After a quarter of an hour a group of teachers walked across the playground. They were all women and several were young enough to fit the description of Eve Theobald. For a moment Molly panicked. She wound down the window so she could hear what they were saying but that gave no clue to their identity.

‘We’re thinking about Turkey this year,’ one said. ‘It’s supposed to be brilliant value. And really hot. It wouldn’t be a real holiday without the sun.’

‘I couldn’t fancy the food,’ said another. ‘John always says there’s nothing to beat Tenby. At least it’s not all garlic and olive oil.’

They had come out of the gates and begun walking along the pavement to their cars when another young woman left the school and hurried across the yard towards them. She was wearing black stretch leggings and a long black T-shirt and carried a large wicker basket. One of the group discussing holidays shouted back to the newcomer.

‘Bye, Eve! See you tomorrow!’

Then they all dispersed and the young woman in black was left to shut the gate and padlock it. Molly climbed out of the Land Rover.

‘Excuse me!’ she said. The woman turned and waited to be asked the time or the way into the town centre.

‘I believe you’re Eve Theobald,’ Molly said. ‘You’ve met my husband, George Palmer-Jones.’

‘I told him everything yesterday,’ Eve said aggressively. ‘All that stuff in the papers had nothing to do with me.’

‘No,’ Molly said. ‘I’m sure it didn’t … Perhaps I could give you a lift home.’

She thought Eve would refuse. She seemed frightened, jumpy, uncertain. Molly wondered how George could have failed to pick up the woman’s tension.

‘It’s probably nothing to do with my aunt’s death,’ Molly said easily. ‘There’s a problem … Not very important, probably, but I think you could help me to clear it up.’

She already had the passenger door open and watched with satisfaction as Eve climbed inside.

‘If you just tell me where you live,’ Molly said and in a brittle, staccato voice the woman gave directions to her flat. Molly pulled up on the pavement in the narrow street.

‘Do you want to come in?’ Eve said without warmth or enthusiasm.

‘Well now,’ Molly said, ‘that would be very nice.’

The flat was small, untidy. The walls were covered with posters of rock stars and animals near to extinction.

‘What’s it about?’ Eve demanded. She did not suggest making Molly tea.

‘It’s about one of the children who attend your school.’

Eve, looked suspiciously at Molly, as if she did not believe her, as if it were some sort of trap.