Kerrie’s hand has moved to cover mine. Her face is full of concern.

“Are you unwell, sweetheart? You’ve gone very pale.”

“You said three people died. Helen Sutton. Bob Hodgson.” And now my mouth’s so dry I can scarcely move my tongue. “Who…who was the third?”

We walk back to Redheugh Close in silence. The feeling that something isn’t quite right is impossible to escape.

Because Helen Sutton died the same night as Bob Hodgson, that’s why.

If only I could wrap my head around the implications of that one simple sentence.

“There’s no need to pull a face like you’ve just swallowed a bluebottle, sweetheart. Your name only came up after I happened to mention that as I hoped to do a spot of amateur sleuthing while I was here, it would be nice if I could hire a trusty sidekick to help me out for a day or two. Norah says a break like that will do you a power of good, so consider yourself roped in.”

The girl on the other side of the dressing-table mirror returns the world-weary smile I throw at her. We’ll see this out somehow.

If only I didn’t identify with her more and more completely with each day that goes by. How long do I have left before I’m unable to imagine any reflection but the one in front of me now?

Scary? I’ll say.

And there isn’t a thing I can do about it.

"Less than fifty people in the world know of the transfer device. The list includes neither the Prime Minister of this country nor the President of the United States. To learn of our organisation is to join it. There’s no going back, Richard. You work for us now. You always will.”

As a last resort I look up at the sky, hoping the clouds have turned green or that they’ll part to reveal a fleet of flying saucers piloted by bug-eyed monsters intent on enslaving the human race.

But everywhere looks depressingly normal. The only thing out of kilter is me.

How did she do it?

Why did she do it?

Why did Ruth pick me?

Save the post-mortem for later, Rich. You’ve got a more urgent problem to deal with.

The Good Samaritans are exchanging worried frowns. No doubt this is because for the last minute and a half the girl in front of them has been acting like she’s escaped from somewhere.

And now it hits me...

Southern England, the late 1970s...

When my vision clears I’m alone.

And very much alive!

But my euphoria is throttled in its cradle. Something is wrong...

The last Lore Keeper of the Weres disappeared without a trace, now thirty years later his legacy returns in the form of a young man named Michael Williams.