I was wearing my leather jacket, black shirt and trousers, and Dr. Martens—standard male crimewriter’s garb. The cops were in a blue Rover about fifty yards down the street. I hadn’t seen them in the morning when I went running. Maybe they weren’t on shift then. I hoped they hadn’t spotted me making the phone calls. That would have piqued Karen Oaten’s curiosity. I thought about her for a moment. There was something about her, even though she was potentially an enemy thanks to the Devil.I left the flat, looking as nonchalant as I could about the men on my tail. They were welcome to follow me now. I walked down to Herne Hill station and bought a travel card. I spotted a guy in a crumpled parka getting on the carriage behind mine. I paid him no further attention. At Victoria, I took the Tube up to Tottenham Court Road and walked to the nearby square where Sixth Sense Ltd., my former publishers, had their office.“I’ve an appointment with Jeanie Young-Burke,” I said to the attractive, raven-haired young woman at reception.
