The Secret Place

Chapter 7

The between-classes rush was different, this time round. Huddles against walls, shiny heads tucked close. Low thrumming of a hundred top-speed whispers going at once. Buzz sliced off and girls scurrying when they whipped round and saw us coming. Word had got around.

We caught a bunch of teachers on the early lunch in the staff room – nice staff room, espresso machine and Matisse posters, bit of niceness to keep the mood happy. The PE teacher had been on board-check duty the day before, and she swore she’d checked straight after classes and checked right. Two new cards, she’d spotted, the black Labrador and one about some girl saving her pocket money towards a boob job. Par for the course, she said: back when the board first went up it had been hopping, dozens of new cards a day, but the rush had died down. If there’d been a third new one, she would have noticed.

Wary eyes following us out of the staff room; wary eyes and cosy beef-stew smell, and just too soon, one step before we got out of earshot, a surge of low voices and shushing.

‘Thank Jesus,’ Conway said, ignoring. ‘That ought to narrow it down.’

I said, ‘She could’ve put it up herself.’

Conway took the stairs two at a time, back up towards McKenna’s office. ‘The teacher? Not unless she’s an idiot. Why get herself on the list? Throw the card up there someday when you’re not on duty, let someone else find it: no connection to you. She’s out, or as near as it gets.’

McKenna’s curly secretary had the list ready for us, all typed up and printed off, service with a smile. Orla Burgess, Gemma Harding, Joanne Heffernan, Alison Muldoon – given permission to spend first evening study period in art room (6.00-7.15 p.m.). Julia Harte, Holly Mackey, Rebecca O’Mara, Selena Wynne – given permission to spend second evening study period in art room (7.45-9.00 p.m.).

‘Huh,’ Conway said, taking the list back off me and leaning one thigh against the secretary’s desk to have another read. ‘Who woulda thought. I’ll need to talk to the eight of them, separately. And I want them all pulled out of class right now and supervised, nonstop, till I’m done.’ No point in letting them match up stories or move evidence, on the off-chance they hadn’t already. ‘I’ll have the art room, and a teacher to sit in with us. Whatshername, teaches French: Houlihan.’

The art room was free and Houlihan would be with us momentarily, as soon as someone was found to take over her class. McKenna had given orders: what the cops want, the cops get.

We didn’t need Houlihan. You want to interview an underage suspect, you need an appropriate adult present; you want to interview an underage witness, it’s your call. If you can skip the extra, then you do: there are things kids might tell you that they won’t say in front of Mammy, or in front of a teacher.

If you get in an appropriate adult, then it’s for reasons. I got the social worker in with Holly because I was on my own with a teenage girl, and because of her da. Conway wanted Houlihan for reasons.

Wanted the art room for reasons, too. ‘That,’ she said, at the door, jerking her chin at the Secret Place across the corridor. ‘When our girl walks past that, she’s gonna look.’

I said, ‘Unless she’s got serious self-control.’

‘If she did, she wouldn’t’ve put up that card to begin with.’

‘She had enough self-control to wait a year.’

‘Yeah. And now it’s cracking.’ Conway pushed open the art-room door.

The art room was cleaner-fresh, blackboard and long green tables washed bare. Gleaming sinks, two potter’s wheels. Easels, wooden frames stacked in a corner; smell of paint and clay. The back of the room was tall windows, looking out over the lawn and the grounds. I felt Conway remembering art class, one roll of paper and a handful of hairy paints.

She spun three chairs into an aisle, in a rough circle. Pulled a handful of pastels out of a drawer and went between tables scattering them, shoving chairs off kilter with her hip. Sun turned the air bright and hot-still.

I stayed by the door, watching. She said, like I’d asked, ‘I fucked up, last time. We did the interviews in McKenna’s office, had McKenna be the appropriate adult. Three of us sitting in a row behind her desk like a parole board, staring some kid out of it.’

A last glance down the aisles. She turned to the blackboard, found a piece of yellow chalk and started scribbling nothing.

‘Costello’s idea. Make it formal, he said, make it like being called in to the headmistress, only way worse. Put the fear of God into them, he said. Sounded right, made sense – just kids, just little girls, used to doing what they’re told, crank up the authority high enough and they’ll crack, right?’

She tossed the chalk on the teacher’s desk and rubbed out the scribbles, leaving snippets and swipe-marks. Specks of chalk-dust whirled in the sun all round her. ‘Even then, I knew it was wrong. Me sitting there like I’d a poker up my arse, knowing every second a little more of our chance was going out the window. But it went fast, I couldn’t put my finger on how to do it any different, then it was too late. And Costello… even if it was my name on the case, wasn’t like I could tell him to shove it.’

She ripped bits off a roll of blank paper, crumpled them, threw them without checking where they landed. ‘In here, they’re on their own turf. Nice and chilled, nothing formal, no need to get the guard up. And Houlihan’s the type, kids spend the whole class asking her the French for “testicle” to make her blush – that’s if they can be arsed noticing she’s there. She’s not gonna put the fear of God into anyone.’

Conway tugged open a window with a thump, let in a smooth sweep of cool and mown grass.

‘This time,’ she said, ‘I fuck up, I’m fucking up my way.’

There was my shot, lined up all ready to pot. I said, ‘If you want them relaxed, let me do the talking.’

That got me a stare. I didn’t blink.

Conway leaned her arse on the windowsill. Chewed her cheek, looked me over from hair to shoes. Behind her, faint urgent calls from the playing field, football flying high.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘You talk. I open my mouth, you shut yours till I’m done. I tell you to close the window, that means you’re out, I’ll take it from there, and you don’t say Word One till I tell you to. Got it?’

Click, and into the pocket. ‘Got it,’ I said. Felt the soft gold air move up the back of my neck and wondered if this was it, this room riddled with echoes and shining with old wood: if this was the place where, finally, I got the chance to fight that door unlocked again. I wanted to memorise the room. Salute someone.

‘I want their accounts of yesterday evening. And then I want them hit with the card, out of nowhere, so we can see their reactions. If they say, “Wasn’t me,” I want to know who they think it was. Can you do that?’

‘I’d say I can just about handle it, yeah.’

‘Jesus,’ Conway said, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe herself. ‘Just try not to get down on the floor and start licking anyone’s boots.’

I said, ‘We hit them with the card, it’ll be all round the school before home-time.’

‘You think I don’t know that? I want that.’

