She spun three chairs into an aisle, in a rough circle. Pulled a handful of pastels out of a drawer and went between tables scattering them, shoving chairs off kilter with her hip. Sun turned the air bright and hot-still.

I stayed by the door, watching. She said, like I’d asked, ‘I fucked up, last time. We did the interviews in McKenna’s office, had McKenna be the appropriate adult. Three of us sitting in a row behind her desk like a parole board, staring some kid out of it.’

A last glance down the aisles. She turned to the blackboard, found a piece of yellow chalk and started scribbling nothing.

‘Costello’s idea. Make it formal, he said, make it like being called in to the headmistress, only way worse. Put the fear of God into them, he said. Sounded right, made sense – just kids, just little girls, used to doing what they’re told, crank up the authority high enough and they’ll crack, right?’

She tossed the chalk on the teacher’s desk and rubbed out the scribbles, leaving snippets and swipe-marks. Specks of chalk-dust whirled in the sun all round her. ‘Even then, I knew it was wrong. Me sitting there like I’d a poker up my arse, knowing every second a little more of our chance was going out the window. But it went fast, I couldn’t put my finger on how to do it any different, then it was too late. And Costello . . . even if it was my name on the case, wasn’t like I could tell him to shove it.’

She ripped bits off a roll of blank paper, crumpled them, threw them without checking where they landed. ‘In here, they’re on their own turf. Nice and chilled, nothing formal, no need to get the guard up. And Houlihan’s the type, kids spend the whole class asking her the French for “testicle” to make her blush – that’s if they can be arsed noticing she’s there. She’s not gonna put the fear of God into anyone.’

Conway tugged open a window with a thump, let in a smooth sweep of cool and mown grass.

‘This time,’ she said, ‘I fuck up, I’m fucking up my way.’

There was my shot, lined up all ready to pot. I said, ‘If you want them relaxed, let me do the talking.’

That got me a stare. I didn’t blink.

Conway leaned her arse on the windowsill. Chewed her cheek, looked me over from hair to shoes. Behind her, faint urgent calls from the playing field, football flying high.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘You talk. I open my mouth, you shut yours till I’m done. I tell you to close the window, that means you’re out, I’ll take it from there, and you don’t say Word One till I tell you to. Got it?’

Click, and into the pocket. ‘Got it,’ I said. Felt the soft gold air move up the back of my neck and wondered if this was it, this room riddled with echoes and shining with old wood: if this was the place where, finally, I got the chance to fight that door unlocked again. I wanted to memorise the room. Salute someone.