‘We are trying to find out anything – anything at all – that might give us a clue as to Elliot’s whereabouts,’ he continued. ‘Do you know anything, Lance? Anything whatsoever that might help us?’

‘No,’ Boil grunted.

‘Er, Mr Boil,’ Graham said, his voice rising slightly, as did the bubble in his chest. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to make you aware of the seriousness of the situation. A thirteen-year-old boy, one of our own, is missing. You spent a lot of time with him as his form teacher last year – can you think of anywhere he might go?’

‘No,’ Boil repeated.

‘Anyone, then?’ Graham continued quickly, feeling his feeble grasp of the situation loosening. ‘What about the neighbour – Mrs . . . Norseman’s-Tum?’

‘Porshley-Plum,’ said Dave, with trembling breath. ‘And don’t mention that woman’s name in my presence.’

‘Mine neither,’ Boil grumbled. ‘Two-faced cow. Never trust anyone in tweed.’

‘Trust her with what?’ Graham asked. ‘Mr Boil, if there is anything you can tell us?’

‘I told you already. N—’

But before Mr Boil could utter another syllable, Dave Hooper had sprung out of his chair, launched himself at the deputy headmaster and pinned him up against the wall by his stinking shirt.

‘Mr Hooper!’ Graham wailed.

‘Help!’ Boil quavered.

‘Now listen to me,’ Dave Hooper spat at Boil. ‘I’ve lost my wife. I’ve lost my parents. I’ve lost my home. I’ve lost the last ten years of my life. And now I’ve lost my son. The only thing that is stopping me from losing my mind is the thought that Elliot is out there alive and well. And that I will find him. So if you know something, anything, that might make that happen sooner, you need to start talking. Or, so help me God, I will happily go back to prison because of what I’m about to do to you.’

Dave released his grip on Boil and let him crumple to the floor. He returned calmly to his chair and sat down. Boil crawled to his seat and did the same.

‘All right,’ he snorted. ‘All I know is that Horse’s-Bum wanted your farm. So when she told me about your wife’s . . . situation . . .’

‘What?’ whispered Graham.

‘The mother – Mrs Hooper,’ said Boil, looking shiftily in Dave’s direction. ‘Patricia found out she was . . . unwell.’

‘And she told you?’ Graham gasped. ‘When?’

Boil looked at his scuffed shoes.

‘February,’ he growled.

‘And you didn’t feel the need to immediately report it to me?’ said Graham quietly, the sensation in his chest not so much bubbling now as boiling.

‘No,’ Boil mumbled.