All right, Mousey. It got out of hand. That was Poodle’s fault, not mine. But Poodle was being difficult. For a start, he denied that he and Harry had had a relationship while Poodle was still at school. He admitted to having been troubled, but blamed it all on his parents. He also blamed me, Mousey—talked about the clay pits, the burned-out car, even the rabbits. He told them he’d been afraid of me—that both he and Goldie had been afraid—and that they had gone along with the games in order to humor me.

It wasn’t very plausible. I didn’t look like the kind of boy who could make other people afraid of me. Goldie looked like a leader, with his Cambridge-boy physique. Even Poodle looked fitter and healthier than I did. But I looked like a victim; bloated, hairless, and pitiful, as if what had happened seven years before were a cancer eating away at me. But Poodle wouldn’t leave it alone. He was besotted with Harry Clarke. He phoned my home repeatedly, trying to make me confirm his tale. He wrote me crazy letters, threatening to expose me. And so I did the only thing I could. I dropped the bomb I was holding before Poodle could use it against me. That way, if he told the police about the death of Lee Bagshot, it would look like a made-up story, fabricated to shift the blame away from Harry onto me.

Recovered memory therapy is such a useful tool, Mousey. Miss McRae was a strong believer in its healing powers. Thanks to her, I remembered how I’d seen Lee Bagshot in the clay pits. I was even able to describe the boy’s clothes on the day he disappeared. I remembered conversations; dragged out scraps of memory; hinted and hesitated, confided and confessed, until at last there was enough for the police to build a case.

It took a while. Miss McRae helped; and Mr. Speight; and my parents. I feigned reluctance at first; then allowed them to persuade me. I felt like the kid at a party, politely refusing the last slice of cake. I let them woo me.

Well, if you insist . . .

All that was just bait, of course. I know a bit about bait, you know. Of course, there was no actual proof that Harry had ever known Lee Bagshot. But Harry’s house was half a mile from where Lee’s body had been found, and, now that he was in the dock for acts of gross indecency, it seemed almost poetic that he should be a murderer too.