A year since the Ficknaire episode and the conclusion of the Cranium Conference…

You move through the forest of pencils with some caution. Rumours of “The Silk Canary” – a psychic known for pilfering secrets from the minds of high-profile receptive clients to sell on the black market – have been circulating among the criminal underworld for several months.

Enough, in fact, to attract the attention of the International Psychic Police. Such crimes are rare, and hard to prove. But few are more capable than Special Agent Coffey O’Mooney – which is why you have been dispatched to this rainy corner of Carlisle and the mind of Mr Henry Humperdink, founder and CEO of the Coda Soda Co. He had arranged psychic therapy from someone he met on PsyHelp.net. A suspicious someone.

Mr Humperdink was most alarmed when the IPP alerted him to the danger to his secrets, but you persuaded him to go ahead with the therapy session – with yourself as an added visitor.

The forest of pencils gives way to a clearing, with a waterfall of bubbling orange Coda Soda pop. Your careful eyes scan the bright blue grass – there, broken stems show a path of footprints leading under the waterfall, into a hidden cave. You step silently inside.

Beyond is a workshop made entirely of brass, lined with cabinets and bottles – the Memory Bank. Peering around the corner you see a figure, an avatar, crouched beside an iron chest with a heavy lock. They hold out their hand, fabricating something – a feather? Tickle the padlock. 'Click', it opens. They are good, very good. This is the one you are after.

The avatar, a woman, masked in black clothes, reaches into the chest and retrieves a glowing gold bottle – the priceless secret formula to Coda Soda. Before she can open it you leap forward, angel wings flaring either side, mail gleaming. You shout, voice booming in the confined space.

“Stop, in the name of the International Psychic Police!”

She spins around, glaring at you. Even though the avatar looks different – different hair, different build – you can Feel this is the same person you almost caught in Amsterdam. And this time you have her cornered, in Head and Bread. She looks at you coyly.

“Hmm. Old Hump' didn't tell me this was group therapy. Shall we do some trust falls?”

“Drop it,” you say, firmly, pointing at the bottle. She scoffs, tossing the it from hand to hand.

“Hah. Nice try. You know that nothing in Headspace can be evidence in a court of law. I can take this, leave, and there is nothing you can do.”

You grin. In an instant you flick one of your wings to the bottle, and it flies out of the thief's grip into your waiting hands. Another flick and fabricated handcuffs spin out of the air and snap onto her wrists.

“Actually, I think you'll find the new Psychic Crime and Evidence Act, Section 13, paragraph 2, subclause b), – I like to think of it as the O'Mooney amendment – does enable the testimony of crimes committed in Headspace, provided the witness is a sworn officer of the law. And don't worry Ms 'Silk Canary', my colleagues will be giving you a set of those cuffs in Breadspace as well.”

For Special Agent O'Mooney always closes a case.

“I… I… you mean it?? You're sure? They said yes? You mean… you mean… I can keep him!?? Oh, thank you!”

A beaming Nick Ficknaire throws his arms around you in joy as Rufus the dog barks excitedly and snuffles his new owner, tail wagging like it could power half a city. You carefully disengage, but can't help but smile yourself.

“Nick, well, it's really the least I can do. I want you to know how sorry I am, you didn't deserve any of this–”

“It's ok,” says Nick, forestalling you. “Take care, Agent O'Mooney, and keep up that croquet practice.”

You laugh, “I will, I promise. Thanks for teaching me.”

You wave, as you get into your car. And then it's time to go.

The Café Armandine in the 14th Arrondissement is Coffey O'Mooney's customary lunchtime haunt. Close enough to the office. Far enough to escape the rush. Today, three years after Linus Ficknaire was convicted of double murder, and three years after you left Museford behind, you sit, watching the life of Paris go by, drinking a semi-decaf café au lait (an Agent can only go so decaf) and nibbling an Armandine house croissant.

Time passes. You watch an old lady carrying a bundle of baguettes under her arm. You think about that Stockholm case, boy was that a doozy. You watch some men playing pétanque. You think about– a man runs past you, straight through the pétanque game, balls flying, angry players cursing in French. Then there is another blur of movement and a cry of “AIIIIEEE-YAH!” and suddenly the man is flat on the ground, a young woman with bright pink lipstick straddling him. Wait, you'd know that Aikido cry anywhere…

“Sireen?” you call in wonder.

The officer finishes handcuffing the unfortunate suspect to a bicycle stand and waves over to you excitedly, “Wow, wotcha Coff! Cor, I forgot yah worked abouts 'ere.” She rushes over, and enthusiastically explains, “Im on 'Li-yay-son' with the French coppers. Learning about them Frenchie stuff – 'Jen-Darm-arry' and that – and I teach ‘em how to take down dem bad guys, Museford style. How ya doing Jean-Claude?” she calls to the man handcuffed to the street furniture.

“Très bien Lieutenant el-Aly, merci,” mutters the man, in the resigned tone of trainees everywhere.

You down your coffee in one, and stand up with renewed vigour. “Sireen, there's this karaoke bar I know, and I know where we can get some tequila. You remember how to make your Flaming Mary Margarita?”

Sireen claps a hand on your shoulder, “Now theres my old partner! Paris won't know what's hit it.”

Who says Special Agents don't know how to party?