My ears popped as a doughnut-shaped pressure wave erupted from the front of Hooke’s weapon and caught Moody full in the chest. I saw the pattern of a Tudor rose blossom on his chest hair before the secondary shock wave lifted him off his feet and propelled him backwards across the square into the unyielding stone of the town hall. There was a wettish thud and he fell into a lifeless heap on the ground; the compacted snow melted into water by the momentary pressure change to reveal cobbles and half an iron inspection cover. In a split second the pressure had normalised and the water instantly refroze as gin-clear ice, locking Moody’s body to the ground. In the Winter, warmth is only ever a transitory commodity.

Hooke broke open the weapon, ejected the spent cell and replaced it with another from his pocket.

A movement caught my eye. It was Aurora running around the corner, weapon at the ready. She threw up her hands when she saw what had happened.

‘You bloody idiot!’ she yelled when she saw Moody’s body. ‘What happened to good old-fashioned proportionality?’

‘I was well within my rights, Aurora,’ said Hooke in an unrepentant tone. ‘Moody was endangering my life and that of others. The law permits me to use reasonable force in such circumstances.’

He said it in the same sort of tone you might use to describe your favourite brand of butter.

‘We need our infrastructure support staff,’ said Aurora in an exasperated tone, ‘even the deranged ones. Who’s going to bring the rail network out of mothballs to meet the Springrise schedule? You?’

There followed an argument in which claims and counterclaims were issued, insults traded, demotions hinted. But ultimately, with little to no headway.

Within a few minutes other security agents had arrived, presumably alerted by the Thumper’s pressure signature, which would have every barograph spiking within a mile. It was only then that Aurora spotted me in the window and walked over.

‘Deputy Worthing,’ she said as she walked into the café, Hooke by her side, ‘how’s the viral dreams investigation going?’

‘One of your agents just killed my star witness.’

‘It was self-defence,’ said Hooke. ‘You saw him run at me with an axe.’

‘Did he?’ asked Aurora.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose so.’

‘I see you’ve met our resident parasites,’ said Hooke, who had been looking around the café. ‘Good evening, Shamanic Bob.’

‘Good evening,’ said Bob with a defiant smile. ‘Come to wish us all a slow death?’

‘You read me like a book,’ said Hooke. ‘Spooky. But let’s face facts: you are the most loathsome of spongers.’

‘That’s Mr Loathsome Sponger to you,’ said Shamanic Bob, his defiance not wavering in light of Hooke’s insults, ‘and I know my rights. You’re private security, not Winter Consulate. You have no jurisdiction over me.’