I stood there, looking around, one hand on Mrs Tiffen’s elbow. To my right was a door with a glass panel, and, curiosity getting the better of me, I moved closer and peered in. A nightwalker dressed in a pale green jumpsuit was strapped to what looked like a barber’s chair. Directly above him was a curious copper device the shape of a traffic cone but six times larger, the pointy end about an inch from the subject’s forehead. Behind the operating table a pair of technicians were working on several large machines that were covered in gauges, buttons, dials and four large screens. The technicians were saying something, but it was muffled by the thick glass set into the door.

‘You know what curiosity did to the cat?’

I turned. It was The Notable Goodnight.

She was older than she looked in the publicity pictures, but to my guess on the cusp of her seventh decade. A well-exercised mid-season weight, she had unblinking blue eyes and was dressed in a starched white uniform that seemed to exude no-nonsense efficiency. She stared at me with thinly disguised disdain.

‘Oh,’ I said, embarrassed at being caught snooping, ‘sorry.’

‘Well, do you?’ she asked.

‘Do I what?’

‘Do you know what curiosity did to the cat?’

‘It killed it, I guess.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.’

‘Killed it,’ I said in a louder voice.

‘Exactly. The meaning is quite clear, of course—’

She stopped, thought for a moment, then turned to Lucy.

‘Lucy, dear, why did curiosity kill the cat?’

Lucy had been reading Mrs Tiffen’s file but looked up abruptly as her name was spoken.

‘Oh – er, the context of the saying remains obscure, ma’am, but the idiomatic meaning is quite clear.’

‘Exactly,’ said Goodnight, ‘couldn’t have put it better myself. An idiom. Our work here is unpalatable but necessary for the greater good. In idiomatic terms  . . . Lucy?’

‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs?’

‘Close enough.’

‘Isn’t that  . . . proverbial rather than idiomatic?’ I asked.

They both stared at me for a moment.

‘Lost interest and moving on,’ said Goodnight. ‘Where’s Chief Logan?’

‘Aurora killed him.’

‘For kicks and giggles?’

‘Does she kill people for kicks and giggles?’

‘You don’t get to ask questions, Consul. Does Toccata know Logan is dead?’

‘I’m guessing probably not yet,’ said Lucy.

‘Who’s going to tell her?’ I asked.

‘Not me,’ said Lucy.

‘Nor me,’ said The Notable Goodnight, still staring at me. ‘What’s the deal with your head?’