She stood up, automatically gave her waistband a quick roll so her skirt came above her knees. Walked out, without waiting for Houlihan.

I said, once Houlihan had skittered after her, ‘The card was a shock.’

‘That or she’s good,’ Conway said. She was still watching the door, tapping her pen off her notebook. ‘And she’s good.’

Selena Wynne.

All gold and bloom. Huge sleepy blue eyes, cream-and-rosy face, full soft mouth. Blond hair – the real thing – curling in short raggedy ringlets like a little boy’s. Nowhere near fat – Joanne had been talking out of her hole – but she had curves, soft round ones, made her look older than sixteen. Lovely, Selena was; the kind of lovely that couldn’t last. You could see that somewhere this summer, maybe even this afternoon, this was the loveliest she’d ever be.

You don’t want to notice this stuff on a kid, your mind wants to jump away. But it matters, same as it would on a grown woman. Changes every day of her life. So you notice. Scrape the greasy feeling off your mind whatever way you can.

Posh girls’ school: lovely and safe, I’d’ve thought, if I’d thought. Beats a council estate where buses won’t go. But I was starting to see it, out of the corner of my eye: the shimmer in the air that says danger. Not aimed at me personally, no more than it would’ve been in that estate, but there.

Selena stood in the doorway, swinging the door back and forth like a little kid. Gazing at us.

Behind her Houlihan murmured, trying to nudge Selena forward. Selena didn’t notice. She said, to Conway, ‘I remember you.’

‘Same here,’ said Conway. Her glance at me, as she headed back to her chair, said Selena hadn’t clocked the Secret Place. Zero out of seven. Our card girl had self-control. ‘Why don’t you have a seat.’

Selena moved forward. Sat down, obedient and incurious. Examined me like I was a new painting on one of the easels.

I said, ‘I’m Detective Stephen Moran. Selena Wynne, am I right?’

She nodded. Still that gaze, lips parted. No questions, no what’s-this-about, no wariness.

And no point in trying to bond with this one. I could burst my bollix trying, get the same answers as if I’d sent a list of questions by e-mail. Selena wanted nothing from me. She barely knew I was real.

Slow, I thought. Slow or sick or hurt, or whatever this year’s approved words are. The first snip of why Joanne’s lot thought these were freaks.

I said, ‘Can you tell me what you did yesterday evening?’