‘Don’t you have a boy who’s missing from school too?’

‘Friar Laurence . . .’ Imogen ran her finger down the cast list. ‘Oh, no. I don’t believe it. Neil Muffett. Not Neil.’ She slid the Romeo and Juliet programme over to Theresa and flung herself back in her swivel chair.

Theresa was worried by Imogen’s reaction to the discovery of the boy’s name. ‘He’s a troublemaker? A bully?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘But is he absent from school?’

‘Worse than that. He left the school at the end of last term.’ Imogen rose and moved over to another set of filing cabinets. ‘I doubt I have anything much of use on him in here now.’

She stooped over the desk and pressed the button on the intercom. ‘Nadia, please could you find out the address and phone number of a boy who left the school last Christmas. Neil Muffett . . . That’s right. Neil.’

Imogen took her finger off the intercom and leaned forward to speak to Theresa.

‘Neil was a strange boy. Always gazing out of the window. Full of daydreams.’

‘Was he expelled? Is that what you’re trying to say?’ Theresa could imagine Chloe finding the lure of a daydreaming ‘bad ’un’ rather irresistible.

‘No. Neil was not expelled. Absolutely not. He was more of a sloth than a wild boy. He thought he could just sail through his education without putting in one iota of effort. He truly believed he’d get by simply on his ravishing smile. He left, I seem to recall, because his parents moved away from the area. There was a huge divorce. Mega-bucks involved.’

The intercom buzzed and the voice of Nadia said that she had the address of the boy’s mother. A house in Streatham.

‘Come on, Mum.’ Imogen picked up her bag and coat and strode through to Nadia’s office to collect a written copy. ‘Let’s go.’

Twenty minutes later Theresa and Imogen pulled up outside a house with a large driveway and a garage. It had obviously once been rather grand, but now seemed slightly dilapidated. The borders of the driveway were overgrown with weeds, the paintwork round the windows was peeling, the glass dusty and uncleaned in months.

‘Can this be right?’ Imogen peered forward, then pointed at the address card. ‘I always thought they were frightfully well-off.’

Theresa double-checked the card.

‘Yes. This is it. It does look like a very big house. Perhaps it’s better inside.’

‘Come on.’ Imogen got out of the car. ‘Now we’re looking for Cynthia Muffett.’

Theresa wondered whether anyone lived here at all. It looked as though the owners had been away for a long time.

Imogen stepped up to the front door, rang the bell, then wiped the tip of her finger with a tissue.

They waited, but there was no sign of life inside.

Theresa stooped and looked through the letterbox. She was thinking there would be a mound of mail lying there, but no. Then something caught her eye. The slightest movement at the end of the hall. A skirt disappearing round the architrave of a door.