‘I can’t tell you anything about the pupils,’ Eve said. ‘If it’s to do with the school you should come back tomorrow and talk to the head teacher. Now why don’t you tell me what this is really all about?’

Molly ignored her. ‘Just one question,’ she said. ‘ Cassie Liddle. That’s not her real name, is it?’

Eve stared at her, then shook her head. She seemed disproportionately relieved, Molly thought, that the question was not more personal.

‘Do you know her real name?’

Eve shook her head again. ‘ Not her surname,’ she said. ‘It was an informal fostering arrangement approved by social services. Her first name is really Cassandra but she took the surname of her foster parents.’

In her relief she had become quite helpful, and was going to say more when she realised how unprofessional she was being.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this. The personal histories of the pupils are supposed to be confidential. I don’t know what all this is about but I think you’d better go now.’

Molly left the flat slowly and happily. She had got what she came for.

At four o’clock Simon Barton had a phone call to his office from a landowner in Scotland who had been given his name by Marcus Grenville. The landowner said he was considering peat extraction but he was worried about the publicity. There had been such a fuss about it recently with that chap David Bellamy comparing it to the destruction of the rain forest. But really, it was the only way he could see of keeping his head above water. Perhaps Simon could put together a package, find a way of appeasing the conservationists but still allow him to make some sort of profit. What did he think? Simon arranged to visit the landowner the following week and tried not to think that he had spent his previous career trying to preserve the uplands.

He was still on the phone when his secretary, Felicity, came in to tell him that there was someone to see him. Felicity was tall and blond with a figure like a Barbie doll. He had thought when he appointed Felicity that he might fall in love with her, but she was too admiring and young. He’d had enough of innocence at home.

‘I’m sorry,’ Felicity said to Molly Palmer-Jones, who was waiting in reception. ‘Mr Barton’s rather busy just now. Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment to come back another day?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Molly said firmly. ‘I’ll just wait until he’s free.’ She sat in the easy chair next to the large pot plant, reading a magazine and humming, irritatingly, to herself. At last Felicity told her, with a tired smile, that Mr Barton would see her.

Simon Barton regarded the small elderly woman who sat in his office with some amusement.