?’ said Sheila. She looked better now. Her face was a little flushed, but that might just be the merciless cold. Her eyes were like emeralds.

With specks of hazel, Conolly thought. It’s always the little impurities that create true perfection.

He cleared his throat and said: ‘My name is Bill Conolly, I’m a journalist.’

Suddenly, her father stepped in front of him. He was a pink-faced giant of a man with a receding hairline, his massive bulk hidden beneath a cashmere overcoat.

‘Get out of here!’ he growled.

He retained traces of a Cockney accent, a constant reminder that Sir Gerald Hopkins wasn’t born with the ‘Sir’ in front of his name. He had made his way in the world.

‘I just have a few questions for Sheila! It’s important...’ Conolly stammered.

‘I will not allow you to drag our family name through the mud,’ said Sir Gerald in a voice that allowed no room for argument.

‘I just want to talk,’ said Conolly. ‘Off the record...’

Sheila turned to her father and laid her hand on his lapel. Her fingers were almost white. Conolly noticed there was no wedding or engagement ring.

‘Dad...?’

‘Let me handle this!’ Sir Gerald said.

‘Dad, that’s him...’ she said quietly. ‘The man who found me.’

Sir Gerald seemed taken aback. Ever so briefly, he was unsure what to do, which gave him — the captain of industry — the look of a boat adrift at sea without a captain.

He turned red and forced himself to speak more reasonably.

‘You...’ he stammered. ‘That was you?’

Conolly nodded.

‘I... Yes,’ he began, feeling uncomfortable under Sir Gerald’s gaze. And Sheila’s. ‘That was me.’

Sir Gerald looked at him suspiciously. But, encouragingly, he forced his thick lips into a smile.

‘I suppose I ought to thank you...’ he growled.

Conolly nodded, not sure if he had just been thanked or not. Perhaps that was the secret to success: always leave others guessing.

‘Sir Gerald,’ said Conolly and cleared his throat. ‘I promise you. I’m not after a story. Not anymore. I just want to talk to your daughter.’

Sir Gerald’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

‘Why?’

‘I know about the nightmares,’ said Conolly, but he looked directly at Sheila as he said it.

Sir Gerald