‘You’re not worried?’

‘That our killer’ll get spooked and come after the card girl.’

‘Yeah.’

Conway tapped the edge of the window blind, light one-fingered tap, sent a shake and a sway running down the slats. She said, ‘I want something to happen. This is gonna get things happening.’ She pushed herself off the windowsill. Went to the three chairs in the aisle, turned one of them back to its table. ‘You’re worried about the card girl? Find her before someone else does.’

There was a one-knuckle knock at the door, and had-to-be-Houlihan stuck a worried rabbity face round the edge and lisped, ‘Detectives, you wanted to see me?’

Joanne Heffernan’s lot had been the first ones buzzing around the Secret Place: we started with them. Orla Burgess, we kicked off with. ‘That’ll put Joanne’s designer knickers in a twist,’ Conway said, when Houlihan had gone to find her, ‘not getting top billing. If she’s pissed off enough, she’ll get sloppy. And Orla’s got the brains of roadkill. We catch her off guard, we lean on her: if she’s got anything, she’ll spill. What?’

She’d snared me trying not to smile. ‘Thought this time we were going for relaxation. Not intimidation.’

‘Fuck you,’ Conway said, but there was the corner of a grin there too, bitten back. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m a hard bitch. Be glad. If I was a sweetheart, you’d be out of a gig.’

‘I’m not complaining.’

‘Better not,’ Conway said, ‘or I bet there’s some no-hoper case from the seventies that could use your relaxation techniques. You want to do the talking, take a seat. I’ll watch Orla coming in, see if she looks for her card.’

I settled myself on one of the chairs in the aisle, nice and casual. Conway went to the door.

Fast double trip-trap of steps down the corridor, and Orla was in the doorway, wiggling, trying not to giggle. No beauty – no height, no neck and no waist, plenty of nose to make up for it – but she tried. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan. Something done to her eyebrows.

Conway’s quick fraction of a head-shake, behind her back, said Orla hadn’t clocked the Secret Place. ‘Thanks for that,’ she told Houlihan. ‘Why don’t you have a seat over here,’ and she had Houlihan swept to the back of the room and planted in a corner before Houlihan could manage more than a gasp.

‘Orla,’ I said, ‘I’m Detective Stephen Moran.’ That made a bit of the giggle burst out. Comic genius, me. ‘Have a seat.’ I stretched out a hand to the chair opposite me.

Conway propped herself against a table, near my shoulder, not too near. Orla gave her a vacant look, on her way over. Conway’s the type that makes an impression, but this kid barely recognised her.

Orla sat down, squirmed her skirt down over her knees. ‘Is this about Chris Harper again? OhmyGod, did you find out who…? You know. Who…?’

Snuffly voice. Pitched high, all ready for a squeal or a simper. That accent you get these days, like a bad actor faking American.

I said, ‘Why? Is there something you want to tell us about Chris Harper?’

Orla practically jumped back out of the chair. ‘Huh? No! No way.’

‘Because if you’ve got anything new to add, now’s the time. You know that, right?’

‘Yeah. I totally do. If I knew anything, I’d tell you. But I don’t. Honest to God.’

Tic-smile, involuntary, wet with hope and fear.

You want in with a witness, you figure out what she wants. Then you give her that, big handfuls. I’m good at that.

Orla wanted people to like her. Pay attention to her. Like her some more.

Stupid, it sounds; is. But I felt let down. Thrown down, with an ugly splat like puke. This place had had me expecting something, under these high ceilings, in this turning air that smelled of sun and hyacinths. Expecting special, expecting rare. Expecting a shimmering dappled something I had never seen before.

This girl: the same as a hundred girls I grew up with and stayed miles from, exact shoddy same, just with a fake accent and more money spent on her teeth. She was nothing special; nothing.

I didn’t want to look at Conway. Couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew exactly what was going on in my head, and was laughing at it. Not in a good way.

Big warm crinkly grin, I gave Orla. Leaned in. ‘No worries. I was just hoping. On the off-chance, you know the way?’

I held the grin till Orla smiled back. ‘Yeah.’ Grateful, pathetically grateful. Someone, probably Joanne, used Orla for kicking when the world pissed her off.

‘We’ve just got a few questions for you – routine stuff, no big deal. Could you answer those for us, yeah? Help me out?’

‘OK. Sure.’

Orla was still smiling. Conway slid backwards onto the table. Got out her notebook.

‘You’re a star,’ I said. ‘So let’s talk about yesterday evening. First study period, you were here in the art room?’

Defensive glance at Houlihan. ‘We’d got permission.’

Her only worry about yesterday evening: hassle from teachers.

I said, ‘I know, yeah. Tell us, how do you go about getting permission?’

‘We ask Miss Arnold. She’s the matron.’

‘Who asked her? And when?’

Blank look. ‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Whose idea was it to spend the extra time up here?’

More blank. ‘That wasn’t me either.’ I believed her. I got the feeling most ideas weren’t Orla.

‘No problem,’ I said. More smile. ‘Talk me through it. One of you got the key to the connecting door off Miss Arnold…’

‘I did. Right before first study period. And then we came up here. Me and Joanne and Gemma and Alison.’

‘And then?’

‘We just worked on this project we have. It has to be art and another subject, like mixed – ours is art and Computer Studies. That’s it over there.’

She pointed. Propped in a corner, five foot high, a portrait of a woman – a pre-Raphaelite I’d seen before, somewhere, but I couldn’t place her. She was only half-made, out of small glossy squares of coloured paper; the other half was still an empty grid, tiny code in each square to tell them what colour to stick on. The change had twisted the woman’s dreamy gaze, turned her wall-eyed and twitchy-looking, dangerous.

Orla said, ‘It’s about, like, how people see themselves differently because of the media and the internet? Or something; it wasn’t my idea. We turned the picture into squares on the computer, and now we’re cutting up photos from magazines to stick in the squares – it takes forever, that’s why we needed to use the study period. And then at the end of first study we went back to the boarders’ wing and I gave the key back to Miss Arnold.’

‘Did any of you leave the room, while you were up here?’

Orla tried to remember, which took some mouth-breathing. ‘I went to the toilet,’ she said, after a bit. ‘And Joanne did. And Gemma went into the corridor because she rang someone and she wanted to talk in private.’ Snigger. A guy. ‘And Alison went out for a phone call too, only hers was her mum.’

