The ten minutes of waiting turned into twenty, but George was patient. Jennifer Kenning was still talking to her client as she followed him down the stairs. She was telling him off in a friendly, exasperated sort of way. It seemed to be a continuation of the interview. The boy listened tolerantly. He had green hair and was clothed in leather and chains. He waited for her to draw breath, then made his escape, hurrying out of the door with obvious relief, turning to grin at her as she shouted after him with the date and time of the next appointment.

She still looked like a student: she had long fair hair and was wearing a flowered skirt, T-shirt and sandals. Giving him a welcoming smile and asking him to follow her, she seemed very young and somehow undaunted by her work. In contrast to the waiting room her office was bright, pretty, with posters and plants and yellow paint. She was very comfortable there, quite relaxed, and sat not behind her desk but in an easy chair beside it. She motioned him to take the other one.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I want to talk to you about Tom French.”

“Oh.” She was angry, but also disappointed. She had wanted to help him. “Are you a policeman?”

“No.”

“The press.” There was even more disappointment, and contempt.

“Certainly not the press,” he said firmly.

“How did you know that I was supervising Tom French?” For the moment this was more important than to find out who he was. “The police got my name from their records but Tom was obsessively secretive about the fact that he was on probation.”

“The Home Office put me in touch with you.”

She thought, then, that she understood:

“It’s some sort of research is it, for the Home Office? The police have got all my records, but I’ll help you as much as I can.”

He decided to be honest.

“It’s not official research. I used to know Tom French. We shared an interest.”

“Not twitching?”

She was incredulous. She had believed all twitchers to be young, dissolute and probably unwashed. The gentleman before her was immaculate.

Palmer-Jones ignored her amusement.

“He explained it to you. Good. I used to work for the Home Office, and did some work for the police. The father of a young lad who is a twitcher too knew that. He’s worried about his son, and asked me to find out if Tom’s death had anything to do with twitching. That’s why I’m here. I really don’t want to ask you to do anything unethical, just to give me some personal impressions of Tom.”

She was still uncertain.

“Adam, the lad who’s causing his father concern, is very like Tom in many ways,” George said. “He’s very lonely, rather anxious. We all want to find out what happened.” He paused. “ Perhaps it would be easier if we were away from the office. Mr. Anderson’s generous expenses would pay for a good lunch.”