“You’re doing great,” Cassie said gently. “What did you do then?”

“Mel said, ‘Oh, my God,’ or something, and we ran back and told Dr. Hunt. He told us all to go into the canteen.”

“OK, Damien, I need you to think carefully,” Cassie said. “Did you see anything that seemed weird today, or over the last few days? Anyone unusual hanging around, anything out of place?”

He gazed into space, lips slightly parted; took another sip of his tea.

“This probably isn’t the kind of thing you mean. . . .”

“Anything could help us,” Cassie told him. “Even the tiniest thing.”

“OK.” Damien nodded earnestly. “OK, on Monday I was waiting for the bus home, out by the gate? And I saw this guy come down the road and go into the estate. I don’t know why I even noticed him, I just— He sort of looked around before he went into the estate, like he was checking if anyone was watching him or something.”

“What time was this?” Cassie asked.

“We finish at half past five, so maybe twenty to six? That was the other weird thing. I mean, there’s nothing round here that you can get to without a car, except the shop and the pub, and the shop closes at five. So I wondered where he was coming from.”

“What did he look like?”

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Tana French

“Sort of tall, like six foot. In his thirties, I guess? Heavy. I think he was bald. He had on a dark blue tracksuit.”

“Would you be able to work with a sketch artist to come up with a drawing of him?”

Damien blinked fast, looking alarmed. “Um . . . I didn’t see him all that well. I mean, he was coming from up the road, on the other side of the estate entrance. I wasn’t really looking—I don’t think I’d remember . . .”

“That’s all right,” Cassie said. “Don’t worry about it, Damien. If you feel like you might be able to give us some more details, let me know, OK?

Meanwhile, just take care of yourself.”

We got Damien’s address and phone number, gave him a card (I wanted to give him a lollipop, too, for being such a brave boy, but they’re not standard department issue) and shooed him back to the others, with orders to send in Melanie Jackson.

“Sweet kid,” I said noncommittally, testing.

“Yeah,” said Cassie dryly. “If I ever want a pet, I’ll keep him in mind.”

Mel was a lot more useful than Damien. She was tall and skinny and Scottish, with muscled brown arms and sandy hair in a messy ponytail, and she sat like a boy, feet planted firmly apart.

“Maybe you know this already, but she’s from the estate,” she said straightaway. “Or from somewhere round here, anyway.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The local kids come around the site sometimes. There’s not much else for them to do during the summer. They mostly want to know if we’ve found buried treasure, or skeletons. I’ve seen her a few times.”