“Do you know his wife?”

“I don’t know her. I met her once at the staff Christmas party. Charming woman. A little reserved, perhaps, but charming nonetheless.”

“Does Terry have a colleague here called Geoff?”

“Yes. Geoffrey Brighouse. He’s the chemistry teacher. The two of them seemed pretty thick. Went out for a jar or two together every now and again.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Geoff’s been with us six years now. Solid sort of fellow. No trouble at all.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Of course.” Knight looked at his watch. “He should be over in the chemistry lab right now, preparing for his next class. Follow me.”

They walked outside. The day was becoming more and more muggy as the clouds thickened, threatening rain. Nothing new. Apart from the past few days, it had been raining pretty much every day on and off since the beginning of April.

Silverhill Comprehensive was one the few pre-war Gothic redbrick schools that hadn’t been sandblasted and converted into offices or luxury flats yet. Knots of adolescents lounged around the asphalt playground. They all seemed subdued, Banks thought, and a pall of gloom, fear and confusion hung about the place, palpable as a pea-souper. The groups weren’t mixed, Banks noticed; the girls stood in their own little conclaves, as if huddled together for comfort and security, staring down and scuffing their shoes on the asphalt as Banks and Knight walked by. The boys were a bit more animated; at least some of them were talking and there was a bit of the usual playful pushing and shoving. But the whole effect was eerie.

“It’s been like this since we heard,” said Knight, as if reading Banks’s mind. “People don’t realize how far-reaching and long-lasting the effects will be around this place. Some of the students may never get over it. It’ll blight their lives. It’s not just that we’ve lost a cherished pupil, but someone we put in a position of trust seems to be responsible for some abominable acts, if I’m not speaking out of turn.”

“You’re not,” said Banks. “And abominable only scratches the surface. But don’t tell the papers.”

“My lips are sealed. They’ve been around already, you know.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“I didn’t tell them anything. Nothing to tell, really. Here we are. The Bascombe Building.”

The Bascombe Building was a modern concrete-and-glass addition to the main school building. There was a plaque on the wall near the door, which read: “This building is dedicated to the memory of Frank Edward Bascombe, 1898-1971.”

“Who was he?” Banks asked, as they went in the door.

“A teacher here during the war,” Knight explained. “English teacher. This used to be part of the main building then, but it was hit by a stray doodlebug in October of 1944. Frank Bascombe was a hero. He got twelve children and another teacher out. Two pupils were killed in the attack. Just through here.” He opened the door to the chemistry lab, where a young man sat at the teacher’s desk in front of a sheaf of notes. He looked up. “Geoff. A Detective Superintendent Banks to see you.” Then he left, shutting the door behind him.

Banks hadn’t been in a school chemistry lab for thirty years or more, and though this one had far more modern fixtures than he remembered from his own school days, much of it was still the same: the high lab benches, Bunsen burners, test tubes, pipettes and beakers; the glass-fronted cabinet on the wall full of stoppered bottles containing sulfuric acid, potassium, sodium phosphate and such. What memories. It even smelled the same: slightly acrid, slightly rotten.

Banks remembered the first chemistry set his parents bought him for Christmas when he was thirteen, remembered the fine powdered alum, the blue copper sulfate and bright purple crystals of potassium permanganate. He liked to mix them all up and see what happened, paying no regard to the instructions or the safety precautions. Once he was heating some odd concoction over a candle at the kitchen table when the test tube cracked, making a mess all over the place. His mother went spare.

Brighouse, wearing a lightweight jacket and gray flannel trousers, not a lab coat, came forward and shook hands. He was a fresh-faced lad, about Payne’s age, with pale blue eyes, fair hair and a lobster complexion, as if he’d been able to find some sun and stayed out in it too long. His handshake was firm, dry and short. He noticed Banks looking around the lab.

“Bring back memories, does it?” he asked.

“A few.”

“Good ones, I hope?”

Banks nodded. He had enjoyed chemistry, but his teacher, “Titch” Barker, was one of the worst, most brutal bastards in the school. He used the rubber connecting lines of the Bunsen burners in his thrashings. Once he held Banks’s hand over a burner and made as if to light it, but he backed off at the last moment. Banks had seen the sadistic gleam in his eye, how much effort it had cost him not to strike the match. Banks hadn’t given him the satisfaction of a plea for mercy or an outward expression of fear, but he had been shaking inside.

“Anyway, it’s sodium today,” said Brighouse.

“Pardon?”

“Sodium. The way it’s so unstable in air. Always goes down well. The kids these days don’t have much of an attention span, so you have to give them pyrotechnics to keep them interested. Luckily, there’s plenty of scope for that in chemistry.”

“Ah.”

“Sit down.” He pointed toward a tall stool by the nearest bench. Banks sat in front of a rack of test tubes and a Bunsen burner. Brighouse sat opposite.

“I’m not sure I can help you in any way,” Brighouse began. “I know Terry, of course. We’re colleagues, and good mates to some extent. But I can’t say I know him well. He’s a very private person in many ways.”

“Stands to reason,” said Banks. “Look at what he was doing in private.”

Brighouse blinked. “Er… quite.”

“Mr. Brighouse-”

“Geoff. Please. Call me Geoff.”

“Right, Geoff,” said Banks, who always preferred the first name, as it gave him an odd sort of power over a suspect, which Geoff Brighouse certainly was in his eyes. “How long have you known Mr. Payne?”

“Since he first came here nearly two years ago.”

“He was teaching in Seacroft before then. Is that right?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“You didn’t know him then?”

“No. Look, if you don’t mind my asking, how is he, by the way?”

“He’s still in intensive care, but he’s hanging on.”

“Good. I mean… oh, shit, this is so difficult. I still can’t believe it. What am I supposed to say? The man’s a friend of mine, after all, no matter…” Brighouse put his fist to his mouth and chewed on a knuckle. He seemed suddenly close to tears.

“No matter what he’s done?”

“I was going to say that, but… I’m just confused. Forgive me.”

“It’ll take time. I understand. But in the meantime I need to find out all I can about Terence Payne. What sorts of things did you do together?”

“Mostly went to pubs. We never drank a lot. At least I didn’t.”

“Payne’s a heavy drinker?”

“Not until recently.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

“A couple of times. You know, when he was in his car.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to take his keys away.”

“What happened?”

“He got angry. Even hit me once.”

“Terence Payne hit you?”

“Yeah. But he was pissed. He’s got a temper when he’s pissed.”

“Did he give you any reason why he was drinking so much?”

“No.”

“He didn’t talk about any personal problems he might be having?”

“No.”

“Did you know of any problems other than the drinking?”

“He was letting his work slip a bit.”

The same thing Knight had said. Like the drinking, it was probably more of a symptom than the problem itself. Jenny Fuller would perhaps be able to confirm it, but Banks thought it made sense that a man who was doing, who felt compelled to do, what Payne had been doing would need some sort of oblivion. It seemed almost as if he had wanted to be caught, wanted it all to be over. The abduction of Kimberley Myers, when he knew he was already in the system because of his car number plate, was a foolhardy move. If it hadn’t been for DCs Bowmore and Singh, he might have been brought to Banks’s attention earlier. Even if nothing had come from a second interview, his name would have leaped out of HOLMES as soon as Carol Houseman had entered the new data, that Kimberley Myers was a pupil at Silverhill, where Payne taught, and that he was listed as the owner of a car whose number ended in KWT, despite the false NGV plates.