‘Six,’ Bevan replied, a phone in his left hand and a radio in his right. He’d been talking into one or the other – occasionally both at the same time – for most of the journey. ‘But it sounds as though they’ve all got their hands full. No one’s managed to find Callum Richardson. He was seen arriving – he was caught on camera outside the gates – but from the sound of it his bodyguards have lost track of him, too.’

Fleet cursed. ‘How the hell did they manage to do that?’

‘Apparently Richardson instructed them to wait outside the chapel during the service. They were still outside when everything kicked off.’

Scowling, Fleet turned back to face the road. As he did so, the PC was forced to brake sharply. The road had tightened, and a car that was heading their way was drifting into the oncoming lane. The man driving, Fleet saw, had been adjusting his rear-view mirror, presumably to try to get a peek at what was going on behind him.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the PC said, once they’d threaded their way past.

‘Not your fault,’ Fleet told him. He rearranged himself in his seat, tugging at his seatbelt where it had half garrotted him.

They rounded another bend, and this time the PC had to slow the car to a crawl. The entrance to Beaconsfield’s driveway was just ahead, and as well as a queue of cars trying to get out, there was an ambulance trying to get in. The gates were wide enough to allow two vehicles to fit side by side, but beyond the gatehouse the drive itself immediately tapered. Fleet knew from his past visits that there were lay-bys every hundred metres or so further up, but there was otherwise only space for one car at a time.

‘Will you look at that idiot?’ said Bevan.

Other than a select group of reporters, the press had been banned from school grounds during the memorial service, but that hadn’t stopped half a dozen news vans clustering on the verge opposite the gatehouse. And now one of the vans was trying to tailgate the ambulance and follow it up the driveway to the school. A second news van was halfway across the road, as though the driver were contemplating a similar move, and the result was a total logjam. The PC allowed the siren to admit another wail, but it was as effective as hurling abuse at a frozen computer screen. They were clearly as close to the school as they would be able to get.

Before they’d even come to a complete stop, Fleet opened his door and swung his feet on to the tarmac. Bevan was half a second behind him.