‘If you don’t know, I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to—’

‘Mary Trelease?’

A heavy sigh. ‘If you know, why are you asking me?’

‘I’m on my way to you now,’ Charlie told Draisey. ‘When I get there, I’ll need you to—’

‘I’ll either be too busy to help you, or I’ll be asleep,’ came the firm reply. ‘I’d strongly advise you to save yourself the trip. You’re not the first police officer I’ve said this to, and you won’t be the first to wish you’d listened to me when you’ve wasted a good night’s sleep for absolutely no reason. Good night, sergeant. ’

‘Mary Trelease died in 1982,’ Charlie shouted into her phone, but Claire Draisey was gone.

Charlie drove at twice the speed limit all the way to the motorway. Once she was on it, she rang the number Coral Milward had left on her voicemail. When the DS answered, she said, ‘It’s Charlie Zailer.’

‘Where the fuck are you? Where’s Waterhouse? Anyone’d think we weren’t all on the same side here. Who the fuck do you both think you are, treating me like I don’t exist?’

‘I think Simon’s at Villiers,’ Charlie told her. ‘I’m on my way there now.’

‘You’re on your way to my office is where you’re on your way to.’

‘’Fraid not,’ said Charlie.

‘They should have got rid of you two years ago—I would have done, if you’d been one of mine. They’re sure as hell going to wish they did once they’ve heard what I’ve got to say about you. Once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up. I’m going to take your career and your future and every fucking thing you’ve got and stick it up my big fat arse before shitting it out again. You’d better—’

Charlie switched her phone off. On the same side? Funny, that was never the impression Milward gave. She’d said nothing about having dispatched anyone to Villiers. Despite what Claire Draisey had told her, Charlie had no way of knowing if anyone from the Met was on their way to the school. She decided to stick with her original plan and head for Garstead Cottage, even if it meant losing her job. Ruth Bussey and Mary Trelease were there—hadn’t Draisey said so?

She turned on Kate’s car stereo and heard what sounded like a live gig—raucous applause and cheering, electronic music almost drowned out by hands and voices. When the clapping died down, a man started to speak. He didn’t say who he was, but Charlie guessed he was Kate’s sons’ headmaster, or one of their teachers. This was a school concert on CD. He was thanking something called the Wednesday Club Ensemble for its synthesised rendition of ‘Ten Green Bottles’.