It was exam time, so there weren’t the usual number of pupils dashing about the high-ceilinged corridors, or up and down the broad marble staircase. One or two young boys paused to stare at them and whisper as they passed. Probably, Banks thought, having highly erotic thoughts about Gerry, with her coltish figure and flowing red hair. Their footsteps echoed as they walked up to the second floor, where they found someone who looked like a teacher to direct them to the head’s office. Once there, they knocked and entered a reception area where a young woman with a stuffy formal manner asked them to be seated and wait, that Mr. Bowen would be with them soon.

It didn’t take long before they were summoned to go in. Though it had happened before in the course of his investigations, Banks had never been quite able to separate these official visits to the headmaster’s office from those he had been required to make as a pupil at his local grammar school, after passing the 13+ examination and finding himself transferred from the secondary modern and all his friends. He still felt that same sense of trepidation, the quickening heartbeat, even an anticipatory tingling around the buttocks at the thought of the caning to come. Of course, schools didn’t do such barbaric things anymore, but the memory remained—the music teacher with his slipper called “Johann Sebastian;” the divinity teacher who always said, “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you” before every thrashing; the art teacher who took a run like a fast bowler before letting rip. Bastards all. And no doubt dead bastards by now.

But Roger Bowen was hardly so frightening. He was young, for a start, and quite handsome, with a fine head of thick brown hair and not a trace of gray. Banks put him in his late thirties at most. He also had an affable manner and a sporty air about him—more cricketer, perhaps, than rugby player—and a strong handshake, neither too firm nor too limp and clammy. He wore a white shirt and what looked like an old school tie, but there were no gowns or mortarboards in sight. The mullioned sash window was open several inches, letting in a light breeze, a whiff of scented spring air, the thwack of leather on willow and the shouts from those pupils lucky enough to be practicing out in the nets instead of writing A-levels. Bowen bade them sit and sent for tea, then leaned back in his chair with his hands linked behind his head.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked. “You were suitably noncommittal on the telephone.”

“Occupational habit,” said Banks.

“Well, I know I haven’t committed any crimes, so unless things are going to take a positively Kafkaesque turn, I will assume that you want to see me about some aspect of the school. A pupil, perhaps?”