Fleet turned the wipers up to high, and indicated to turn right, on to the road that would take him back towards the centre of the city. He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel.

So what scheme might someone who’d been planning to get Beaconsfield shut down have come up with – something as destructive as a fire, but that would allow them to proclaim their innocence? Arson itself would surely be too risky. Maybe the culprit had got away with it a hundred years ago, but these days there was very little chance that someone setting a building ablaze would not be caught. And a fire, somehow, did not feel subtle enough. Not cunning enough, particularly if Richardson himself had been involved.

Sicut serpentes, sicut columbae.

Cunning as serpents, innocent as doves.

Unless innocence was the key …

Fleet swung the Insignia towards the kerb. A horn blared from the car behind, and continued until the vehicle drew level. Fleet vaguely registered the gesture the driver was making through his window, but Fleet’s attention was already on his phone. He was scanning his emails, searching for a list he knew he had somewhere but had so far paid very little attention to. The focus of the investigation had been on the people who’d been at Beaconsfield at the same time Ben was. The pupils, the staff. They’d had no reason to consider the circumstances of anyone who might have left the school before Ben had arrived.

Until now.

Three names immediately jumped out. It was mainly a question of timing. Fleet googled them all, and soon enough narrowed the list down to a single name. Richard Hewitt.

A phone call and a short wait later, Fleet had an address. He entered the location into his satnav, and – checking carefully this time before pulling into traffic – turned the Insignia around.

It wasn’t the kind of place Fleet would have wanted to end up in. Then again, he doubted anyone else was particularly pleased to be here either. After thirty seconds standing in the lobby, Fleet could tell the staff were overworked and underpaid, and the patients dour and demoralised. And those were just the ones who weren’t already confined to their beds.

‘Can I help you, honey?’

Fleet turned towards the receptionist. He moved out of the way of an attendant manoeuvring an elderly lady in a wheelchair, and shook off the rain as he approached the front desk. He introduced himself and held up his ID.

‘What kind of hospice is this exactly?’ he asked.