I thought he sounded unduly sharp. But then, I thought, the British police were trained in the art of suspicion. It was their job to question and probe, and their close proximity to the baser elements of the community meant that trust and goodwill were not likely to feature high on their list of priorities. The only real contact with the police I’d had in my professional life was when Sergeant Rose, the liaison officer, came in once a term to speak at an Assembly.

Sergeant Rose was twinkly-eyed, friendly, and nearing retirement. His role was to establish links with St. Oswald’s and the community, and try to recruit as many of our less academic boys as possible. He was also a consummate actor, and on the few occasions when we’d needed one of our boys to receive a salutary shock, he had dropped his cloak of affability to reveal the gimlet-eyed lawman beneath. I liked Sergeant Rose, but did not believe for a moment that his act was anything other than a clever PR strategy. Stackhouse and his partner, Noakes, were not from the PR branch of the force, and their eyes were frankly hostile in their flat, expressionless faces—much like those of boys in my class forced to study Vergil against their inclination.

“Won’t you sit down and have tea?” I said.

Stackhouse shook his head. “No, thanks. Lots to do this morning. You were telling us why you didn’t speak to Charlie Nutter when you had the chance.”

I started to explain about the end of term, and absences, and School reports, and commitments. Stackhouse wrote it down in his book. Noakes just nodded occasionally, as if he rather sympathized. I realized later that the nod was merely a meaningless tic, indicative neither of understanding nor approval.

“Did anyone else speak to the boy?” he said. “A colleague, maybe?”

“I think Harry Clarke may have had a word. He knows him better than I do.”

Stackhouse and Noakes exchanged glances. “Thank you, Mr. Straitley,” said Noakes. “You’ve been extremely helpful.”

That made me feel slightly uneasy. I didn’t feel I’d told them much. But I had seen the face of the older man as soon as I’d mentioned Harry’s name, and the way his eyes had lit.

“Is there news of Charlie?” I said. “Does anyone know where he might have gone?”

Stackhouse’s face was expressionless. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that,” he said. “I won’t disturb you any longer.”