I wondered, hoped, maybe most of it was bollix. Girls bored, having a mess about. Then thought maybe that was just as bad. Then thought: no.

‘How much of this do you figure is true?’

Conway glanced at me. We’d worked our way in close, from the edges; if she’d been wearing perfume, I could’ve smelt it. All I smelled was soap, unscented. ‘Some. Most. Why?’

‘You said they’re all liars.’

‘They are. But they lie to get out of trouble, or to get attention, or to look cooler than they are. Shit like that. Not much percentage in that if no one knows it’s you.’

‘But you figure some of it’s bollix anyway.’

‘Oh, God, yeah.’ She flipped a fingernail off a photo of your man out of Twilight. The caption said, I met him on holiday and we kissed it was amazing we’re meeting again next summer.

I said, ‘So where’s the percentage in that?’

‘That one there, I’d say your one’s dropping hints to all her mates every time they go past; that way everyone’s convinced it’s her, but she doesn’t have to come out with a bollix story upfront, so she can’t get called on it. Other stuff . . .’ Conway’s eyes moved across the board. She said, ‘If someone liked making trouble, some of these could make plenty.’

The madrigal had come together, skipping along, clean and perfect. The spring, clad all in gladness, doth laugh at winter’s sadness, fa la la la la . . .

‘Even with the monitoring?’

‘Even with. The teachers can look all they want; they don’t know what to look for. Girls are smart: if they want to start trouble, they’ll find ways that adults can’t spot. A mate tells you a secret, you stick it up here. You don’t like someone, you make something up and put it up like it’s hers. That?’ Conway tapped the lipsticked mouth. ‘Quick shot of the mammy photo that someone keeps on her bedside locker, and away you go, you can tell her that her ma thinks she’s a pig and hates her for it. Bonus points if everyone else recognises the photo and thinks she’s spilling her guts.’

‘Nice,’ I said.

‘I warned you.’

Fie, then, why sit we musing, youth’s sweet delight refusing, fa la la la la . . .

I said, ‘Our card. What do you think are the odds there’s anything in it?’

I’d wondered from the start. Didn’t want to say it; didn’t want to think about all this ending a couple of hours in, with some crying kid getting suspended and me getting sent back to Cold Cases with a pat on the head.

‘Fifty-fifty,’ Conway said. ‘Maybe. If someone wanted to make trouble, this is doing the job, all right. But we get to treat it like gospel anyway. You about done, yeah? Any second now that bleeding bell’s going to go again and we’ll be mobbed.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. I wanted to move. My feet hurt from standing in the one place. ‘I’m done.’