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was placed before a wall of front covers.
Holidaymaker Special
, Sean read,
Wartime Memories Souvenir Issue.
She had already got to her feet, the smile on her face a contrast to the greeting he’d just been given.
    In fact, the editor was distinctly different from everyone else in the room. She looked to be in her early thirties, tall, thin and angular, with a thick head of black hair swept up into the hairstyle her juniors were obviously emulating, only it looked more rakish on her, like she was deliberately subverting office style. She had on a grey, tailored trouser suit, an open-necked turquoise shirt. Her eyes were the same colour as the shirt, large and direct, set above high cheekbones and dark red lips.
    “Hello,” she said, even white teeth glinting. None of that local dialect for her either.
    “Ms Ryman,” Sean shook her hand. It was smooth and cool, a solid silver bracelet encircling it. He was aware of every head turning, the murmur of conversation and keyboard rattle dropping in volume. “Thanks for seeing me.”
    “A pleasure,” she said. “I expect you’re hungry? There’s a place nearby I can recommend that’s discreet,” she looked around the room meaningfully. “Decent enough food too.”
    “Sounds good to me,” said Sean. Francesca Ryman was behaving exactly as he had anticipated when he’d spoken to her on the phone before he left London – a bored provincial editor getting a whiff of something big and not even wanting her staff in on it until she thought she had it in the bag. Sean didn’t like the thought of having to place his trust in anyone who made a living from this game. But, when you were a stranger in a strange town, an ally on the local newspaper wasa necessary evil. Besides, Mathers had insisted on him making this contact, had said she would be useful.
    The editor put her laptop into her briefcase, shrugged into a black wool overcoat and wound a pale yellow scarf round her neck. As they exited the office, Ward watched the eyes of her staff follow, locked on Francesca with something like awe.
    “Night, Pat,” she said to the receptionist, who was belting a tan mac around her waist.
    The woman glowered at Sean. “Mind how you go,” she said.

6
Hex
September 1983
    “Now, class, I’d like to introduce you to a new pupil who’s joining us. This is Samantha Lamb, she’s from London originally but she’s got grandparents here, so she’s no stranger to Ernemouth. I hope you’ll all do your best to make her feel welcome.”
    Even as Mr Pearson spoke, the look in his narrowed, ice-blue eyes suggested to the class in front of him that should he find out that welcome had been unforthcoming, there would be a price to pay. A tall, thin man in a brown suit, wavy, collar-length brown hair and a pencil moustache, Mr Pearson had a slightly chilling, cadaverous look about him that was enough to intimidate most of his teenage charges, including an inseparable trio of troublemakers – Neal Reeder, Shane Rowlands and Dale Smollet – whom cruel fate had even managed to arrange alphabetically.
    Since Miss Lamb had joined the class a week into the new term, it was no longer possible to place her by order of surname. There was only one spare desk left now, next to Corrine Woodrow, who came at the end of the class both by dint of her surname and her results.
    “Samantha, would you like to go and take a seat, next to Corrine there?”
    Not that there was anything malicious about the girl. In fact, it was a minor miracle she made it into class at all, considering her background. Which was why Mr Pearson was prepared to let her new hairdo slip under his radar. Even if she did spend every lesson doing what she was doing now – staring out of the window, mouth open, swinging one leg back and forth to whatever music was playing in her head. As the nervous-looking new girl approached her, Corrine slowly turned her head and gave a puzzled smile.
    “Stuck-up cow,” remarked Rowlands to Reeder,