‘He was slumped on the floor near the door. As I said, he’d been foaming at the mouth and rigor had set in by then. He wasn’t a pleasant sight.’

‘Call the SOCOs in anyway. They might pick up something the cleaners missed.’

‘I doubt it, but yes, I’ll call them.’

Jazz could hear the antagonism in Roland’s voice and knew it wasn’t a good start to their working relationship. She stood up. ‘I’m going to call DS Miles and ask him to help you sift through this lot.’ She bent down and picked up a laptop from the top of one of the boxes and handed it to him. ‘See what’s on this. Call me if you find anything interesting. I’ll text you with my number.’

Jazz left the room in silence. Walking along the corridor, she wondered if she’d been sent on a wild goose chase to keep a buddy of the commissioner happy. However much she wanted to make something of this case, from what she had seen so far, the chances of it being murder were slim.

Suddenly, the elite back-up she’d been provided on every case in London seemed a long way away. There, they had the manpower, computers, forensics, every available tool at her disposal. Miles might joke about Miss Marple, but that was exactly how she felt. How on earth was she meant to interview eight hundred pupils and two hundred staff with just two detectives to help her?

Maybe, she thought, suddenly angry, this was a soft-soap case, handed to her by Norton to keep her busy? To test her, even? Jazz reached for the mobile lodged in her breast pocket.

She dialled Norton’s direct line, then immediately pressed the ‘cancel’ button. She leaned against a wall and cooled her hot cheeks against the cold stone.

She pictured Adele Cavendish’s face, felt her desolation, and tried to concentrate on that.

There was no turning back now. Her role was to discover the truth.

However slim the odds, her duty was simply to look Adele in the eye and tell her for certain whether her son had been the casualty of a self-inflicted accident, or an innocent victim of something far more sinister.

Chapter Six

Hugh Daneman studied the sleeping pills in his hand. He felt this was the least painful way to die, and given the circumstances, there was a synchronicity that his aesthetic nature appreciated.

He lit the fire in the grate. It flared up then burned weakly. Everything in the small cottage he rented from the school almost functioned. But it had suited his needs for the past twenty years, and been the setting for small moments of happiness, so he looked on it fondly.

He’d gathered all his private papers together; they were strewn in a heap in front of the fire, ready for annihilation.

The thought of anyone poking through his personal belongings was untenable. He’d made sure all his affairs were in order, had even cleaned out his wardrobe and left only his best suits to be given away to charity.