The urgency of Fleet’s tone seemed to convince Randy to hold off for the time being on further questions. He handed Fleet his mobile, unlocking it with his thumbprint as he passed it over.

Fleet dialled and held the phone to his ear. As he waited for someone to pick up, he tapped his hand against his leg.

‘Sean?’ It was the same DC who answered as had broken the news to Fleet on the roof of the station about the washed-up body. ‘Listen,’ said Fleet. ‘I need a pair of uniforms sent to Callum Richardson’s house. Richardson, that’s right. A protective detail. Richardson’s probably not going to like it much – he trusts the police about as much as he trusts the prime minister – but tell them not to take no for an answer, even if it means sitting in the car outside Richardson’s front door.’

Fleet looked at Randy, who’d raised an eyebrow. The pathologist was probably thinking along the same lines Fleet was: that when Burton heard about what Fleet had just authorised, he was likely to burst a blood vessel.

‘And once you’ve done that,’ Fleet continued down the phone line, ‘take another pair of uniforms out to the school with you … To Beaconsfield, right. You’re looking for a man named Steiner. Father George Steiner, the school chaplain … Yes, I know what time it is. If he’s asleep you’ll have to wake him up. But I want him in an interview room by the time I get back to the station.’

DC Bevan ran over what he’d been asked to do, and Fleet nodded.

‘And one more thing, Sean …’ Once again Fleet met Randy’s eye. ‘When you approach Father Steiner, use caution.’

Ben – May 1997

(Three days before his death)

Ben had been carrying the photographs around with him for days now – since, instead of slipping them into Father Steiner’s drawer as he’d pretended to, he’d palmed them into his back pocket.

Now, in the old graveyard in the woods behind the chapel, a place he’d only come to because he knew few people in the school ever did, he sat with the photographs spread out before him.

What had he been thinking?