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‘Yes.’

‘So if he gets hurt at school, do you see it as a school-related incident? Or a family matter?’

‘I’m not comfortable talking about this without the headmaster present,’ says Mrs Dudley, checking her watch. ‘I really must get back to my class. I’ve left the learning support assistant in charge …’

‘Does Tom arrive at school on time?’

Mrs Dudley stands. ‘For the most part.’

I stand too. ‘How about personal care? Does he ever seem hungry? Badly cared for?’

‘Well, he often seems very tired. But plenty of children don’t sleep well. It’s not unheard of. Look, I need to get back to my class now.’

‘There was one last thing, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to answer—’

‘Just to rule this out. Are injection needles kept at school for any reason?’

Mrs Dudley touches the door handle. ‘Everything like that is locked up in the headmaster’s office. Only Alan has the key.’

‘Perhaps I could have a very quick chat with the headmaster now.’

‘He’s busy,’ says Mrs Dudley quickly. ‘He won’t be free all afternoon. And he has a lot to do. I’m not sure he’d want to waste time like that. He’s already told the mother this is nothing to do with us.’

‘I’ll phone to make an appointment.’

Mrs Dudley looks a good deal more flustered than when she arrived. ‘Fine. I’ll accompany you back to reception.’

She leads me back across the field and into the reception area, offering a hurried, ‘Jen will sign you out,’ before she half walks, half runs down the corridor.

As I wait for the receptionist to get the signing-out book, I study Mrs Dudley’s photo on the school notice board. In the photo, she wears a blue sunflower-print dress that suits her pale complexion and figure. Her hair is longer and looser, with flecks of soft brown and grey, and a slight wave that flatters her face. She smiles genuinely.

According to the photo description, Kathleen Dudley started at Steelfield School six years ago.

The job seems to have changed her. I wonder if I’ll change at the same rate in social services.

My eyes wander further around the reception area and up to a CCTV camera mounted in the corner.

It’s a very quiet school. Too quiet, really. And the bars on the downstairs windows … Lizzie Riley is right. Itisa bit odd.

‘Excuse me.’ The receptionist appears. ‘Sign out, please.’ She offers me a large, lined book, which is empty. No visitors today. Or this week, as a matter of fact. Well, except me.

The reception girl watches as I write my name in neat capitals. ‘And write down your purpose of visit, child, relationship to child and detail anything you brought in and left here.’

‘Isn’t this a bit over-the-top for a school?’ I say mildly. ‘All this detail?’

‘It’s just how we do things.’

I put the biro down. ‘But why?’

‘It’s just how we do things,’ she repeats.

I leave the school with a lot of questions buzzing around. Probably more questions than I arrived with.

More than anything, I need to speak to the headmaster.

Lizzie