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went to a school like this, thought Agatha. Built of breeze block and already crumbling at the edges. Thrown up cheap. The smells are the same. Disinfectant and the metallic odour of school meals.
    Alice Rook came back. She shook her head. “Jessica never consulted the school counsellor.”
    “What was her best subject?” asked Phil.
    “Definitely maths. The only subject she still got A’s in.”
    “Who taught her?”
    “Mr. Owen Trump. Why?”
    “Pupils will always work hard for a teacher they admire and she might have said something to him,” said Phil. “Is he still in the school?”
    “I’ll have a look.”
    Agatha was torn between wishing she had thought of that idea herself and a feeling that she really ought to give Phil a little praise. Instead, she said, “We’ll review your wages when we get back to the office. I think we can say your trial is over.”
    Phil’s face lit up. “Thank you very much.”
    “Only what you deserve,” said Agatha gruffly.
    The staffroom door opened and a young man came in. “I’m Owen Trump,” he said. “Alice has gone home.”
    Agatha’s heart gave a lurch. He looked in the dim room like a younger version of James Lacey. He had thick black hair and bright blue eyes. “I’ll put the light on,” he said. “I think we’re going to get rain at last.”
    He switched on the light and Agatha realized he wasn’t like James Lacey at all. His face was handsome but not as strong and he was wearing blue contact lenses. Where as James Lacey’s mouth was long and firm, his was full-lipped and sensuous.
    “How can I help you?” he asked. He sat down in a battered armchair by the two-bar electric fire, and Agatha and Phil, who had risen when he entered, resumed their seats.
    “As Miss Rook probably told you,” began Agatha, “I am a private detective investigating the death of Jessica Bradley.”
    “That was an awful business. She was my brightest pupil.”
    “She had fallen off in all her other subjects,” said Agatha. “Did she have a crush on you?”
    “Oh, well,” he said with an irritating air of complacency, “they all have a crush on me from time to time.”
    “So did she confide in you?”
    “No. She would sometimes stay behind to ask me some question about maths.”
    “Did you ever see her outside school?”
    “What exactly are you implying?”
    Agatha back-pedalled. “I mean, did you ever see her in Mircester after school hours with anyone?”
    “Only with that precious pair, Fairy and Trixie, in the mall. I hardly recognized Jessica. They were all in school uniform, but Jessica had hitched up her skirt and she was heavily made up.”
    “What were they doing?”
    “They were waiting under the clock in the centre of the mall. It’s a favourite meeting place. I assumed they were waiting for boys.”
    “Did Jessica show any interest in any boy in the school?”
    “Not that I know of. You see, she was always a quiet, scholarly girl, up until about six months ago. I didn’t notice much difference, but her other teachers wondered what had happened to her. If that is all…?”
    Agatha gave him her card. “If you hear anything that might be important, let me know.”
    “I will let the police know. They are better equipped to deal with this.” And with that, he walked out.
    “Pompous twit,” muttered Agatha. “And vain. Did you notice those contact lenses?”
    “No, but a lot of people wear them. How can you tell?”
    “It’s that unnatural bright blue. Well, I suppose we’d better get over to the mall. I’ve got a photograph of Jessica. We’ll see if any of the shopkeepers near the clock recognize her, although this photograph makes her look just like a decent schoolgirl, and if she was heavily made-up, they might not remember her. Still, it’s worth a try.”
    But the shopkeepers could not remember seeing Jessica. “I took photos of Fairy and Trixie,” said Phil. “I’ll get them printed up and try again tomorrow if you like. If