Alan slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. His palms smelled of the soil embedded in the lines criss-crossing them. His breathing was almost back to normal, though, his chest no longer burning as though it was on fire. But the subsidence of shock brought clarity of thought – and the realization that he had made a terrible, stupid mistake.

What he’d said to the copper who’d pulled him away from the body, the stuff he’d come out with . . . now the police were crawling all over the place and he kept hearing the words ‘suspicious death’ being bandied about.

Why the hell didn’t he say it was an accident?

He played the moment back again in his mind, but already it was like watching an old cine film, all blurred, jerky and vague. It had happened so quickly, too fast for him to stop it. But there was no doubting what he saw. The girl pushed the boy, no question. And, really, the police should know that, because what she did was bad, so bad. But by being honest he’d dropped himself right in it.

Because the way he saw it now, if the police thought the boy’s death was an accident, they’d probably poke around the building site for a bit, then pack up and leave. But now they were treating it more seriously than that – because of what he said he saw – and they could end up searching the entire premises, including opening up the Pavilion – and if that happened he was a dead man.

Just thinking about it made Alan’s heartbeat accelerate again and his breaths grow shallower. He raised his head and checked around him. The playground was teeming with coppers, some in uniform, some not, but they weren’t paying attention to him. Earlier, someone had pointed out the detective in charge and he could see her now on the other side of the playground. With a start he realized she reminded him of Ruby: her hair was the same shade of auburn and styled the same way, poker-straight to the shoulders. When the detective moved her head, her hair swished as one, like a curtain, same as Ruby’s.

As he watched her talking to a bloke in a suit, another detective presumably, an idea suddenly came to him. There was something he should do while he had the chance.

Eagerly he got to his feet and went over to the nearest uniformed officer, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention.

‘I need my inhaler,’ said Alan, surreptitiously placing his hand over the outline of the one concealed in his trouser pocket. ‘I’m asthmatic. It’s in my office – can I go and get it?’

The officer hesitated, as though he was weighing up whether he was allowed to give permission. He glanced around, then nodded.

‘Come straight back, though.’

‘I will.’