Jenny’s desk was empty. She’d almost certainly gone for lunch. As Jazz left the building, her mobile rang.

‘Issy here, Jazz.’

‘Issy, any news?’

‘Yes. Can you meet me back at the station?’

‘Not just now. Tell me briefly.’

‘Rory has just admitted his dad was covering for him. Apparently, Rory told him in the Lakes that he couldn’t remember whether he swallowed the aspirin or not.’

Jazz kept on walking. ‘Fine. But there must have been more to it than that.’

‘There was. Apparently, Charlie Cavendish was using Rory as a lackey – getting him to clean his shoes, tidy up after him . . . you know the kind of thing.’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Well, the night Charlie died, Rory had been ordered by Charlie to go to his room before he arrived back from the pub, and switch his electric blanket on. So, after the distressing interlude with Hugh Daneman, Rory had to trudge upstairs to Charlie’s room . . .’

‘And he thought he might have left the aspirin there accidentally.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So, did he?’ Jazz spied Frederiks marching across the rugby pitch and picked up speed, dodging a hack with a camera.

‘Did he what?’

‘Leave the pills in Charlie’s room accidentally? Or on purpose? After all, Cavendish was making his life hell.’

‘Well, Rory can remember Hugh Daneman handing him a glass of water. The chances are he took the aspirin before he got anywhere near Charlie’s room. But what with the emotional trauma of Daneman’s kiss, then Rory realising he was the last person to be in Charlie’s room before he died, and the fact he’d had two aspirin in his hand only half an hour before, I think Rory’s imagination worked overtime. It’s called auto-suggestion, Jazz. Besides which, I doubt whether Rory was even beginning to think straight enough after what had just happened to him with Daneman to conceive an on-the-spot plot to murder Charlie.’

‘But Issy, that puts Rory at the scene of the crime, with the means and it has to be a possibility . . . Issy? Hello?’

Jazz took her mobile from her ear and saw she’d lost the signal. ‘Damn!’ she muttered. Sebastian Frederiks was a few feet away from her.

‘Mr Frederiks, can I have a word?’ she called as she caught up with him.

‘As long as it’s not to question my parentage.’ He carried on striding out. Jazz had to jog to keep up with him.

‘Robert Jones said you might remember the pupils who were said to have been involved in the bullying of the boy who hanged himself in the cellar of Fleat.’

Frederiks stopped short and looked at her. ‘That’s ancient history, isn’t it? What’s it got to do with anything now?’

‘Probably nothing, but if you can remember the boys’ names, I’d be grateful.’

Sebastian looked wary. ‘It was never proved, you know, and I wasn’t even at the school when it happened. I arrived a few months after, in the Michaelmas term. But some of the boys said this Jamie was unstable, odd in the head. I don’t think his death can be laid at anyone’s door.’