Every one of them. ‘In that order?’

Blank. ‘What?’

Sweet Jesus. ‘Do you remember who went out first?’

Think, think, mouth-breathe. ‘Maybe Gemma? And then me, and then Alison, and then Joanne – maybe, I’m not sure.’

Conway moved. I snapped my mouth shut, but she didn’t open hers; just pulled a photo of the postcard out of her pocket, handed it to me. Sat back on the table again, foot up on a chair, went back to her notebook.

I flipped the photo back and forth against my finger. ‘On your way here, you passed the Secret Place. You passed it again on your way to the toilet and back. And again when you left at the end of the evening. Right?’

Orla nodded. ‘Yeah.’ Hardly a glance at the photo. Not making any connection.

‘Did you stop for a look, any of those times?’

‘Yeah. When I was coming back from the toilet. Just to see if there was anything new. I didn’t touch anything.’

‘And was there? Anything new?’

‘Uh-uh. Nothing.’

Labrador and boob job, according to the PE teacher. If Orla had missed them, she could have missed one more.

‘What about you? Have you ever put up cards on the board?’

Orla did a coy squirm. ‘Maybe.’

I grinned along with her. ‘I know they’re private. I’m not asking for the details. Just tell me: when was the last one?’

‘Like a month ago?’

‘So this isn’t yours.’

I had the photo in Orla’s hand, face up, before she realised it was coming.

Prayed it wasn’t hers.

I needed to show Conway what I could do. Five minutes and an easy answer would get me nothing, except maybe a lift back to Cold Cases. I needed a fight.

And, somewhere in a locked back corner, detectives think old ways. You take down a predator, whatever bleeds out of it flows into you. Spear a leopard, grow braver and faster. All that St Kilda’s gloss, that walk through old oak doors like you belong, effortless: I wanted that. I wanted to lick it off my banged-up fists along with my enemy’s blood.

This fool, smelling of body spray and cheap gossip: not what I’d had in mind. This would be like taking down some kid’s fat hamster.

Orla stared, while the photo sank in. Then squealed. High flat wail, like air squeezed out of a squeaky toy.

‘Orla,’ I said. Sharp, before she could work herself up. ‘Did you put that up on the Secret Place?’

‘No! OhmyGod, I swear to God, no! I don’t know anything about what happened to Chris. Swear to God.’

I believed her. The photo at arm’s length, like it could hurt her; the bug-eyed stare zipping from me to Conway to Houlihan, looking for help. Not our girl. Just the detective gods throwing me an easy one, to start me off.

I said, ‘Then one of your friends did. Who was it?’

‘I don’t know! I don’t know anything about this. I totally swear.’

‘Any of them ever mention any ideas about Chris?’

‘No way. I mean, we all think it was that groundskeeper guy – he used to smile at us all the time, he was totally creepy, and you guys arrested him for having drugs, right? But we don’t know anything. Or anyway I don’t. And if any of the others do, they never told me. Ask them.’

‘We will,’ I said. Nice and soothing. Smile. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble.’

Orla was calming down. Gawping at the photo, starting to like having it in her hand. I wanted to whip it off her. I let her hang on to it, have her fun.

Reminded myself: the ones you don’t like are a bonus. They can’t fool you as easy as the ones you do.

Twenty watts went on over Orla’s head. ‘Probably it wasn’t even any of us. Julia Harte and all them were in here right after us. Probably they did it.’

‘You figure they know what happened to Chris?’

‘Not even. I mean, maybe, but no? Like, they could’ve just made it up.’

‘Why would they?’

‘Because. They’re, ohmyGod, soweird.’

‘Yeah?’ Me leaning forward, hands clasped, all confidential and ready for a gossip. ‘Seriously?’

‘Well, they used to be OK, like ages ago. Now we’re just like, “Whatever,” you know?’ Orla’s hands flapping upwards.

‘What kind of weird are they?’

Too much to ask. Short-circuited stare, like I was looking for calculus. ‘Just like weird.’

I waited.

‘Like they think they’re so special.’ The first zip of something, bringing Orla’s face alive. Malice. ‘Like they think they can do whatever they want.’

I gave it intrigued. Waited more.

‘I mean, just for example, right? You should have seen them at the Valentine’s dance. They looked totes insane. Like Rebecca had on jeans, and Selena was wearing I don’t even know what it was, it looked like she was in a play!’ That high sharp giggle shot out again, jabbed me in the ear. ‘Everyone was like, hello, what are you like? I mean, there were guys there. The whole of Colm’s was there. They were all staring. And Julia and all of them acted like that didn’t even matter.’ Jaw-dropped face. ‘That was when we realised, um, hello, weirdos?’

I gave her the crinkly grin again. ‘And that was February?’

‘Last February. Last year.’ Before Chris. ‘And I swear to God they’ve got worse and worse. This year Rebecca didn’t even come to the Valentine’s dance. They don’t wear makeup – I mean, we’re not allowed to in school’ – virtuous glance at Houlihan – ‘but sometimes they don’t even wear it to hang out at the Court – the shopping centre. And this one time, like just a few weeks ago, there’s a load of us down there? And Julia says she’s going back to school? And one of the guys is there, “How come?” And Julia says, she says her stomach is killing her because…’

Orla shot me a look. Sucked in her bottom lip, did a cringe like she was trying to disappear into her shoulders.

Conway said, ‘She had period cramps.’

Orla collapsed in giggles, scarlet and snorting like goodo. We waited. She got it together.

‘But, I mean, she just said it. Straight out. All the guys were like, “OMG, ew! Way TMI!” And Julia just waved and left. See what I mean? They act like they can say anything they want. None of them have boyfriends – duh, surprise? – and they act like that’s not even a big deal.’ Orla was hitting her stride. Face lit up, lip curling. ‘And did you see Selena’s hair? OhmyGod. You know when she cut it off? Like, right after Chris got killed. How much of a show-off can you actually be?’

I was getting the head-spins again. ‘Hang on. Her haircut is showing off, yeah? About what?’

Orla’s chin vanished into where her neck should have been. New look on her, sly, careful. ‘About how she was going out with Chris. Like she’s in mourning or something. We’re all, “Hello, who cares?”’

‘What makes you think she was going out with Chris?’

Slyer. More careful. ‘We just do.’

‘Yeah? Did you see them kissing? Holding hands?’

‘Um, no? They wouldn’t exactly have been that obvious about it.’

