“I’ve been her instructor for six months,” he said. “And her neighbor for a year and a bit.”

“Are you friendly? The two of you?”

Chris shifted in his chair. “How d’you mean?”

“What do you talk about during your lessons?”

“Mainly her driving. As you’d expect.”

“Your last lesson with her was the day before yesterday.” Ford looked directly at him. “The day Freya disappeared.”

She left a pause as if for his response. But she hadn’t phrased it as a question. Chris was aware of breathing a little too heavily. He nodded, and she wrote something down even though he hadn’t said a word.

“Did anything unusual happen?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Where did you drop her off?”

“Back at school. It was her lunch hour.”

“Did you see her walk in?”

Chris paused, picturing Freya’s long stride, buoyant even when she was walking slowly, as though she was consciously charging each step with pent-up energy. “Maybe not right in. But I saw her go up the drive.”

“Toward the main school? Or the separate sixth-form drive?”

All his saliva seemed to have deserted him. “Um, the sixth form, I think. Could I get a glass of water?”

Johnson left the room. Alone with the woman detective, Chris felt her stare drilling into him. He shifted again in the narrow plastic seat. When Johnson returned, Chris gulped the water too fast and felt nauseous.

“How well do you know Freya’s parents?” Ford resumed.

Chris thought of well-groomed Steph, with her polished smile, and sandy-haired Paul, who shouldered a huge leather gym bag at all times. He thought of how Steph would wave from the window if he and Freya were leaving for an evening lesson, how she’d often be watching from the same position when they returned, as if she hadn’t moved in an hour.

Would the Harlows have told the detectives about the argument there’d been over Freya’s lessons? Would it look bad if Chris didn’t mention it? Would he even be able to talk about it without becoming hot with indignation?

He cleared his throat. “Of course, I see them around. Wouldn’t say I know them well.”

He didn’t add, My wife and I used to call them the Wholesome Harlows when we first moved in. Or the Blond Brigade. Chris didn’t really see them like that anymore, not since he’d started teaching Freya and everything had got so much more complicated.

Ford turned a page of her notebook. “Who was your next student after Freya?”

He had tried to prepare himself for this one. Had thought about it on the way over, how important it was to answer nonchalantly. The reality was difficult, though, especially when his mouth was a vacuum.

“She was my last student of the day.”