"Just round here," he says, walking around the corner to a small bakery and opening the door for her, nodding for her to go in.

It's small and cozy, warmly lit, and the smell of coffee and, bread and tea wafts through the shop.

Behind the counter stands an older woman: short, and frizzy-haired, she's got her back to them, kneading some bread dough on the counter.

"Welcome to the bake shop with no name," Pete grins. "Opened in 1939, and a popular after-hours stop for spooks around these parts."