John Rickards and/or Sean Cregan are... the Nameless Horror

They sat on the jumbled rooftop of a tenement out by McGregor Hook, a frozen spit of land sticking out into the estuary where the Murdoch hit the sea. It was home to a swarm of amusement parks in the days of Barnum, long decayed by World War Two when low-rent housing mushroomed along the peninsula, before a doomed attempt at reviving it as a tourist spot to rival Atlantic City in the seventies. Now it existed in shabby limbo, a faded picture postcard of a nowhere nothing town, a tattered memory of old summers blasted by the cold wind off the ocean, watching habour-bound ships and the rest of the world pass it by. The tenement’s owner had had the idea of turning the rambling roof into a coffee house and cafe. Ran trelliswork between the TV aerials and rusting AC units, covered over a section by the battered roof access with a green canvas bivouac, dotted wooden lawn furniture and tables around the place. Started serving customers who came up the vine-covered fire escape down the side of the building. The Hook’s zoning authorities either didn’t know about it or didn’t care.

Maya sipped hot lemon and ginger and tried to watch the entrance. Difficult through the trellises hung with dead brown plants. Fisk had chosen the place to meet, repeatedly told them to be sure they weren’t watched or followed, that he’d split if there was any sign of trouble. Hadn’t wanted to leave home, hadn’t wanted them to come to him, hadn’t wanted to talk over the phone, so this was it. Hard, she figured, for anyone to watch who he spoke to, harder still to eavesdrop.

“Julius is taking his time finding the kid,” she said.

“He’ll come through. He’s a good man.”

“I hope nothing’s gone wrong, a buyer already taken it, something like that.”

“He’ll come through,” Garrett said again.