But once again Fleet thought he already knew the answer. Finally everything was sliding into place. The reason why the chapel had been neglected, the cracks in its walls allowed to widen, while the rest of the school was kept pristine. The headmaster’s animosity towards Father Steiner, and his desperation for the investigation to move on. Even the length of Harris’s tenure. For almost a quarter of a century, like a soldier in a time of war, Adrian Harris had been standing guard …

Two minutes later, with the name Father Steiner had given him echoing in his head, Fleet rushed from the room. He spotted DC Bevan at his desk in the open-plan office outside.

‘Sean. Get Callum Richardson’s protective detail on the phone. I need to talk to them right away.’

‘But—’

‘Just do it, Sean!’

‘I can’t, sir. I mean, I could, but if you like you can speak to them face-to-face. They’re just downstairs.’

‘Downstairs? What are they doing downstairs?’

‘They got back to the station about an hour ago. Richardson sent them away. Said if they didn’t leave him alone, he’d sue them and the entire police force for harassment.’

Shit, thought Fleet. Shit.

He checked the time. The memorial service for Ben was just about to begin, assuming Adrian Harris had decided to press ahead without Father Steiner.

‘Then get me a car,’ Fleet said to Bevan. ‘And start praying we’re not already too late.’

Ben – May 1997

(The day of his death)

Ben had been looking for a chance to return to the crypt for the past two days.

He’d made it as far as the edge of the clearing twice, but both times there’d been other kids in the woods, close enough to the graveyard that Ben hadn’t wanted to risk anyone seeing him. Finally, though, it was the weekend, meaning quite a few of Beaconsfield’s boarders had already left for home. The weather had turned chillier, too, and there was a forecast of rain, which should have afforded Ben the perfect opportunity to go back and investigate what he’d found – but all of a sudden he had a more pressing matter on his mind.

He couldn’t find them.

The photographs.

They’d been in his trouser pocket and now they were gone.

He’d already retraced his steps around the school, visiting everywhere he’d been since the last time he remembered having them. Now he was back in his dorm, going through his belongings for what must have been the third or fourth time. He’d started with his clothes, checking every pocket, before moving on to the rest of his stuff. His bed sheets, his books, his single suitcase. Even his wash kit and the folds of his towel. His area was a mess, his meagre belongings scattered all about him, and still the photos were nowhere to be found.

‘Looking for these?’