Harold raised an eyebrow. Of Mrs Fenshaw's death he was certain. People didn't appear on a demon's list of collectable souls while they were still hale and hearty, or even docile and watching daytime television (however close to death they might appear) so what was she doing looking larger than life and twice as healthy? She was talking to the two police officers and the doctor she'd called when she first felt unwell an hour ago.
He turned to the demon beside him. Lowering his voice to barely more than a whisper. “What's going on exactly? I thought she was dead?”
“She is.” The demon gave him an enigmatic smile. It could have been the Mona Lisa's if she wasn't still using it. “Look at her shoes.”
“Her shoes?” Harold glanced down at Mrs Fenshaw's feet. Her shoes looked all right. Brown leather brogues a little wider than the norm but still within acceptable limits for an old lady used to wearing carpet slippers. “What about her shoes?”
“They're working girl's shoes.”
“I don't think they are.” Harold had met enough working girls in his time to know that very few of them wore brogues. High heels, slingbacks, platforms, pumps and in one or two case thigh-high stiletto boots, but never wide-fit brogues. “What working girl wears shoes like that?”
The demon gave a slight shake of the head, still smiling.
“Cloven hooves. She's a succubus. They were expecting an old lady so...”