‘Why not?’

Flash of something: fear. Orla had slipped up, or thought she had. ‘I don’t know. I just mean, if they’d been OK with everyone seeing they were going out, they wouldn’t have kept it a secret. I mean, that’s all I mean.’

‘But if they kept it so secret that they never actually acted like they were together, how come you think they were together to begin with?’

That blown-fuse gawp again. ‘What?’

Jesus. Head-desk territory. I rewound. Nice and slow: ‘Why do you think Chris and Selena were going out together?’

Empty stare. Shrug. Orla wasn’t taking any more risks.

‘Why would they keep it a secret if they were?’

Empty stare. Shrug.

‘What about you?’ Conway asked. ‘You got a boyfriend?’

Orla sucked in her bottom lip, let out a breathy titter through it.

‘Do you?’

Squirm. ‘Sort of. It’s, ohmyGod, complicated?’

‘Who?’

Titter.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘Just this guy from Colm’s. He’s called Graham, Graham Quinn. But we’re not exactly going out out – I mean, ohmyGod, don’t go to him and say he’s my boyfriend! Like, he sort of is, but–’

‘I get it,’ Conway said, final enough to get through even to Orla, who shut up. ‘Thanks.’

I said, ‘If you could pick just one thing to tell me about Chris Harper. What would it be?’

The stare. I was less and less in the humour for the stare. ‘Like what?’

‘Like anything. Whatever you think is most important.’

‘Um, he was gorgeous?’

Giggle.

I took the photo away from her. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That helps.’

I left a second. Orla said nothing. Conway said nothing. She was sitting back on the table, writing or doodling, I couldn’t tell which out of the corner of my eye. I wasn’t going to look at her, like I was looking for a hand.

Houlihan cleared her throat, a compromise between asking and keeping schtum. I’d forgotten her.

Conway shut her notebook.

I said, ‘Thanks, Orla. We might need to talk to you again. Meanwhile, if you think of anything that might help us, anything at all, here’s my card. Ring me any time. Yeah?’

Orla gave the card a look like I’d asked her to jump into my white van. Conway said, ‘Thanks. We’ll talk soon.’ To Houlihan, who jumped: ‘Gemma Harding next.’

I gave Orla more smiles. Got the two of them out of the door.

Conway said, ‘Like, totes OMG?’

I said, ‘Like, OMG, WTF?’

We almost looked at each other. Almost laughed.

Conway said, ‘Not our girl.’

‘Nah.’

I waited. Didn’t ask, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, but I needed to know.

She said, ‘That went all right.’

I almost caught a huge breath, crushed it back in time. Stuck the photo away in my pocket, ready for the next go-round. ‘Anything you figure I should know about Gemma?’

Conway grinned. ‘Thinks she’s a sex bomb, kept leaning over to show Costello her cleavage. Poor bastard didn’t know where to look.’ The grin went. ‘But this one’s not thick. Not by a long way.’

Gemma was like looking at Orla stretched. Tall, slim – trying hard for thin, only she didn’t have the build for it. Pretty, top end of pretty, but that jaw was going to give her manface before she was thirty. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place, but then Conway had said she wasn’t stupid.

She took the walk to the chair like a catwalk. Sat down and crossed one long leg over the other, slow flourish. Arched her throat.

Even after what Conway had said, it took me a second to see it, through the school uniform and the sixteen. Gemma wanted me to fancy her. Not because she fancied me; that hadn’t even crossed her mind. Just because I was there.

I went to school with dozens like that, too. I didn’t play their game.

Conway’s eye like a hot pin burning through the back of my jacket, into my shoulder blade.

I told myself again. Nothing special means nothing you can’t handle.

I offered Gemma a slow grin, lazy. Appreciative. ‘Gemma, right? I’m Detective Stephen Moran. It’s very nice to meet you.’

She soaked it up. Tiny smile tucked in the corners of her mouth, almost hidden, not quite.

‘We’ve just got a few routine questions for you.’

‘No problem. Anything you want.’

A little too much weight on Anything. The smile swelled. That easy.

Gemma had the same story as Orla, in the same bad-actor American accent. Drawled off, bored, too cool for school. Foot swinging. Checking me out to make sure I kept checking her out. If talking about last night spiked her adrenaline, it didn’t show.

Conway said, ‘You made a phone call while you were up here.’

‘Yeah. I rang my boyfriend.’ Gemma licked the last word. Threw Houlihan a glance – phone calls during study period obviously weren’t allowed – to see if she was shocked.

Conway asked, ‘What’s his name?’

‘Phil McDowell. He’s at Colm’s.’

Course he was. Conway sat back.

I said, ‘And you went outside to talk to him.’

‘I went out in the corridor. We had stuff to talk about. Private stuff.’ Puckered-up smile, slantwise to me. Like I was in on the secret, or could be.

I smiled back. ‘Did you have a look at the Secret Place, while you were out there?’

‘No.’

‘No? You’re not into it?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘It’s mostly stupid. Basically all of it is “Oh, everyone’s mean to me and I’m so unique!” Which, hello, they totally never are? If anything juicy goes up, everyone’s talking about it anyway. I don’t need to look.’

‘Ever put up any cards of your own?’

Another shrug. ‘Back when they first put the board up. Just for the laugh. I don’t even remember all of them. We made some of them up.’ Small flurry of concern from Houlihan’s corner. Gemma gave herself a little slap on the wrist. ‘Bad girl.’ Amused.

I said, ‘How about this one?’ Passed Gemma the photo.

Gemma’s foot stopped swinging. Her eyebrows hit her hairline.

After a second, slowly: ‘Oh. My. God.’

Real. Caught in the quickening of her breath, in the darkened eyes, slashing through all that carefully built sexiness: something true. Not our girl. Two down.

I said, ‘Did you put that up?’

Gemma shook her head. Still scanning the card, looking for sense.

‘No? Just for the laugh?’

‘I’m not stupid. My dad’s a solicitor. I know this isn’t a laugh.’

‘Any idea who might have?’

Head-shake.

‘If you had to guess.’

‘I don’t know. Honest to God. I’d be surprised if it was Joanne or Orla or Alison, but I’m not swearing it wasn’t, or anything. I’m just saying, if it was, they never told me.’

Two out of two, now, ready to throw their mates in the shite so they could leap away unspattered. Lovely.

