Alan’s lunchtime pint in The Wheatsheaf had led to another, then another, until it was eight in the evening and Doug was calling time on him, saying he’d had enough and wouldn’t be served anything else even if he asked nicely.

Alan didn’t remember much about getting home – he had a vague sense of weaving along a street he didn’t recognize, past houses whose occupants were strangers to him – then the next thing he knew he was waking up in his own bed at six in the morning with a clanging headache, parched mouth and a soreness down the right-hand side of his face.

Stumbling to the bathroom, he checked his reflection in the mirror over the sink and saw there was a thin but vivid red graze scoring his cheek from temple to chin. He rubbed it gingerly and winced. He must’ve caught it on a bush on his walk home.

He checked his phone and there was no message from Mrs Pullman telling him to stay off work again, so he had a bracingly cold shower that took the edge off his headache, downed two cups of strong black coffee, gagging only the once, and made a sandwich for his packed lunch using the few scraps of ham left in his fridge.

His stomach clenched with nerves as he walked through the school gates at ten to seven, only relenting when it became apparent that he was alone as usual.

This was his favourite time of day . . . a brief window of solitude before the rest of the school descended. His first task was to walk round the site and complete a Health & Safety check – once that was done he could open up the gates. He knew he’d have to give a statement at some point to H&S inspectors to explain how the kids had managed to get into the grounds so early; their investigation had begun in tandem with the police’s.

Bang on seven thirty Alan bumped into Mrs Pullman and the deputy head, Mr Lincoln, as they headed into the main building on their way from the car park.

‘How are you?’ asked the head, cupping Alan’s elbow briefly as a gesture of comfort.

‘I’m okay,’ he said, hoping his rigorous teeth brushing had eradicated the worst of the stale alcohol on his breath. ‘I know you said I could stay off but I want to get back to work, get on with things.’

‘What happened to your face?’ asked Mr Lincoln.

‘Gardening. I caught it on a twig.’

The deputy head smirked.

‘We’re closed to pupils again today but I’m sure you’ll find plenty to keep you busy,’ said Mrs Pullman, before taking a pause. ‘There will be counsellors on standby when the school reopens to talk to the children affected by Benji’s death. Would you like to talk to someone too?’