Think, think, mouth-breathe. ‘Maybe Gemma? And then me, and then Alison, and then Joanne – maybe, I’m not sure.’

Conway moved. I snapped my mouth shut, but she didn’t open hers; just pulled a photo of the postcard out of her pocket, handed it to me. Sat back on the table again, foot up on a chair, went back to her notebook.

I flipped the photo back and forth against my finger. ‘On your way here, you passed the Secret Place. You passed it again on your way to the toilet and back. And again when you left at the end of the evening. Right?’

Orla nodded. ‘Yeah.’ Hardly a glance at the photo. Not making any connection.

‘Did you stop for a look, any of those times?’

‘Yeah. When I was coming back from the toilet. Just to see if there was anything new. I didn’t touch anything.’

‘And was there? Anything new?’

‘Uh-uh. Nothing.’

Labrador and boob job, according to the PE teacher. If Orla had missed them, she could have missed one more.

‘What about you? Have you ever put up cards on the board?’

Orla did a coy squirm. ‘Maybe.’

I grinned along with her. ‘I know they’re private. I’m not asking for the details. Just tell me: when was the last one?’

‘Like a month ago?’

‘So this isn’t yours.’

I had the photo in Orla’s hand, face up, before she realised it was coming.

Prayed it wasn’t hers.

I needed to show Conway what I could do. Five minutes and an easy answer would get me nothing, except maybe a lift back to Cold Cases. I needed a fight.

And, somewhere in a locked back corner, detectives think old ways. You take down a predator, whatever bleeds out of it flows into you. Spear a leopard, grow braver and faster. All that St Kilda’s gloss, that walk through old oak doors like you belong, effortless: I wanted that. I wanted to lick it off my banged-up fists along with my enemy’s blood.

This fool, smelling of body spray and cheap gossip: not what I’d had in mind. This would be like taking down some kid’s fat hamster.

Orla stared, while the photo sank in. Then squealed. High flat wail, like air squeezed out of a squeaky toy.

‘Orla,’ I said. Sharp, before she could work herself up. ‘Did you put that up on the Secret Place?’

‘No! OhmyGod, I swear to God, no! I don’t know anything about what happened to Chris. Swear to God.’

I believed her. The photo at arm’s length, like it could hurt her; the bug-eyed stare zipping from me to Conway to Houlihan, looking for help. Not our girl. Just the detective gods throwing me an easy one, to start me off.

I said, ‘Then one of your friends did. Who was it?’