The smile was automatic this time, a reflex spasm with nothing behind it. Alison said, ‘People noticed him. Not just me; everyone noticed him.’

‘How come?’

‘He was . . . I mean, he was so good-looking. And he was good at everything – rugby, and basketball; and talking to people, making everyone laugh. And I heard him sing once, he was really good, everyone was telling him he should do the X Factor auditions . . . But it wasn’t just that. It was . . . He was just more than everyone else. More there. You could walk into a room with like fifty people in it, and the only one you’d see would be Chris.’

A wistful something in her voice, in the droop of her eyelids. Gemma was right: everyone had fancied Chris.

‘What do you think happened to him?’

That made Alison shrink. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I know you don’t. That’s OK. I’m only asking for guesses. You’re my observant one, remember?’

A thin ghost of the smile. ‘Everyone said it was the groundskeeper.’

No thoughts of her own, or else a dodge. ‘Is that what you think?’

Shrug. Not looking at me. ‘I guess.’

I let the silence grow. So did she. That was all I was getting.

Card, speech, smile. Alison dived out of the door like the room was on fire. Houlihan flapped after her.

Conway said, ‘That one’s still in the running.’

Watching the door, not me. I couldn’t read her. Couldn’t tell if that meant You fucked up.

I said, ‘Pushing any harder wouldn’t have done any good. I’ve set up the beginnings of rapport; if I talk to her again, I can move it on, maybe get an answer.’

Conway’s eye sliding sideways to me. She said, ‘If you talk to her again.’

That sardonic corner of a grin, like my obviousness brightened her day. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘If.’

Conway flipped to a clean page in her notebook. ‘Joanne Heffernan,’ she said. ‘Joanne’s a bitch. Enjoy.’

Joanne was like looking at all the other three averaged out. I’d been expecting something impressive, all the hype. Medium height. Medium thin. Medium looks. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place.

Only the way she stood – hip cocked, chin tucked, eyebrows up – said Impress me. Said The Boss.

Joanne wanted me to think she was important. No: admit she was important.

‘Joanne,’ I said. Stood up for her. ‘I’m Stephen Moran. Thanks for coming in.’

My accent. Whirr, went Joanne’s filing system. Spat me out in the bottom drawer. Eyelid-flutter of disdain.

‘I didn’t exactly get a choice? And just by the way, I actually had things to do for the last hour. I didn’t need to spend it sitting outside the office getting bored to death and not even allowed to talk.’