The search engine on the Peterborough Telegraph is unsophisticated and full of so many pop-up advertisements it’s hard to find anything. Putting in my name produces no results. He tries a Google search next and that comes up with thousands of Lisa Evanses, soap stars, footballers, cheerleaders, social workers – they are on Instagram, Twitter, LinkedIn; they live in London, East Kilbride and Alabama. That’s just for starters. But eventually he finds it, a small piece in the Telegraph: the day after the incident police are appealing for witnesses; later in the week they are keeping an open mind and three days later they are not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident. The inquest takes place three months later, in Huntingdon, at the Coroner’s Court. The verdict is suicide. Afterwards, the family release a statement.

I made a good photograph. It was the one the school used on the noticeboard in the main foyer. I am smiling, looking straight on. I look confident, and happy. When Lockhart finds the report on the inquest, the Telegraph have put it on the front page with the photograph in full colour and enlarged. The headline is ‘School Called in Counsellors after Tragic Teacher’s Death’. I experience a reflexive moment of annoyance at the grammar: ‘Teacher’s Tragic Death’, it should be. I wasn’t tragic until I died. The piece focuses on what a popular and well-liked member of staff I was, how nobody could understand why it had happened. At the end of the article, there is a quotation from Lisa Evans’s boyfriend, who has requested privacy and asked not to be named in newspaper reports. That explains why Bina at the hospital didn’t make the connection herself, Lockhart thinks. His close colleagues would have known, presumably, but not the wider staff.

‘It’s still difficult for me to come to terms with,’ the anonymous boyfriend is quoted as saying. ‘We had our problems from time to time, like any couple, but we had talked about having a family one day and it’s still hard for me to believe, despite her troubled history, that she would go this far and hurt the ones who loved her so much. I am simply heartbroken.’

Lockhart thinks of Goodison’s face, the friendliness in his eyes, and he thinks, how could you make an offhand remark about a suicide on a railway station if your own girlfriend had died that way less than two years previously? And when he had told Goodison he was there to ask about Thomas Warren, what was behind that exhalation he gave, the flicker in his eyes? Relief, perhaps?