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’

He bowed, gesturing for me to take the lead. I looked around at Juliet one more time.

‘Luck,’ I said, for want of anything better to say.

‘There’s no such thing,’ she told me dispassionately, already walking away. ‘Trust in luck and you’ll die tonight.’

I headed for the entrance to the yard. The gate had been closed with a padlock when we turned up, but Moloch had twisted the lock between finger and thumb and it had snapped off clean: then he’d tossed it negligently away over his shoulder. There was nothing to slow us down now as we walked back out onto the street.

The front gates of the crematorium were a much heftier proposition. They were off on our left, fifty yards away at most. I hadn’t taken the time to admire them on the day of John’s cremation, but I could see now that they were built to withstand a serious siege. Where they touched they wore a massive chain and a clutch of padlocks like a giant’s charm bracelet.

We took our time, not wanting to get there too early.

The impassive men inside stared out at us through the bars as we approached. There were three of them, all dressed in the sombre black uniforms of priests or security guards. But most priests don’t have that kind of physique. I stared back. No sign of small arms – only sidewinder nightsticks in holsters at their waists: but then, they wouldn’t want a chance passer-by to notice anything odd and dial 999. The rifles would put in an appearance soon enough if we gave them any excuse.

‘Evening, gents,’ I said, coming to a halt right in front of the gates. Juliet’s arcane energies were burning inside me. I felt slightly hysterical: it was hard not to laugh out loud.

The guy in the middle gave me a bored, neutral look. ‘Anything we can do for you?’ he asked, in a tone that emphatically didn’t expect a yes and wouldn’t be happy to hear one.

‘Yeah,’ I said equably. ‘We’ve come to see Uncle George. He’s in the memorial garden, right next to the stone cherub with the fascist graffiti on its arse.

George Armstrong Castor. He was in the cavalry.’

The guard didn’t answer me right away: he gave us both a harder look, his eyebrows inverting themselves into a dark V of stony disapproval.

‘The memorial garden is closed,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.’

I shook my head firmly. ‘Tomorrow morning is no use,’ I said. ‘We’re grieving now. By tomorrow we could be feeling cynical and self-sufficient again.