‘Headmaster, Assistant Commissioner Norton from the CID here. I presume you know what this call is regarding.’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought I should alert you to the fact that I’m sending a couple of detectives in to investigate the death of Charlie Cavendish.’

‘Right, yes. Yes.’ Robert Jones did not know what else to say.

‘They’ll be descending on you tomorrow morning.’

‘From where?’

‘London.’

‘London?’

‘Yes. The case has been passed to us at CID Special Ops. We’ll be working in conjunction with the North Norfolk Constabulary.’

‘I appreciate you must do your job, Commissioner, but I’m obviously concerned about the disruption to the school, not to mention the panic factor.’

‘My colleagues are very experienced in dealing with cases like this, Headmaster. I’m sure they’ll handle the situation sensitively, and advise you on how to handle the staff and pupils.’

‘Yes. I was going to call a full school assembly tomorrow anyway.’

‘Excellent idea. That will give my team an opportunity to brief the school, and perhaps stem some nerves about our presence amongst them.’

‘I’ll do that, then.’

‘Right.’

‘Can you give me the names of the detectives you’ll be sending in?’

There was a slight pause on the line, before the commissioner said, ‘Not sure yet, but I’ll call you to confirm by the end of the day. Thank you for your time.’

‘Thank you, Commissioner. Goodbye.’

Thank you for what? Robert Jones asked himself as he replaced the receiver. He put his head in his hands. ‘Oh God,’ he mumbled.

These police guys would be probing into everyone’s background . . . their private lives . . . You never knew what they might drag up. He himself might become a suspect . . .

Numbers had been down for the past three years. There was so much competition these days. This was the last thing the school needed. Or, more selfishly, he thought, as he picked up the receiver to call the head of the governors, the last thing he needed.

Chapter Two

Jazmine Hunter-Coughlin – Jazz to her friends, Detective Inspector Hunter to her former work colleagues – drew back the curtains and glanced out of her small bedroom window. The view was limited, the condensation blurring the landscape of the Salthouse Marshes and the dour North Sea beyond. Automatically drawing her initials on the glass, the way she had done as a child, she studied the JHC for a moment, then smudged out the C with a determined swipe.

She glanced at the numerous cardboard boxes littering the floor of her bedroom. She’d moved in three days ago, but apart from unearthing essentials such as her pyjamas, the kettle and some soap, she had left the rest untouched.

This tiny cottage was the polar opposite of the white-walled, minimalist Docklands apartment she had shared with her ex-husband. And she loved it. Usually pathologically tidy, her unwillingness to unpack stemmed from the fact that the cottage would have to endure invasive renovations in the coming weeks. The plumber was booked for a week’s time to put in the central heating, the joiner was calling tomorrow to measure up for the kitchen units, and she’d left messages with a couple of local decorators.