I said: “It’s not important. Unless—” I paused for a moment. “I heard that you’d been caring for Margery Scoones up until her death.”

Gloria gave me a sharp look. “Caring? Well, you could call it that. Mostly it was watching TV and listening to her talk rubbish. Cleaning up, if she let me. Though with them bloody boxes everywhere, all over the house—”

“One of those boxes came from—a very dear friend of mine,” I said. “He left the contents to Mr. Scoones—with a letter, I believe. I wondered if you’d come across that letter, maybe by accident.”

I was watching her carefully, on the alert for signs of unease. She held my gaze—looking, if anything, more aggressive than ever.

“What if I did?” she said at last.

I said: “Eric Scoones was very upset. He accidentally burned the box while he was burning Margery’s things. I was hoping perhaps the letter had escaped. The last words of an old friend—I hoped perhaps you’d put it away. Put it in a safe place.”

Gloria’s gaze did not flicker. “No. I didn’t tidy anything.”

“If only you knew where it was,” I said, “Eric and I would be grateful. Certainly there’d be a reward. Probably a substantial one.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve not seen it.”

A long career in finding out young miscreants has made me adept at eliciting confessions. Unlike the lawmen of the real world, in which a suspect is deemed to be innocent until proven otherwise, we of St. Oswald’s always begin an interrogation with an apparent assumption of guilt, with which we confront the suspect in the hope that he will confess. As in certain martial arts, I find the resulting battle of wills is generally won or lost within the first few seconds of engagement, although I myself have been known to break a schoolboy’s defenses with a single, piercing glance.

It’s a game of bluff, of course; but I am rather good at it. And although my last adversary had proved herself to be tough as nails, I left the house certain of two things. One: that letter to Eric contained something that I needed to know, and two: for all her assurances, Gloria Winter was lying.

Chapter 2

2

November 4, 2005

Your brother was late. It was 9:05. I’d almost given up on him. Some people just aren’t reliable; or maybe they’re inconsiderate. In any case, Mousey, it was rude; and if I’d not already decided to put him down, I think that would have clinched it.

He’d parked his car next to Goldie’s. He got out and looked around. I could sense his caution; like a rat sensing danger, but hungry for the food in the trap. Just how hungry was he? I thought. And just how far would Goldie go?