None appeared. Maybe the site was no longer current. No, it had been updated very recently. Maybe Julia was a middle name, and the school had her listed under her proper name. It was possible. She had friends who didn’t like their first names.

Laura got up and went to her filing cabinet. She took out the file for Freddie Shields and checked his patient information sheet. His next of kin was listed as his mother, Catherine Shields. The contact number for emergencies was a local one . . . ah, and in brackets, Partner, Julia Emma Taylor, of the same address.

She returned to the computer and once again scrolled down the list of teachers, teaching assistants, supervisors and even trainees, but there was definitely no Julia, and no one with the surname Taylor. For a minute she was tempted to start trawling through social media sites, but stopped herself. This really wasn’t something she should be doing. She was a psychologist, not a detective.

Laura frowned. Yet another mystery. Was or wasn’t there a Julia in Freddie Shields’s life?

* * *

Marie shook the rain from her jacket and went upstairs to find Jackman. As she approached his door, it opened and he hurried out.

‘Ah, Marie! Excellent timing. Come with me. Ruth wants to see us, but I’m not sure why. She said she’d like us to meet someone.’

Inside Ruth’s office, they found two unsmiling men seated side by side. One, a heavily built young man, looked vaguely familiar.

Ruth smiled her tight-lipped smile when they entered. ‘Shut the door, Marie, and please take a seat, both of you.’ She turned to the two men. ‘This is DI Rowan Jackman and DS Marie Evans, my most trusted detectives. Jackman, Marie, please meet Mr Mark Bannon and his son, Giles.’

So that was it. Giles Bannon! No wonder he looked familiar — she’d seen his photograph.

She glanced at Jackman, who looked as surprised as she was.

‘Mr Bannon has asked to speak to me, and I wanted both of you to be present. Mr Bannon?’

Mark Bannon was a tallish man in spectacles with a grey moustache and short, receding grey hair. Years of anxiety and pain were etched into his face. He spoke in a deep, sombre voice. ‘Thank you, Superintendent Crooke. In light of recent events here in Saltern-le-Fen, and because you will obviously be aware of what happened to my son’s family, I decided to come and speak to you in person.’ He drew in a breath. ‘I still cannot believe my bad luck in spending months searching for a suitable property for my son only to finish up choosing a town where a murder had just been committed.’

‘Unfortunate, indeed, Mr Bannon,’ murmured Ruth.