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a sign of continuing self-harm; in terms of something or nothing, perhaps it was a ‘nothing’ then. Because according to everything I was reading, it had nothing whatsoever to do with wanting to hurt oneself, or indeed give oneself a bald patch. It was a neurological condition, more like a compulsion than a habit – indeed a tic – and once started was extremely difficult to stop. It was more common in girls, apparently, and the usual age for onset was around 11, though it could apparently start earlier than that.
    What did stand out, though, was that hair pulling wasn’t confined to any particular cultural or social group; even the happiest, most settled children could develop the compulsion, just as easily as an unhappy or abused child could. But as I’d suspected, it was a reaction to stress, and since that bald patch had clearly been there for a while, it was a stress that was ongoing.
    So it was probably a case of finding out what form the stress took, and on that score I had little to go on. It might be something as straightforward as the start of puberty and anxiety about the changes that were going on inside Kiara; many girls developed issues with body-confidence around that time, and, physically, Kiara seemed quite a ‘young’ 12-year-old to me. It might be bullying – in which case, was it a response to the stress inherent in coming to school? Or was it home-based – something to do with her relationship with her mum? There could be so much going on that we didn’t know about, after all.
    But it was pointless to speculate. All I could do was watch and wait and wonder – and try to tune into what it might be that gave her that look – as if she had the weight of the world on those narrow shoulders. That and the evident fatigue. What was that about?
    ‘Now that’s a very serious Casey face,’ came a voice from behind me. ‘I can see it in the screen. You want a coffee before the off?’
    I swivelled around on the swivel chair to find Kelly in the doorway, brandishing my mug. There was an encouraging tendril of steam coming from it, too.
    ‘Just concentrating,’ I told her, accepting it gratefully. ‘Been trying to find out a bit about trichotillomania. Tricho – yes, I got that right. Trichotillomania. Did you hear about the hoo-hah in the year eight assembly?’
    ‘Sure did,’ Kelly said. ‘All poor Donald needed.’
    ‘Well, the girl, Kiara Bentley – I took her back to the Unit with me. Hence the search. She’s got quite some bald patch in her hair. And the whole business – I mean, just how tired d’you have to be to end up with your head in a boy’s lap?’
    ‘Assuming that was the case. He’ll probably say differently.’
    I shook my head. ‘He might well, but I’m pretty sure I believe her.’
    ‘And you know what?’ Kelly said, pointing a finger towards the screen. ‘That does figure. Yes . It really does. One of the Maths teachers – whatshisface – was talking about Kiara the other day – yes, I’m sure he said the name Kiara – and saying that she kept falling asleep in lessons. Yes, I’m sure it was her. I’ll double check.’
    ‘Would you? And if you run into anyone else who might have dealings with her, ask them about her as well. I just have this sense that there’s more to this whole thing than meets the eye. Anyway, she’s coming back to me after lunch. Maybe I’ll get something more out of her then.’
    ‘And some cheap labour too,’ Kelly said, winking. ‘Nice work, Dr Watson!’
    Kiara was already outside my door when I returned after the lunch break, having let her form teacher know she’d be with me for the rest of the day. Once again, I was struck by how doll-like she looked, from her petite, elfin face, to her nicely pressed school uniform, which looked as if it had only recently been bought. Now she was composed again, she positively gleamed with grooming, and I mused that if the school had to select a poster girl to reflect their sartorial