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.

‘I want their accounts of yesterday evening. And then I want them hit with the card, out of nowhere, so we can see their reactions. If they say, “Wasn’t me,” I want to know who they think it was. Can you do that?’

‘I’d say I can just about handle it, yeah.’

‘Jesus,’ Conway said, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe herself. ‘Just try not to get down on the floor and start licking anyone’s boots.’

I said, ‘We hit them with the card, it’ll be all round the school before home-time.’

‘You think I don’t know that? I want that.’

‘You’re not worried?’

‘That our killer’ll get spooked and come after the card girl.’

‘Yeah.’

Conway tapped the edge of the window blind, light one-fingered tap, sent a shake and a sway running down the slats. She said, ‘I want something to happen. This is gonna get things happening.’ She pushed herself off the windowsill. Went to the three chairs in the aisle, turned one of them back to its table. ‘You’re worried about the card girl? Find her before someone else does.’

There was a one-knuckle knock at the door, and had-to-be-Houlihan stuck a worried rabbity face round the edge and lisped, ‘Detectives, you wanted to see me?’

Joanne Heffernan’s lot had been the first ones buzzing around the Secret Place: we started with them. Orla Burgess, we kicked off with. ‘That’ll put Joanne’s designer knickers in a twist,’ Conway said, when Houlihan had gone to find her, ‘not getting top billing. If she’s pissed off enough, she’ll get sloppy. And Orla’s got the brains of roadkill. We catch her off guard, we lean on her: if she’s got anything, she’ll spill. What?’

She’d snared me trying not to smile. ‘Thought this time we were going for relaxation. Not intimidation.’

‘Fuck you,’ Conway said, but there was the corner of a grin there too, bitten back. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m a hard bitch. Be glad. If I was a sweetheart, you’d be out of a gig.’

‘I’m not complaining.’

‘Better not,’ Conway said, ‘or I bet there’s some no-hoper case from the seventies that could use your relaxation techniques. You want to do the talking, take a seat. I’ll watch Orla coming in, see if she looks for her card.’

I settled myself on one of the chairs in the aisle, nice and casual. Conway went to the door.