‘So, is it real or not?’ said Kimberley.

I told her it was real, but learning to differentiate the real from the unreal was one of the things you needed a teacher for, although an annoying dog can be of some help. When she asked what breed of dog I recommended, I realised I might have been leading her a bit astray.

‘Forget about the dog,’ I said.

‘I liked the dog,’ said Kimberley.

‘The dog is a distraction,’ I said.

Kimberley’s lips twitched.

‘You don’t say,’ she said. ‘So do you think my active shooter was possessed or not?’

‘He might have been,’ I said. ‘But that doesn’t mean that whatever got into his head made him kill those people. It might have wanted something else, but your shooter misinterpreted it. Or it might have been influenced by the shooter’s own personality. And even if it unequivocally did influence him to shoot his wife, that doesn’t mean that any of the other “active shooters” suffered the same thing.’

‘That’s unhelpful,’ said Kimberley.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I can scan some of the basic textbooks we’ve got back at the Folly, but really they’re not that useful, either. At least, I haven’t found them that useful.’

Kimberley nodded and stared at her empty coffee cup.

‘You know the coffee in this place is terrible,’ she said.

So we walked further up Uxbridge Road until we found somewhere with decent coffee and Kimberley finally told me what she was doing in the UK.

‘Now, since I have become the Bureau’s go-to girl for things both English and supernatural, I have been tasked to try and smooth the repatriation of my fellow citizens –’ she gave me an arch look, ‘– those that are still alive, back to the United States of America where they belong.’

‘You could just leave them to us,’ I said. ‘They’re facing some serious charges. False imprisonment, possession of a firearm with intent.’

‘Intent of what?’

‘Just general intent at the moment,’ I said.

Kimberley said that if it were down to her she’d be happy to let them enjoy Her Majesty’s hospitality, but there was the pesky detail of their quasi-official status and the US Government being loath to rinse out its undies in the British courts. In order to facilitate a happy outcome she’d be sent over with a grab-bag of low level secrets and concessions to tempt the palate of the British security establishment.

‘Not to mention save the taxpayer some money,’ she said.

‘Did it work?’ I asked.

‘Yes and no,’ said Kimberley. ‘Everybody agreed in principle.’

‘But?’

‘Only if your boss says yes,’ said Kimberley.

‘My boss?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nightingale?’

‘Do you have another boss?’

No, I thought, but I didn’t think his influence stretched that far.

‘Did they say why?’ I asked.

‘They said there was an arrangement,’ she said.

Of course there is, I thought.