Gemma said, ‘But there were other people in here, yesterday evening. After us.’

‘Holly Mackey and her friends.’

‘Yeah. Them.’

‘Them. What are they like?’

Gemma’s eye on me, wary. She held out the photo. ‘I don’t know. We don’t really talk to them.’

‘Why not?’

Shrug.

I gave her a grin with a glint. ‘Let me guess. I’d say your lot are pretty popular with the fellas. Holly and them, were they cramping your style?’

‘They’re just not our type.’ Arms folded. Gemma wasn’t biting.

Something was there. Orla might believe all that about Selena wearing the wrong get-up to the dance, might not, but Gemma knew better. Something else had got in between these two lots.

If Conway wanted any pushing done, she could do it herself. Not my job. Mr Lovely, me; the one you can talk to. If I threw that away, Conway had no reason to keep me around.

Conway said nothing.

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Let’s talk about Chris Harper. Got any ideas about what happened to him?’

Shrug. ‘Some psycho. Whatshisname, the groundskeeper, the one you guys arrested. Or some randomer. How would I know?’

Arms still folded. I leaned forward, gave her a grin out of a late-night bar. ‘Gemma. Talk to me. Try this: pick one thing to tell me about Chris Harper. One thing that mattered.’

Gemma thought. Stretched out her long crossed leg, ran a hand up and down her calf; we were back. I watched, so she could catch me. Itched to push my chair back a few feet. I could have kissed Conway just for existing. Gemma was dangerous as fuck, and she knew it.

She said, ‘Chris was the total last person you would’ve expected to get killed.’

‘Yeah? How come?’

‘Because everyone liked him. The whole school fancied him – some people said they didn’t, but that was just because they wanted to look special, or because they knew they didn’t have a chance of getting him anyway. And all of Colm’s wanted to hang out with him. That’s why I said it had to be a randomer who did it. No one would’ve gone after Chris on purpose.’

I said, ‘You fancied Chris?’

Shrug. ‘Like I said: everyone did. It wasn’t a big deal. I fancy a lot of guys.’ Small hooded smile, intimate.

I matched it. ‘Ever go out with him? Hook up with him?’

‘No.’ Instant, definite.

‘Why not? If you fancied him…’ Little lean on the you. Any guy you want, bet you get.

‘No reason. Me and Chris just never happened. End of.’

Gemma was shutting down again. Something there, too.

Conway didn’t push, I didn’t push. Here’s my card, if you think of anything, all the rest of it. Conway told Houlihan to bring us Alison Muldoon. I gave Gemma a grin that was one step from a wink, as she swayed out of the door and glanced back to make sure I was watching.

Let out my breath, wiped my mouth to scrape that grin off. ‘Not our girl,’ I said.

Conway said, ‘What’s all this with one thing about Chris?’

She had had a year to get to know him. I’d had a few hours. Anything I could get was good.

No reason why I should get to know Chris. Not my case, not my vic. I was just here to bat my eyelashes, come up with the right smiles, get girls talking.

I said, ‘What’s all this about boyfriends?’

Conway came off the table, into my face, fast. ‘You questioning me?’

‘I’m asking.’

‘I ask you. Not the other way round. You go to the jacks, I get to ask whether you washed your hands if I want. You got that?’

That almost-laugh was well gone. I said, ‘I need to know how they felt about Chris. No point me talking up how lovely he was and how a guy like that deserves justice, if I’m talking to someone who hated his guts.’

Conway stared me out of it for another minute. I kept steady, thought about six girls left and how far Conway would get without me. Hoped to God she was thinking the same thing.

She eased back onto the table.

‘Alison,’ she said. ‘Alison’s petrified of bleeding everything. Me included. I’m gonna be keeping my mouth well shut, unless you fuck up. Don’t fuck up.’

Alison was like looking at Gemma shrunk. Short little thing, scrawny, shoulders curled in. Fidgety fingers, twisting at her skirt. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place.

This one recognised Conway, anyway. Conway got out of the way fast as Alison came through the door, tried to disappear, but Alison did a body-swerve away from her all the same. ‘Alison,’ I said, quick and smooth, to distract her. ‘I’m Stephen Moran. Thanks for coming in.’ Smile. Reassuring, this time. ‘Have a seat.’

No smile back. Alison perched the edge of her backside on the edge of the chair and stared at me. Pinched little features, gerbil, white mouse. I wanted to hold out my fingers, do tongue-clicky noises.

Instead, I said gently, ‘Just a few routine questions; it’ll only take a few minutes. Can you tell me about yesterday evening? Starting with your first study period?’

‘We were in here. But we didn’t do anything. If anything got, like, stolen or broken or whatever, it wasn’t me. I swear.’

Pinched little voice to match, rising towards a whine. Conway was right, Alison was scared: scared that she was screwing up, that everything she said and did and thought was wrong. She wanted me to reassure her that she was doing things right. Seen it in school, seen it in a million witnesses, patted it on the head and said all the right words.

I said, soothing, ‘Ah, I know that. Nothing’s gone missing, nothing like that. No one’s done anything wrong.’ Smile. ‘We’re just checking something out. All I need you to do is run through your evening. That’s it. Could you do that for me, yeah?’

Nod. ‘OK.’

‘Beautiful. It’ll be like a test where you know all the answers and you can’t get anything wrong. How’s that?’

Tiny smile back. Tiny step towards relaxing.

I needed Alison relaxed, before I whipped out that photo. That was what had got me my answers from Orla and from Gemma: the ease I had made for them, and the fast shove out of it.

Alison gave me the same story again, but in chips and snippets that I had to coax out of her, like playing pick-up sticks. Telling it made her tense up even more. No way to know if there was a good reason, a bad reason or none.

She backed Orla on who had left the art room when – Gemma, Orla, her, Joanne – and she sounded a lot more sure than Orla had. ‘You’re very observant,’ I said. Approving. ‘That’s what we like to see. I came in here praying we’d get someone exactly like you, you know that?’

Another scrawny smile. Another step.

I said, ‘Can you make my day? Tell me you had a look at the Secret Place, somewhere along the way.’

‘Yeah. When I went out to the… On my way back, I had a look.’ Quick glance at Houlihan. ‘I mean, only for a second. Then I came straight back in to do the project.’

‘Ah, lovely. That’s what I was hoping to hear. Spot any new cards up there?’

