He decided to sit outside but even the small patio out the back held no respite, its stone surface too hot to stand on for long. So he took one of the plastic garden chairs and positioned it under the shade of the cherry tree that loomed into his garden from the one next door. Then he checked his phone again, scrolling anxiously through his messages as though he suddenly expected to find a summons from the police because they’d found the hidden entrance in the boundary fence, or had opened up the Pavilion and gleaned what it was being used for, or had worked out that he had lied to them about Poppy Hepworth.

Not finding any such message did nothing to calm him and for a moment he toyed with ringing Gus, knowing he’d be up to speed with what the police were doing at the school. But then Gus might be angry he wasn’t there himself and hadn’t done anything beyond altering his statement. Alan had heard enough alarming stories about the way Gus treated people who’d crossed him to know he needed to keep him sweet at any cost.

Alan wiped the sweat dripping from his brow. Even sitting in the shade was too uncomfortable so he went back inside, switched on the telly and managed to distract himself watching This Morning.

At noon he made a sandwich, ham and pickle on doorstep-thick white bread. He’d only managed one bite when his phone went. He snatched it up, thinking it would be Mrs Pullman, and was so surprised to see who was calling that the mouthful caught in his throat and he had to cough forcibly to dislodge it.

‘Al? Is that you?’

The quiet, mellifluous voice made his heart shudder in his chest. How long had it been since they’d spoken? Three years? Surely it couldn’t be that long? Christ, he realized with a start, it was three years ago – on the day he’d moved to Mansell.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ he managed to croak, dashing into the kitchen to get a drink of water. The signal was stronger in there as well and he didn’t want to risk cutting out mid-sentence; if that happened his ex-wife might wait another three years to speak to him again.

‘You’re the last person I was expecting to ring, Gayle,’ he said, throat cleared.

‘I wasn’t sure if this was still your number,’ she said falteringly. ‘It’s been a while . . . I thought you might have changed it.’

All their communication was done via email or solicitors, her choice. He wanted to point out the obvious, that if he had changed his number the kids would have no way of speaking to him, but he bit down hard on the comment before it escaped his lips. There was no point antagonizing her for the sake of point scoring.

‘How are the kids?’