He did not want anyone doubting this was a suicide.

Hugh took a slug of the large brandy he’d poured himself. Not being a regular drinker, he hoped it wouldn’t take long to numb any last-minute doubts.

He picked up the papers from the floor and started to pile them on the fire. He smiled as the flames shot up the chimney; it was the best fire he’d ever seen here, and a pleasant last memory to take with him.

The bottle of temazepam pills were on the coffee table. A month’s supply should surely do it. Hugh sat back down in his favourite chair and studied them. He’d contacted the school to say he was unwell with flu and wouldn’t be in today. That should leave him plenty of time to die.

Hugh stared into the fire.

One mistake, after a lifetime of control . . .

Hugh sighed. He hadn’t planned on ending his life quite so soon. But then, facing old age was a slow death in itself.

He opened the screw cap and shook the pills out onto the table.

At least his death would cause no one grief. He hoped the wishes in his will would be followed; it would be pleasant to think they would hold his funeral in the school chapel and that some of the children would attend.

But he knew, under the circumstances, that may not be possible.

Hugh dug in the pocket of his tweed trousers and took out his wallet. He carefully removed the photograph and studied it. It had once been in colour, but faded now to give it a sepia-like appearance.

He smiled at the familiar, much-loved face, and hoped he’d been wrong for most of his life and there might be a God after all; a God that could reunite them in death, after so many years apart.

If not, and he was about to face oblivion, it would surely be less painful than living the hollow life he’d endured these past forty years.

Hugh kissed the photograph one last time. Then he picked up three pills from the table and held the brandy glass aloft. He put them on his tongue and toasted the air.

‘Carpe diem, my darling!’ he cried as he tasted the bitterness on his tongue, and swallowed.

By the time Jazz entered the lobby leading to Robert Jones’s office, she felt back in control.

The headmaster’s secretary was behind her desk, but she was not working. Like Jazz, she was listening to the male voice shouting from inside the head’s office.

‘What’s going on in there?’ Jazz asked, brow furrowed.

‘It’s David Millar. He’s the father of one of our pupils. Been a few problems at home, what with the drink and his marriage breaking down. He seems to think his son is in trouble of some sort, but it’s most likely the booze making him imagine it.’

‘What’s the boy’s name?’

‘Rory. He’s only thirteen, bless him, and a little shrimp of a thing. Perhaps some of the older boys do give him a hard time, but what can you expect? Boys will be boys, won’t they?’ Jenny smiled weakly.