Jazz turned to him and he shook his head. ‘Right, I’ll thank you all in advance for your co-operation. Headmaster?’

‘Thank you, Inspector Hunter. After assembly, can everyone please return immediately to their classes? Check the noticeboard regularly in case the Inspector wishes to see you.’

Jenny Colman, already feeling sick at the sight of the detectives, turned to follow suit. As she made her way slowly towards the exit, she caught sight of a familiar face on the other side of the hall.

Jenny hid behind a pillar, making sure her vantage point allowed her to see and not be seen. She studied the face. Yes, it was! She was sure of it. Even after twenty-five years, there was no mistaking those features. She waited until the hall was empty, then, her legs feeling weak beneath her, sat down heavily on a chair.

Jazz followed the headmaster out of the hall.

‘Talk about a needle in a haystack,’ murmured Miles. ‘If there is something dodgy going on, it could be any one of that lot.’

‘They just all happen to be in the same place, that’s all. I’d guess there’s more chance here than finding a hit-and-run driver in London, Miles.’ Jazz stopped outside the hall and let Robert Jones and Roland walk ahead of them. ‘Now, I want you to go and talk to our head, find out all you can about Charlie. I’m going across to his study with Roland.’

Jazz was surprised at how basic Fleat House was. She’d rather presumed that for the kind of exorbitant fees the parents were charged, a public school such as this would provide a better standard of accommodation than the austere, tatty building she’d just entered. She’d seen more luxurious prisons.

Waiting for them in the entrance hall was a woman. Jazz would have placed her in her mid-fifties. She was thin to the point of gauntness, her face lined beyond her years, her grey hair worn in a sensible bob. She wore no make-up, and her suit and shoes were unfussy and utilitarian. However, the woman’s eyes were her redeeming feature: set wide apart, an unusual amber.

‘Good morning. I’m Detective Inspector Hunter. I believe you’ve already met Detective Sergeant Roland?’ Jazz said as she shook the woman’s hand.

‘Yes. Madelaine Smith, Fleat House matron.’

She spoke with an accent Jazz couldn’t place.

‘We’d like to see Charlie’s study, if that’s all right.’

‘Of course. Would you like to follow me?’

‘Don’t think I’d fancy her bedside manner,’ whispered Roland as they climbed the stairs behind her upright figure.

Matron showed them along the corridor and stood in front of the door to Charlie’s study. She took a key out of her jacket pocket and unlocked it.

‘I sent the cleaners in the day after Charlie died. His things are packed up ready for his parents to collect. I felt it was the least I could do under the circumstances. At the time, I didn’t realise his death might be treated as suspicious.’