‘Yeah. There was one with this dog that was, like, so adorbs. And someone put up one of…’ Nervous smirk, duck. ‘You know.’

I waited. Alison twisted.

‘Just a… a lady’s, like, her chest. In a top, I mean! Not…’ High painful giggle. ‘And it said, “I’m saving up so the day I turn eighteen I can buy ones like this!”’

Observant, again. It went with the fear. Prey animal, watching everything for a threat. ‘That’s it? Nothing else new?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Those were it.’

If she was telling the truth, that backed what we thought already: Orla and Gemma were out. ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘That’s perfect. Tell us: have you ever put up any cards?’

Eyes skittering. I said, ‘Nothing wrong with it if you did. Sure, that’s what the board’s for; it’d be a waste if no one used it.’

That twitch of a smile again. ‘Well… yeah. Just a couple. Just… when something was bothering me and I couldn’t talk about it, sometimes I… But I stopped ages ago. I had to be so careful, and then I was always scared someone would guess they were mine and get angry ’cause I put it up there instead of telling her? So I stopped. I took mine down.’

Someone. One of her own gang, Alison had been scared of.

She was as relaxed as she was ever going to get: not a lot. I said, easily, ‘Is this one of yours?’

The photo. Alison gasped. Clapped her free hand over her mouth. A high humming noise came out through it.

Fear, but no way to read it: fear that she had been caught, that there was a killer out there, that someone knew who it was, reflex response to any surprise, take your pick. Petrified of bleeding everything, Conway had said. It blurred her like streaming rain on a windscreen, turned her opaque.

I said, ‘Did you put that up?’

‘No! No no no… I didn’t. Honest to God–’

‘Alison,’ I said, soothing, rhythmic. Leaned forward to take the photo back off her, stayed leaning. ‘Alison, look at me. If you did, there’s nothing wrong with it. Yeah? Whoever put this up was doing the right thing, and we’re grateful to her. We just need to have a chat with her.’

‘It wasn’t me. It wasn’t. I didn’t. Please–’

That was all I was getting. Pushing would do nothing but lose my next chance as well as this one.

Conway off in a corner, still playing invisible, watching me. Gauging.

‘Alison,’ I said. ‘I believe you. I just have to ask. Just routine. That’s all. OK?’

Finally I got Alison’s eyes back. I said, ‘So it wasn’t you. Any ideas about who it might have been? Anyone ever mention having suspicions about what happened to Chris?’

Head-shake.

‘Any chance it was one of your mates?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. No. Ask them.’

Alison was sliding back towards panic. ‘That’s all I needed to know,’ I told her. ‘You’re doing great. Tell us something: you know Holly Mackey and her friends, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Tell me about them.’

‘They’re just weird. Really weird.’

Alison’s arms tightening around her middle. Surprise: she was afraid of Holly’s lot.

I said, ‘That’s what we’ve heard, all right. But no one’s been able to tell us what kind of weird. I figure if anyone can put a finger on that, it’s you.’

Her eyes on mine, torn.

‘Alison,’ I said gently. I thought strong, thought protective, thought myself into all her wishes. Didn’t blink. ‘Anything you know, you need to tell me. They’ll never find out it came from you. No one will. I swear.’

Alison said – hunched forward, a whisper, shrunk so as not to reach Houlihan – ‘They’re witches.’

Now that was new.

I could hear What the fuck? inside Conway’s head.

I nodded. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘How did you find that out?’

Houlihan, in the corner of my eye, leaning half off her chair. Too far away to hear. She wouldn’t come closer. If she tried, Conway would stop her.

Alison was breathing faster, with the shock of having said it. ‘They used to be, like, normal. Then they just went weird. Everyone noticed.’

‘Yeah? When?’

‘Like the start of last year? A year and a half ago?’ Before Chris; before that Valentine’s dance when even Orla had spotted something. ‘People said all kinds of stuff about why–’

‘Like what?’

‘Just stuff. Like they were gay. Or they were abused when they were kids, I heard that. But we thought they were witches.’

Glance at me, fearful. I asked, ‘Why’s that?’

‘I don’t know. Just because. We just thought it.’ Alison hunched down farther, over whatever she was hiding. ‘Probably I shouldn’t have told you.’

Her voice was tamped down to a whisper. Conway had stopped writing, in case she drowned it out. Took me a second to cop: Alison figured she’d just put herself in line for a good cursing.

‘Alison. You’re doing the right thing, telling us. That’s going to protect you.’

Alison didn’t look convinced.

I felt Conway shift. Keeping her mouth shut, like she’d promised, but doing it loudly.

I said, ‘Just a couple more questions. Are you going out with anyone?’

A surge of blush that nearly drowned Alison. A muffled clump of words I couldn’t hear.

‘Say again?’

She shook her head. Huddled right down, eyes on her knees. Braced. Alison thought I was going to point and laugh at her for not having a fella.

I smiled. ‘Not met the right guy, no? You’re dead right to wait. Plenty of time for that.’

Something else muffled.

I said – fuck Conway, she had her answer, I was getting mine – ‘If you had to pick just one thing to tell me about Chris, what would it be?’

‘Huh?… I barely even knew him. Can’t you ask the others?’

‘I will, of course. But you’re my observer. I’d love to hear what you remember most.’

The smile was automatic this time, a reflex spasm with nothing behind it. Alison said, ‘People noticed him. Not just me; everyone noticed him.’

‘How come?’

‘He was… I mean, he was so good-looking. And he was good at everything – rugby, and basketball; and talking to people, making everyone laugh. And I heard him sing once, he was really good, everyone was telling him he should do the X Factor auditions… But it wasn’t just that. It was… He was just more than everyone else. More there. You could walk into a room with like fifty people in it, and the only one you’d see would be Chris.’

A wistful something in her voice, in the droop of her eyelids. Gemma was right: everyone had fancied Chris.

‘What do you think happened to him?’

That made Alison shrink. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I know you don’t. That’s OK. I’m only asking for guesses. You’re my observant one, remember?’

A thin ghost of the smile. ‘Everyone said it was the groundskeeper.’

No thoughts of her own, or else a dodge. ‘Is that what you think?’

Shrug. Not looking at me. ‘I guess.’

I let the silence grow. So did she. That was all I was getting.

Card, speech, smile. Alison dived out of the door like the room was on fire. Houlihan flapped after her.

Conway said, ‘That one’s still in the running.’

