On the top floor, she ran towards the front door and found it locked.

‘DAMN!’ Trying every key on the Fleat House ring, none fitted. She stood back and launched herself at it, but to no avail.

Hammering on the door, she cried, ‘Jenny, it’s Inspector Hunter. Are you in there? Answer me if you can!’

Silence.

‘Hello, Ma’am. How are things?’ Miles appeared by her side with two burly constables.

‘Break it down, boys,’ she ordered. ‘As fast as you can.’

The constables gave the door an almighty shove. At the fourth try, it opened.

‘Thanks, chaps. There are certain occasions I remember I’m female,’ Jazz quipped in relief as she walked through the door of the flat, Miles by her side.

She walked through the hall and into the small sitting room. Jenny was lying on the floor, unconscious. Jazz kneeled down and checked her pulse. She could feel a faint flickering.

‘Call an ambulance, and tell Roland to station his men on every exit. No one comes in or out until I say so.’

Jazz stood up and walked into the bedroom. And, as she’d expected, found the wardrobes and drawers empty.

Miles joined her as Jazz sighed. ‘Probably packed a day ago. I’d imagine she’s gone to Norwich airport, or perhaps Stansted. They have flights to the South of France. Get on to the airport authorities. Give them a description, Miles. I’ll see if the school has a passport photo in their records.’

‘A description of who, Ma’am?’ Miles frowned in confusion.

‘Of Madelaine Smith, Miles. Matron of Fleat House. And the mother of Jamie Smith, the young man who hanged himself in the cellar twenty-five years ago. Or, as her victims preferred to call her, “The Blacksmith”.’

Chapter Thirty-Three

Scotland Yard, London
One week later

Norton opened his door and welcomed Jazz inside.

‘Come in and sit down. It’s good to see you, DI Hunter.’

Jazz sat in the chair in front of his desk.

‘Strange to be back?’ he asked cryptically.

‘Yes, but I’ve buried the ghosts, Sir.’

‘Good, good,’ he nodded. ‘Now, I’ve obviously read your report on the case but I’d like you to talk me through it anyway. I have to live vicariously through my detectives now that I’m a sad old pen-pusher.’ He smiled grimly and Jazz could see he meant it.

‘Well, Sir, as you know, I was pretty sure David Millar didn’t kill Charlie. None of it added up. I was convinced all along this was something to do with the past. And the only connection I could come up with for all three of the deaths was Fleat House. Once I’d heard the full story on Jamie Smith’s suicide, then read the email Adam Scott-Johnson had sent Julian Forbes, things fell into place. I remembered when I’d first interviewed Madelaine Smith: she’d told me she’d once worked at the school many years ago. She also said she’d subsequently worked in the States and Australia. What she failed to mention was that her son had been a pupil at St Stephen’s and had subsequently hanged himself.’