‘She’s not dead,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I couldn’t kill her because she’s still in there. It’s not a neural collapse brought on by Morphenox – which, yes, I did supply her with – it’s a state of displaced consciousness. She can process memories.’

‘I can see that,’ said Jonesy, staring at the sketches, ‘and it’s not the first I’ve seen.’

‘I love you, Charlie.’

‘I have to answer or she repeats herself,’ I said. ‘I love you, Birgitta.’

Birgitta relaxed, and began to sketch again. Jonesy looked at me, then at Birgitta.

‘How long were you thinking of keeping her?’

I shrugged.

‘I don’t know. Until Springrise, I guess. I didn’t really have a plan, more an objective. Events move fast in the Winter,’ I added, remembering what Logan had told me, ‘and you need flexibility to ensure the plan doesn’t get in the way of the goal. Am I under arrest?’

‘You are,’ she said, ‘in order to remain under our protection.’

‘It’s that important?’

‘It’s crucial. I don’t know of a single Tricksy nightwalker who can do what Birgitta can do. The Notable Goodnight will be especially interested.’

‘So that’s why we’re taking her to HiberTech?’

‘No, that’s why we’re not taking her to HiberTech.’

‘You’re going to thump her?’

‘No, we don’t do that.’

‘What about your sixty-three nightwalker retirements? What about Glitzy Tiara and Eddie Tangiers?’

‘Smoke and mirrors, Wonk. Nothing is what it seems in the Douzey. Does Lloyd know about Baggy? Put it this way: has he tried to blackmail you?’

‘No.’

‘Then we’ll assume not. Anyone else know about her?’

I shook my head.

‘We keep it that way. Feed her these so she stays quiet, and say and do nothing while I have a look around.’

She handed me two Tunnock’s Tea Cakes from her jacket pocket and I fed Birgitta while Jonesy searched the room. She took a half-hour to do so, and was beyond thorough. If Birgitta was smart, she wouldn’t have left any evidence connecting her to Webster. She was smart, but like Charles, she couldn’t bring herself to dispose of the only picture of them together. Jonesy found it inside the hem of a curtain, the stitching unpicked and replaced by Velcro.

‘Bingo,’ she said, and showed it to me. It was the Polaroid, the same as the one from my dream, the one the photographer had taken all those years ago, the one that Birgitta had admonished Charles for keeping, the one she’d said she’d destroy. I stared at the picture stupidly, trying once again to reconcile the real with the imagined.