Watching the door, not me. I couldn’t read her. Couldn’t tell if that meant You fucked up.

I said, ‘Pushing any harder wouldn’t have done any good. I’ve set up the beginnings of rapport; if I talk to her again, I can move it on, maybe get an answer.’

Conway’s eye sliding sideways to me. She said, ‘If you talk to her again.’

That sardonic corner of a grin, like my obviousness brightened her day. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘If.’

Conway flipped to a clean page in her notebook. ‘Joanne Heffernan,’ she said. ‘Joanne’s a bitch. Enjoy.’

Joanne was like looking at all the other three averaged out. I’d been expecting something impressive, all the hype. Medium height. Medium thin. Medium looks. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place.

Only the way she stood – hip cocked, chin tucked, eyebrows up – said Impress me. Said The Boss.

Joanne wanted me to think she was important. No: admit she was important.

‘Joanne,’ I said. Stood up for her. ‘I’m Stephen Moran. Thanks for coming in.’

My accent. Whirr, went Joanne’s filing system. Spat me out in the bottom drawer. Eyelid-flutter of disdain.

‘I didn’t exactly get a choice? And just by the way, I actually had things to do for the last hour. I didn’t need to spend it sitting outside the office getting bored to death and not even allowed to talk.’

‘I’m really sorry about that. We didn’t mean to keep you waiting. If I’d known the other interviews were going to take this long…’ I rearranged the chair for her. ‘Have a seat.’

Curl of her lip at Conway, on her way: You.

‘Now,’ I said, when we’d sat down. ‘We’ve just got a few routine questions. We’ll be asking a lot of people the same things, but I’d really appreciate hearing your thoughts. It could make a big difference.’

Respectful. Hands clasped together. Like she was the Princess of the Universe, doing us a favour.

Joanne examined me. Flat pale-blue eyes, just a little too wide. Not enough blinks.

Finally she nodded. Gracious, honouring me.

‘Thanks,’ I said. Big smile, humble servant. Conway moved in the corner of my eye, a sharp jerk; trying not to puke, probably. ‘If you don’t mind, could we start with yesterday evening? Could you just run through it for me, from the beginning of first study period?’

Joanne told the same story over again. Slow and clear, small words, for the plebs. To Conway, scribbling away: ‘Are you getting this? Or do I have to slow down?’

Conway gave her a great big grin. ‘If I need you to do anything, you’ll know. Believe me.’

I said, ‘Thanks, Joanne. That’s very considerate of you. Tell me: while you were up here, did you look at the Secret Place?’

‘I had a little lookie when I went to the loo. Just to see if there was anything good.’

‘Was there?’

Joanne shrugged. ‘Same old stuff. Boring.’

No Labradors, no boobs. I said, ‘Any of those cards yours?’

Glance flicked at Houlihan. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Um, yes?’

‘Just asking because one of your friends mentioned that you’d made up a few, early on.’

Joanne’s eyes chilled over. ‘Who said that?’

Spread my hands, humble. ‘I can’t give out that information. Sorry.’

Joanne was biting at the inside of her mouth, squashed her face up sideways. The others were all going to pay. ‘If she said it was just me, she’s such a liar. It was all of us. And we took them down again. I mean, come on. You make it sound like some massive big deal. We were just having a laugh.’

Conway had been right: lies on that board, as well as secrets. McKenna had put it up for her purposes; the girls used it for theirs.

I said, ‘How about this one?’ Photo into her hand.

Joanne’s jaw dropped. She recoiled in the chair. Squealed, ‘OhmyGod!’ Clapped a hand over her mouth.

Fake as fuck.

It meant nothing. Some people are like that: everything comes out like a lie. Not that they’re brilliant liars, just that they’re useless at telling the truth. You get left with no way to tell what’s the real fake and what’s the fake one.

We waited for her to finish up. Caught her fast glance at us, between squealy noises, to check if we were impressed.

I said, ‘Did you put that up on the Secret Place?’

‘Um, hello, no? I mean, can’t you see I’m literally in shock?’

The hand was pressed to her chest. She did a bit of gaspy breathing. Conway and I watched with interest.

Houlihan hovered, half out of her chair. Twittered.

Conway said, without looking, ‘You can sit down. She’s grand.’

Joanne shot Conway a poison look. Quit gasping.

I said, ‘Not for a laugh, no? There’s nothing wrong with that; it’s not like you’re under oath to stick to real secrets. We just need to know.’

‘I told you. No. OK?’

Backing off meant goodbye to my shot at ruling out all but one, hearing that lock click open.

Joanne was giving me the shit-on-my-shoe stare. An inch from throwing me away in the same bin as Conway.

‘Absolutely,’ I said. Took the photo back, tucked it away, all gone. ‘Just making sure. So which of your friends do you think it was?’

Something catching and flaring in Joanne’s eye; something real. Outrage; fury. Then it died.

‘Uh-uh.’ One finger wagging. Little smile. ‘No way any of them put this up.’

A hundred per cent positive. They wouldn’t dare.

‘Then who did?’

‘Um, how is that my problem?’

‘It’s not. But you’ve obviously got your finger on the pulse of everything that happens in this school. If anyone’s guess is worth hearing, it’s yours.’

Satisfied smile, Joanne accepting her due. I had her back. ‘If it’s someone who was in the school yesterday evening, then it’s the people who were in here after us. Julia and Holly and Selena and Whatshername.’

‘Yeah? You figure they know something about what happened to Chris?’

Shrug. ‘Maybe.’

‘Interesting,’ I said. Nodded away, grave. ‘Anything special making you think that?’

‘I don’t have evidence. That’s your job. I’m just saying.’

I said, ‘I’m going to ask for your opinion on one more thing. Any ideas you’ve got could help us. Who do you think killed Chris?’

Joanne said, ‘Wasn’t it totally Groundskeeper Willy? I mean, I don’t know his name, that’s just what everyone called him because there was this rumour that he offered this girl some E if she would…’ Glance at Houlihan, who was starting to look like today was an education and not in a good way. ‘I mean, I don’t know if he was a pervert or just a drug dealer, but either way, ew. I thought you guys knew it was him but you didn’t have enough evidence.’

Same as Alison: could be what she actually thought, could be a smart screen. ‘And you think Holly and her friends might have that evidence? How?’

Joanne pulled a strand of hair out of her ponytail, examined it for split ends. ‘I guess you think they’re all such angels, they’d never do drugs. I mean, God, Rebecca, she’s just so innocent, right?’

