Jane sounded like the parent. Bloom wondered how long it would be before the girl disappeared. Children responsible for alcoholic or drug-dependent parents often fled as soon as they could and never looked back.

‘Do you know if she’d upset anybody?’ she asked.

‘No more than usual. You know Mum,’ Jane said to Jameson. His raised eyebrows and smirk suggested he’d seen this aspect of Lana first-hand. Jane mirrored his smirk. It was a shared joke. She turned to Bloom. ‘She never backs away from a fight.’

‘Never,’ said Jameson, and Bloom wondered how many arguments there’d been between Claire – and by extension Jameson – and Lana over the years.

Bloom continued, ‘Did your mum seem particularly worried about any of the fall-outs? Scared, even?’

Jane shook her head. ‘I don’t think Mum’s ever been scared of anything. If I was worrying about something, she’d just tell me to stop being stupid. “What’s there to be scared of?” she’d say.’

Plenty, thought Bloom. Sometimes those who felt no fear were the most frightening of all.

9

Dear Dr Bloom,

This morning PC Watkins came over to tell us that Darren Shaw isn’t dead. He’s in a serious but stable condition. She said this will help my case immensely. But then the school phoned to say I was excluded and couldn’t attend any of the upcoming trips. I told Mum how important my classes are and how much I love Art. She’s ringing the headmaster now to convince him to let me go. Claudia’s going, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t. It’s not as if I can’t catch up with the work. I could probably get away with missing the whole term and still pass my exams.

I’m not sure the police and school really understand the meaning of justice. I mean, the whole thing was the caretaker’s fault. I didn’t ask him to follow us into the hall and get all pervy. So why punish me and my poor parents who’ve done absolutely nothing wrong?

I might do some research into miscarriages of justice. I’ll let you know what I find out as it might be helpful for your job.

Seraphine

10

Jameson placed two cups of tea on the table in front of Bloom. They were passing Peterborough and would arrive in Leeds to meet with Libby Goodman, Stuart Rose-Butler’s fiancée, in an hour or so.

Bloom lifted the lid from one of the insulated red cups.

‘Ah,’ Jameson said, twisting her cup around. ‘I think you’ve got mine.’ Bloom looked down. On the side of the cup it said: What can I say? I’m hot.

Bloom twisted the second cup. ‘They both say that.’

Jameson frowned. ‘Disappointing.’