The house to which she had been summoned was one of a row of magnificent old buildings separating Temple Gardens from the Embankment, mostly taken over by lawyers and publishing firms these days. The leather on this one was holding up but the lining was beginning to go, and Greta had limited patience regarding the retrieval of items from the mysterious dimension behind the lining itself. Satisfied, she picked up her black working bag and the shapeless oversize monster that was her current handbag and went to ring the doorbell. She glowered at the car and then at the world in general, glancing around to make sure no one was watching her from the shadows. The Mini really needed to be replaced, but even with her inherited Harley Street consulting rooms Greta Helsing was not exactly drowning in cash.

Here and there in the maples lining the riverside walk, the morning’s first sparrows had begun to sing.Ī woman got out of the car and shut the door, swore, put down her bags, and shut the door again with more applied force some fellow motorist had bashed into the panel at some time in the past and bent it sufficiently to make this a production every damn time.

The sky was fading to ultramarine in the east over the Victoria Embankment when a battered Mini pulled in to the curb, not far from Blackfriars Bridge.

Strange Practice by Vivian Shaw