‘I haven’t met her yet. Would they do drugs, yeah?’

Another quick look at Houlihan. Shrug. ‘I’m not saying they did. I’m not saying they’d have, like, done anything with Groundskeeper Willy.’ Smirk curling the corners of Joanne’s mouth. ‘I’m just saying they’re freaks and I don’t know what they’d do. That’s all.’

She would’ve been delighted to play this game all day, drop hints like farts and mince away from the stink. I said, ‘Pick one thing to tell me about Chris. Whatever you think was most important.’

Joanne thought. Something unpleasant pulling at her top lip.

Said, right on cue, ‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying anything bad about him.’

Under-the-lashes look at me.

I leaned forward. Grave, intent, eyebrows down while I focused on the noble young girl who held the secret that could save the world. Deepest voice: ‘Joanne. I know you’re not the kind of person who speaks ill of the dead. But there are times when the truth matters more than kindness. This is one of those times.’

I could almost hear my own soundtrack rising. I felt Conway, at my shoulder, wanting to laugh.

Joanne took a deep breath. Gearing herself up to be brave, sacrifice her personal conscience on the altar of justice. The fake spread out, the whole thing felt fake, Chris Harper felt like someone I’d made up.

‘Chris,’ she said. Sigh. A little sad, a little pitying. ‘Poor Chris. For such a lovely guy, he had seriously crap taste.’

I said, ‘Do you mean Selena Wynne?’

‘Well. I wasn’t going to name names, but since you already know…’

I said, ‘Thing is, no one says they saw Chris and Selena doing anything couple-y. No kissing, no holding hands, not even going off on their own together. So what makes you think they were going out?’

Lashes fluttering. ‘I’d rather not say.’

‘Joanne, I understand that you’re trying to do the right thing, and I appreciate it. But I need you to tell me what you saw, or heard. All of it.’

Joanne liked watching me work hard. Liked knowing that what she had was worth all that. She pretended to think, running her tongue around her teeth, which did nothing for her looks. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Chris liked girls to like him. You know what I mean? Like, he was always trying to get every girl in the room to be all over him. And all of a sudden, like overnight, he’s totally ignoring everyone except Selena Wynne. Who, I mean, I don’t want to be a B or anything but I’m just being honest because that’s who I am: she isn’t exactly anything special? She acts like she is, but I’m sorry, most people really aren’t into… you know.’ Joanne gave me a meaningful little smirk and mimed large with both hands. ‘I mean, hello? I thought maybe it was one of those stupid movie things where it’s all a bet to embarrass someone, because if it wasn’t, I could’ve literally cringed to death for Chris.’

‘That doesn’t say they were going out, though. Maybe he was into her, but she wasn’t having any of it.’

‘Um, I don’t think so? She’d have been, like, insanely lucky to get him. And anyway, Chris wasn’t the type to waste his time if he wasn’t getting anywhere. If you know what I mean.’

‘Why would they keep it a secret?’

‘Probably he didn’t want people knowing he was with that. I wouldn’t blame him.’

I said, ‘Is that why you don’t get on with Selena’s lot? Because she and Chris got together?’

Wrong move. That flare in Joanne’s eyes again, cold enough and violent enough that I nearly leaned back. ‘Um, excuse me? I didn’t exactly care if Chris Harper was into hippos. I thought it was hilarious, but apart from that, so not my problem.’

I did a string of fast humble nods: got it, been put in my place, won’t be a bold boy again. ‘Right. That makes sense. Then why do you not get on with them?’

‘Because there isn’t a law that we have to get on with everybody. Because I’m actually choosy about who I hang out with, and hippos and weirdos? Yeah, um, no thanks?’

Just some little bitch, exact same as the little bitches in my school, in every school. Ten a penny, cheap at half the price, cheap anywhere in this world. No reason why this should be the one that made me sick. ‘Got it,’ I said, grinning away like a lunatic.

Conway said, ‘You got a boyfriend?’

Joanne took her time. A beat – Did I hear something? – then a slow sweep of her head to Conway.

Conway smiled. Not nicely.

‘Excuse me, that’s my private life?’

Conway said, ‘I thought you were all about helping the investigation.’

‘I am. I just don’t see how my private life is the investigation’s business. Do you want to explain that?’

‘Nah,’ said Conway. ‘I can’t be arsed. Specially when I can just go over to Colm’s and find out.’

I spread on a double helping of concerned. Said, ‘I can’t imagine Joanne would make us do that, Detective. Especially since she knows that any information she’s got could be very valuable to us.’

Joanne thought that over. Got her virtuous face back on. Graciously, to me: ‘I’m going out with Andrew Moore. His dad’s Bill Moore – probably you’ve heard of him.’ Property developer, one of the ones on the news for being bankrupt and a billionaire all at once. I looked properly impressed.

Joanne checked her watch. ‘Do you want to know anything else about my love life? Or are we done?’

‘Bye-bye,’ Conway said. To Houlihan: ‘Rebecca O’Mara.’

I walked Joanne to the door. Held it for her. Watched Houlihan scuttle after her down the corridor, Joanne not bothering to look.

Conway said, ‘And another one still in the running.’

Nothing in her voice. No way, again, to tell if that was You better up your game.

I shut the door. Said, ‘There’s stuff she’s thinking about telling us, but she’s holding back. That fits our card girl.’

‘Yeah. Or else she’s just trying to make us think she’s holding something back. Make us think she knows for sure that Chris and Selena were together, or whatever, when actually she’s got nothing.’

‘We can call her back. Push harder.’

‘Nah. Not now.’ Conway watched me come back to my chair, sit down. Said, roughly, ‘You were good with her. Better than me.’

‘All that arse-licking practice. Came in useful in the end.’

Wry glance from Conway, but a brief one. She was filing Joanne away for later, moving on. ‘Rebecca’s the weak link in this bunch. Shy as fuck; went scarlet and practically tied herself in knots just being asked her name, never managed anything louder than a whisper. Get your kid gloves on.’

Bell again, rush of feet and voices. It was past lunchtime. I could’ve murdered a dirty great burger, or whatever this canteen was into, probably organic fillet steak and rocket salad. I wasn’t going to say it till Conway did. She wasn’t going to say it.

Conway said, ‘And go careful with this lot, till you get the feel. They’re not the same thing.’