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Their headquarters were not only astonishingly large but also boasted elaborate gardens.

The council claimed they required the space for their hedge witches and that the special herbs and plants that were grown there required special conditions, but on the few occasions I’d visited I’d seen little evidence of that.

There was little more than variegated rose bushes and carefully manicured lawns.

It seemed wasteful not only to me but to many Coldstream residents that so much space was available in the centre of the city and could only be used by a fraction of its citizens.

The witches would tell me to know my place; they’d been the first to settle here generations ago – and they believed they deserved greater privileges as a result.

But it wasn’t politics that brought me padding towards the wall that surrounded the witches’ home; I was on a mission and this was the only place I could think of where I might find Daniel Jackson, or at least learn his whereabouts.

The layers of security grew more complex and impregnable as you made your way inside.

Nobody but a council witch could access the inner rooms where they met to discuss their agendas, which was why I’d asked for Mallory’s help in finding out what they were currently focusing on – and why I remained dubious that she’d be able to find out.

The outer section, however, wouldn’t be too difficult to navigate because the barrier there was as much a psychological one as a real one. Unless you were a cat.

I didn’t need to scale the walls because I was small enough to slip through a narrow gap in the gates.

As far as I could tell, they were made out of iron on one side and silver on the other, so either the witches wanted to keep both erratic werewolves and tricksy Fae off their property or they were showing off.

Nothing worked as a natural adherent for witches unless it was magically enhanced first – and they were stupidly proud of the fact.

I wandered up the gravelled path to the building’s ornate front door.

Despite the late hour it was wide open and I padded straight inside, my tiny claws clicking on the marble floor.

Barrier magic brushed against my fur as I crossed the threshold, but no alarms sounded and my entrance was unimpeded.

Little cats weren’t counted as immediate foes; I reckoned I could get around at least three more layers of security before I could go no further into the witches’ stronghold.

They weren’t always as smart as they liked to think they were.

I’d been inside this building a few times before during the course of my old job so I was reasonably familiar with the layout.

I’d never actually killed anyone here – that would have been far too risky a manoeuvre for any assassin – but I’d come here to complete basic reconnaissance on four different targets and I knew the best vantage points.

There was a dining room on the first floor that would be a good bet for picking up any gossipy titbits about Fetch Jackson’s current whereabouts. It was as good a place to start as any.

I sauntered past the bored-looking witch at the front desk who was engrossed in the papers in front of her.

From past experience I knew that the best way to stay under the radar in a place like this was to act as much like a real cat as possible.

Somebody would spot me sooner or later, but as long as they believed I was a cat I’d be okay.

If I slunk around the shadows, they’d be suspicious.

The woman didn’t look up. It was almost insulting, given how cute I looked.

I didn’t pause when I reached the foot of stairs; instead, I launched myself upwards, my paws barely touching each step.

As soon as I was on the landing, I swung to my right.

I could already hear the buzz of chatter and smell the heady aroma of decent food.

Perhaps I’d get a chance to nab a few tasty scraps.

I purred: anything would beat the horror of the food the MET had served us earlier.

There was no reason why I couldn’t multi-task.

Although it was after 9pm, the dining hall was still busy and most tables were occupied.

Doubtless there was a hierarchy that determined who sat where.

I wanted to avoid the lower-level witches and find the council members because they’d be more likely to mention Fetch Jackson in conversation.

He might even be in the room, chomping on a steak.

I looked around, but my low vantage point made it difficult to see the whole room.

My whiskers bristled with annoyance: finding the right witches would be harder than I’d expected.

Unwilling to waste any more time, I made a beeline for the nearest table, figuring that I could skulk around the witches’ feet beneath the long white tablecloths until I found someone useful.

It was surprising how much you could tell about a person from their shoes.

The first pair I passed were scuffed, suggesting that their owners spent a lot of time pounding the streets of Coldstream.

It looked as if the witches at this table were grunts who delivered messages and performed scutwork.

That was confirmed when I caught a snippet of their conversation.

‘If I have to spend another three hours tramping around Danksville tomorrow,’ a female voice said, ‘I will kill someone.’

I’d like to see her try. We Danksville residents were tough.

I smirked and wound through table legs until I reached the next group.

Their shoes were in better condition, though they certainly weren’t expensive.

And one of the witches had recently stepped in dog excrement.

I recoiled. There was no need to eavesdrop on this conversation; besides, if I lingered I’d pass out from the smell.

I headed to the next table then the one after that. It was only when I reached a larger table, whose occupants wore handmade footwear that showed evidence of re-soling and smelled of pricey leather, that I reckoned I might be getting somewhere.

‘This is ridiculous,’ said an irritated man wearing stacked brogues. ‘How long does it take to brew a cup of damned coffee?’

I rolled my eyes and stepped over his feet.

‘I told Madeleine that she needs to get the contract signed as soon as possible before the Hightowers change their mind,’ murmured a stiletto-wearing woman.

I paused. I still hadn’t entirely discounted Quentin Hightower from these bloody events.

‘They’ll get to it,’ her companion replied. ‘They’re only distracted because their son and heir tripped, fell into the Tweed and caught a cold.’

There was a loud snicker. ‘That man is such a fucking idiot.’

‘Thank goodness he’s not on the council,’ came the rejoinder. ‘Birthright only gets you so far.’

‘Head first into a shitty river, if you’re Quentin Hightower.’

I picked up my paws and kept moving. There was nothing to be learned here.

‘You know we only have a small sample,’ a man wearing tan-brown loafers said.

The woman next to him, in kitten heels and skin-tone tights, sniffed. ‘All the more reason to give me some so I can try to propagate some seedlings.’

‘Brockensworth has already tried to do that and failed. The leaves alone aren’t enough. We need the seeds. ’

I veered around his feet. There was a pair of shiny black boots ahead that I had a good feeling about.

‘Hasn’t Jackson come up with the goods yet?’ said Kitten Heels, with a definite whine.

I froze.

‘Apparently not. It’s probably why he’s not shown up to dinner tonight. He’s too afraid to face us with his incompetence.’

‘The man has to eat.’

‘He lives off chicken noodles. You’ve smelled his office, right?’

I gave an involuntary purr, far louder than I should have done, but thankfully it appeared to go unnoticed. Bingo.