Her brain refused to switch off. She knew that the moment she closed her eyes, she would remember. She would hear Amy Miller’s voice, see her lying unconscious on the sofa. Her mind conjured up images of her dead on her kitchen floor, blood pooling from where she’d banged her head. She squeezed her eyes closed. She needed to sleep. She needed to forget. But how could she?

In the dim light of the morning, she lies in bed, forcing her eyes open. She knows if she closes them again, surrenders to the exhaustion, she’ll fall back to sleep. But one more hour surely couldn’t hurt…

Her phone buzzes, making the decision for her. A message from Josh.

Morning! Pick me up at 08.30 – we’re going to Eastleigh College.

Then another text with his address.

Christ, how is he so awake? He must have drunk way more than Freya did last night. She hauls herself to a sitting position, resting for a moment on the edge of the bed. She sighs.

‘On my way, Sarge,’ she mumbles to thin air.

The smell of disinfectant and cheap teenage aftershave is distinctly reminiscent of Freya’s old college. It reminds her of detentions and disappointment. Expectations not met. Efforts unrecognised. And sitting in the corridor outside of the principal’s office doesn’t help.

‘Bloody awful, isn’t it?’ Josh whispers, echoing Freya’s thoughts.

She doesn’t miss being eighteen. The constant uncertainty, all those bloody hormones.

‘How was your college experience?’ Freya asks.

‘I played a lot of sport,’ Josh replies. ‘So spent most of my time caught up in that. Rugby, football, cricket – the lot.’

‘Ah.’ Freya slowly nods in understanding. One of the in-crowd. A popular boy, getting the prettiest girls, spending evenings at the pub when still underage. She’d been on the outskirts of that. The one with the cheap cider in the park, looking on from afar. Wishing, wondering how to be that cool. That feeling still haunts her, even now.

A woman bursts out of the office, distracting her from her thoughts.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Come through, please.’

The college principal holds the door open and they go into her office. A bland space, impersonal except for the sign on the door. The woman is well groomed, precise hair in a chignon at the nape of her neck, wearing a suit over a crisply ironed shirt. She takes the chair behind her desk, gesturing towards the two in front of her. Freya and Josh sit down; Freya notices they are slightly lower than the principal. She wonders if it’s deliberate, to exert her authority over these kids in any way she can.

‘We’d like to talk to you about Connor Vardy,’ Josh begins. ‘And a few of his friends.’ He looks at his notepad. ‘Tyler Garratt, Mark Black and Lee Cernis?’