Being a reporter and independent film producer, it seemed, paid very, very well. J. Ilkin Aylesworth lived in a two-floor flat on West End Lane, overlooking the picturesque Pinner Memorial Park. It was a rather nice place, a studio apartment of the sort that only the very rich and very fashionable could dwell in. The first floor was largely devoted to a single room that was part kitchen, part living-room, part dining-room, and part bar, with the ceiling reaching a good twenty feet above your heads. A stairwell and walkway led to the upper level of the apartment, where Ilkin and his friend and roommate Benjamin Dranias had their private quarters.
The flat was decorated in a rather loose, comfortable style, the furniture low and sleek, all very modern looking. It was onto one of these very modern and very fashionable couchs that the three of you man-handled Robert Hammond onto. Getting him into and out of the car had been a bit heart-racing, since there were really precious few good explanations to give the police for why three people, one of them a stripper, were dragging a sleeping man into a car. Something, either the Tapestry, dumb luck, or a bit of minor magic was with you however, and you managed to arrive at Ilkin's flat without having to answer any very awkward questions.
It was around this point that Hammond stirred, opening one bleary eye to gaze out at you. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked, by and by large, like hell. The changeling made some unidentifiable noises, then muttered. "...Where is this...? Ugh... my head... that was a bad nightmare."