Ben looked across and met Callum’s eye. There was a hand already up in the front row – and then, surprising even himself, Ben slowly raised his. He noticed Melissa glance at him from across the aisle, but he kept his eyes fixed on Father Steiner, who – from smiling at the boy in front – turned and looked Ben’s way.

Ben thought back to what his new friends had told him about the chaplain – a predator, Lance had called him – and for the first time wondered whether it could really be true. Father Steiner didn’t look dangerous from where Ben was sitting.

He didn’t look dangerous at all.

Wednesday 23 October, 12.02 p.m.

It was like stepping back into his childhood. When Fleet had been growing up, even well into his otherwise unruly teens, his mother had dragged him to church a minimum of once a week. Sometimes – particularly as Fleet got older – the act had been literally that: his mother throwing back his duvet and physically pulling Fleet from his bed. She insisted that, while Fleet was living under her roof, he would obey her rules, and really the only rule book she cared about was the Bible. It had been the same for Fleet’s sister, although Jeannie had gone more willingly. But Fleet had stopped believing in God around the time he’d discovered drink and drugs, and the last time he’d stepped into a church was the day of his sister’s funeral.

Now, as he and Nicky entered Beaconsfield’s chapel, it all came back to him: the musty smell and heavy silence, the vague discomfort and indeterminate sense of guilt.

‘Shouldn’t we have knocked or something?’ Nicky whispered. They’d paused at the end of the central aisle, just beyond the vestibule, and there was no one in sight. The dark oak pews were laid out in front of them, the rows extending all the way to the altar. There were huge stained-glass windows along the walls, like pages of a vast and colourful picture book narrating, in this instance, the story of Christ and the apostles. In the alcoves, there were gilded statues and gold candelabras, while above them hung a vast chandelier – all of which contributed to the strangely yellow light.

‘We could ring the bell,’ said Fleet. ‘That would probably get the chaplain’s attention. But we’d be in danger of having six hundred pupils descending on us, too.’

He started towards the altar, and Nicky followed a step behind. She looked as much of an intruder as she clearly felt.

‘At ease, Detective Sergeant,’ Fleet said. ‘I’d imagine you’re not the first non-believer to step through those doors. If you need evidence, try feeling for chewing gum on the undersides of those pews.’