James trooped after him then turned, as if he'd just remembered the open door. He saw Harold, frowned and turned back. “You can't come in. You're trespassing. You don't have a warrant and I've not invited you.”
“We're not vampires, so we don't need to be invited inside and we're not the police, so you don't need to worry about the little stash of cannabis in the false bottom of your bedside cabinet.” Jasfoup found the kitchen and pointed at the kettle. It began to boil. “Or rather you do need to worry about your cannabis, but not because it's a prohibited substance under the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971 but because the strain you're consuming has been grown in a place not conducive to your general wellbeing.”
“What?” James pointed to the kettle. “How did you do that? And how did you know where I keep my stash?” He backed away a step. “Not that I've got any stash. I don't even know what you're talking about.”
“Don't you?” The kettle came to a boil and clicked off. Jasfoup clicked his fingers and a mug rattled off the draining board. The tea caddy opened and a tea bag flew out, dropped into the mug and was covered in near-boiling water.
“How are you doing this?” James grinned suddenly. “Is this a prank show? Is everything done by wires? Are there hidden cameras in here?” He peered into the corners of the room and looked up at the ceiling.
Harold looked at Devious, who was making the tea. The imp shrugged. “He can't see me.”
Jasfoup turned to him. “What is?”
“The fact that you're only making tea for yourself?” Harold studied a calendar on the wall. It displayed the Isle of Arran in its annual hour of sunshine. “Also, Mr Metcalfe is no more a denizen than his nylon housecoat. He might have a bit of the Norman Bates syndrome but he'd not dead. Not yet.”
“Dead? Why would I be dead?” James pulled out a mobile phone just as the fridge opened and a plastic bottle of semi-skimmed drifted out, “I'm calling the police!”