‘Mrs Forsyth has some good news for you,’ Bridge said helpfully.

Auriol’s eyes bulged ecstatically from their painted rims when Pax asked how soon Kes could try out a day at the school.

‘Like yoga swamis, we pride ourselves in our flexibility here at Maggers.’

‘I’ve got to speak to Kester’s father first.’ Pax glanced at her phone screen again. ‘I’ve messaged him, and if he agrees, Kes can try it out next week if that’s all right?’

‘Absolutely! I’ll need you to fill in a form.’ Pulling down a big box file marked New Student Primary Admissions, she opened it to reveal some old copies of The Educator magazine and half a bottle of Courvoisier. ‘Ah! Just need to print some new ones off.’ She groped for her glasses, stooping over the computer. ‘Oh bother, it’s locked. Where’s that password again?’

Bridge discreetly pushed her diary towards her. After Auriol made several failed attempts inputting the password, she did that for her too.

‘Thank you, Ms Mazur. In fact, could you stay and take Mrs Forsyth’s details too?’

‘You’ll need my CRB and DBS checks verified along with making a formal job offer and receiving acceptance before I can process data,’ Bridge reeled off. Her wretched swollen lip was giving her an ever-worsening lisp. ‘I shouldn’t be showing prospective parents around unaccompanied either.’

Mrs B drew her closer, whispering, ‘If you want this job, consider yourself screened and working,’ then aloud, ‘Do use my desk and perhaps Mrs Forsyth would like a coffee?’ She gesticulated towards an old-fashioned filter machine puttering toxically in the corner. ‘I’m just popping out to check on the little people and have a quick word with my staff. Back in five!’ As she left, Bridge distinctly heard a hissed yesssss from the corridor.

‘I think I just got the job,’ she told Pax, in a shocked undertone.

‘Congratulations.’

‘That’s batshit, that is. This day is so turning out to be fecking weird. Like I’m drunk or something, you know?’

Pax smiled awkwardly. ‘I might have that coffee.’

The coffee, which had evaporated its way to bitter caramel, tasted vile.

‘We’ll have a pod machine, plus Rooibos and peppermint tea on offer by half-term,’ Bridge promised, adding a slick of UHT milk from a plastic capsule into the cup before handing it across. ‘And frothed, filtered milk.’

‘It’s honestly delicious.’ Pax gulped some, fielding an incoming message on her phone and frowning, thumb firing off an immediate reply, then glancing out of the window at her car, in which, Bridge remembered, Luca O’Brien was sitting like Parker awaiting Lady Penelope. Intriguing.

‘This won’t take long.’ Behind Mrs Bullock’s screensaver, she found an open Google search for chiropodists in Chipping Hampton. The computer’s files were a predictable bomb site, but she tracked down what she needed quickly enough, pulling up the official-looking form. ‘Can I start with your son’s full birth name?’

‘Oliver Alexander Jocelyn Forsyth.’ The deep voice tightened.

‘Not Kester?’ Bridge looked up in surprise.