I shut up the office at five after completing the form P3-8F for Wizard Moobin’s accident and all the B1-7Gs for the day’s work. Once they were signed by the magician they related to, my day was done. But as I walked along the corridor towards the lobby the Quarkbeast’s hackles rose and he made growly Quarky noises deep in his throat. It was easy to see why. There were two men waiting for me beneath the spreading boughs of the oak tree.

‘Call the Quarkbeast off, Miss Strange,’ said one of the men. ‘We’re not here to harm you or it.’

The two men were well dressed and very familiar. They were Royal Police, and were always the ones assigned to investigate any possible deviation from the Magical Powers (amended 1966) Act. I’d known them for as long as I had been here, and two things were certain: one, they would go away empty handed, and two: they always began with the same introduction, even though they knew exactly who I was – and I them.

‘I’m Detective Norton,’ said the taller and thinner of the two, ‘and this is Sergeant Villiers. We work for the King and we would like you to help us with our inquiries.’

Sergeant Villiers was a good deal heavier in body and face than Norton, and we often joked that the pair of them looked like the ‘Before and After’ in a slimming advertisement.

The Quarkbeast sniffed Villiers’ trouser leg excitedly, and wagged his tail.

‘You have a new wooden leg, Sergeant,’ I observed, ‘made of walnut.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Walnut is catnip to a Quarkbeast. If you still have your old one, I’d wear it next time you come round.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ he said, peering nervously at the Quarkbeast, who was in turn staring intently at his leg, his razor-sharp fangs dripping with saliva. He’d have eaten the leg in under a second if I’d allowed him, but Quarkbeasts, for all their fearsome looks, were dutiful to a fault. They were one tenth Labrador, and the rest was a mix of velociraptor and kitchen blender. It was the tenth that mattered.

‘So, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘how can I help?’

‘Is Mr Zambini back yet?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘I see. You have a few soothsayers and pre-cogs on yours books, I understand?’

‘You know I have,’ I answered, ‘and they both hold Class IV Premonition Certificates.’

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, sensing the defensive tone in my voice.

‘Have any of your pre-cogs mentioned the death of Maltcassion?’ asked Norton.

‘It doesn’t take any special skills, Detective. Take a look up at the Dragonlands. Besides, doesn’t the King have a seer of his own?’