She cocked her head on one side and stared at me.

‘Information has a price, my young friend. Two thousand euros.’

We haggled for almost five minutes, and settled on eight hundred euros, a dozen Snickers, three Cornettos and a Favour. We shook hands on it, and she began.

‘It was when I was still a Mrs Nesbit, over thirty years ago. You’re too young to remember.’

‘True,’ I said, ‘but you’re still familiar.’

‘I’m glad of that. NesCorp Holdings gave a lot of funding to HiberTech in those days, so I often travelled over here for press junkets, announcing some new discovery or other. I was the face of Morphenox during its initial roll-out, and I was always treated very well.’

She looked around and lowered her voice.

‘On one of these trips Don Hector took me aside and asked if I would assist with some high-level research work. I said I would – you don’t turn down someone like Don Hector – so I signed reams and reams of non-disclosure contracts and they had me stand in a room. Lots of light, the air kind of alive with static – then they had me recite some of the usual Mrs Nesbit bullshit: products to buy, tips for the busy homemaker, how to balance your chores in the kitchen with wanting to be down the pub, advice on weight gain, that sort of stuff.’

‘So?’

‘Before we did all this, I’d been asked to do a sound check and I used the “remote farm in Lincolnshire” line as I always do. Ripple-dissolve thirty years on and Suzy Watson, Roscoe Smalls and Moody all had their dream with Mrs Nesbit saying the same thing – before the hectoring started in a voice that wasn’t mine.’

She stopped talking. I’d had exactly the same thing.

‘Did this high-level research project have a name?’

‘It was part of something called Dreamspace.’

Shamanic Bob had mentioned something by that name, but hadn’t gone into any detail.

‘What was Dreamspace meant to do?’

‘I’ve no idea, but the technician said I was going to be their first “Dream Avatar”, whatever that is. And that’s my lot. I’ll expect payment as soon as you have it.’

She stood up as Lloyd approached the table, thanked me for the coffee and moved back to her table.

The porter placed my scrambled eggs in front of me and then left. I tried the eggs. The low points were colour, taste and consistency, with warmth the only redeeming feature. True to Aurora’s demand, it was a double portion, which given the low quality of the food was not quite as good a deal as I’d hoped. But my mind, as usual, was on other matters. I reread the piece of paper Zsazsa had given me.

We know of a remote farm in Lincolnshire where Mrs Buckley lives.