‘Seriously, boss, you could have warned me. If I’d known we were heading anywhere quite so fancy, I would have worn my string of pearls.’

Fleet’s eyes were back on the tarmac. ‘Do you even own a string of pearls, Detective Sergeant?’

He couldn’t recall seeing Nicky in a pair of heels, let alone a set of pearls. Pearl necklaces and impractical shoes would for her fall into the same category as tiaras and sequinned dresses: fine, for seven-year-olds and princesses; completely useless for anybody living and working in the real world. As a rule, Nicky wore black trouser suits and Converse trainers, and in Fleet’s opinion looked all the better for it.

‘I do, as it happens,’ Nicky said, in answer to Fleet’s question. ‘My grandma left it to me. An apology for my mother, I always thought.’

‘Well,’ said Fleet, ‘pearls or not, I don’t think either of us is going to exactly blend in. It’s probably only because we’re coppers that they didn’t ask to check our bank balances at the gate.’

The drive had turned into gravel. Fleet swung the Insignia around a fountain and followed the signposts to the visitors’ car park, before pulling into a space between two Range Rovers. He and Nicky stepped out of the car, and together surveyed the building looming over them. There was a huge central clock tower above the main entrance, and crenellated red-brick walls stretching to each corner of the building. The windows were arched and leaded, and ivy crept artfully around the main entrance, an elaborately carved set of wooden doors set atop a sweep of stone steps. Looking at the storybook setting, it would have been easy to forget why they were there.

There was a tall, severe-looking man waiting for them just inside the entranceway. He was dressed in black, from his robes to the suit he wore beneath them. The only flash of colour was the crimson knot of his tie and the piercing blue of his eyes. He was most likely in his early sixties, Fleet guessed, but like the building he was standing in, showed his age without appearing in any way decrepit. Facially, he was like a stone carving of himself, reminding Fleet of one of the presidents on Mount Rushmore.

‘Detective Inspector Fleet, I presume,’ the man said. ‘I was told to expect you. I’m Adrian Harris, headmaster.’

Fleet offered his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Harris. This is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Nicola Collins.’

Harris glanced at Nicky and nodded cursorily. Fleet caught Nicky’s expression, and he could tell she’d immediately taken against the man. Too aloof, too supercilious, too dismissive of anyone who wasn’t in authority. Probably a chauvinist, too, Fleet heard her thinking.