All that you will read, therefore, is Lucinda’s work from 2006.

Mum was hugely proud of this project. It is the only crime novel she ever wrote, but loyal readers will instantly recognise her unrivalled ability to capture a sense of place. I’m sure it will interest you to know that, at the time of writing, my family lived in the vast, mysterious landscape in which the story is set. What’s more, the Norfolk school featured in the book was heavily inspired by the one which we, her own children, attended. Thankfully, I can confirm that nothing so dramatic actually took place in the corridors of the boarding houses.

As you might expect, hidden secrets from the past strongly influence present-day events, and we are treated to some typically superb characterisation in the form of DI Jazz Hunter, who I’m sure you’ll agree has the potential to anchor a series of her own.

Perhaps she would have, in another life.

Harry Whittaker, 2021

Prologue

St Stephen’s School, Norfolk
January 2005

As the figure took the stairs leading to the sixth-form corridor – a maze of shoebox-sized studies, one per boy – the only sounds were the clanking and stirring coming from the antiquated radiators, inefficient cast-iron sentinels that had struggled to warm Fleat House and the boys within it for the past fifty years.

One of the eight boarding houses that made up St Stephen’s School, Fleat House had taken its name from the headmaster at the time it was built a hundred and fifty years ago. Known as ‘Fleapit’ by its current inhabitants, the ugly red-brick Victorian building had been converted into student accommodation just after the war.

It was also the last house to benefit from much-needed refurbishments. Within six months, the corridors, stairs, dormitories and common rooms would be stripped bare of the torn, black linoleum that covered the floors; the yellowing walls would be re-papered and freshened with magnolia and the archaic shower blocks would be re-equipped with glistening stainless-steel fitments and glossy white tiles. This, to appease today’s demanding parents who insisted their children live and learn in comfort akin to a hotel, not a hovel.

Outside Study Number Seven, the figure paused for a moment, listening. Being a Friday, the eight boys on this floor would have signed out and walked to the pub in the nearby market town of Foltesham, but it was as well to be sure. Hearing nothing, the figure turned the handle and went in.

Closing the door quietly and switching on the light, the figure was aware almost immediately of the ingrained, musty smell of teenager: a mixture of unwashed socks, sweat and raging hormones which had, over the years, permeated every nook and cranny of Fleat House.

Shuddering, the smell triggering painful memories, the figure nearly stumbled on a pile of underwear thrown carelessly onto the floor. Then, reaching for the two white tablets placed on the boy’s locker every night and replacing them with identical ones, the figure turned, switched off the light and left the room.