"No."

"Did he get into the locker room to get his suitcase?"

"I hadn't thought of looking."

Well, bloody look, Brannigan thought, but phrased it more politely.

He called in all the housemasters and the senior prefects and sent them to search the school and the grounds. In the meantime Sherborne returned to say that he had left without his suitcase. "All his clothes are here – except his daytime clothes and his mack. He left his bed unmade. It's quite likely he's hiding somewhere in the grounds." His voice, rough with anxiety, spoke without conviction.

"Why, should he do that?"

"Why do small boys do anything?"

"He's eleven. Not an infant. Old enough to reason out his actions."

Sherborne felt a vascular pain in the back of his left leg and was forced to take the nearest chair and sit for a few minutes. When the pain eased he reminded Brannigan that Durrant had gone home twice without reason. "Nobody bullied him."

Brannigan thought, nobody would dare, but didn't voice it. Durrant was a step outside the circle and always would be. Corley was an ordinary, normal, small boy.

David Fleming had been an ordinary, normal, small boy.

Had been.

The anxiety that had been building up like water against a dam began treacherously to break through. He forced ''himself to contain it.

The search parties returned in half an hour without success.

At nine-fifteen he put a call through to Corley's father at Bridgwater. Alison came into his study and sat in the chair in the window recess as he made it. Blame the boy, she willed him silently. Don't break the news so gently, so defensively.

Let your anger come up. The boy betrays you, not you the boy. He's lucky to have the chance to be here. If he throws that chance back at you then he's a stupid, idiotic, little brat. My father would have taken the hide off him, but you won't, will you – if he's caught. You'll speak sweet reason at him, as you do with all of them. You're soft – that's your trouble. You can't run a school like a young ladies' dancing academy, or a nursing home. Pity is your undoing. Why pity anyone? No-one pities you… The words hurtled through her mind so that she couldn't hear what Brannigan was saying and then she forced herself to listen.

He was still apologising, still soothing. "Try not to worry. Boys sometimes act on impulse – perhaps a row with another lad – I don't know… Yes, of course I intend calling in the police… No, I don't think it would be wise of you to come over. He probably hasn't got very far, but there's always the chance he's making for home. You'd be wiser to stay there and let me know when he arrives… Yes. naturally, I'll keep you informed. I'm sorry I had to give you such disturbing news. It will be good news soon, I hope… Yes, I agree, he's a very level-headed, pleasant child… No, I'm, sure he wouldn't have left without a reason… I assure… Naturally, you're upset… Try to keep calm about it for the lad's sake… When he does turn up keep it in a low key… Give my regards and sympathy to Mrs. Corley and assure her that everything is being done to find the boy… to find Neville."

He put the phone down, sweating slightly. He had juggled the conversation, carefully avoiding using the lad's name until Corley senior had mentioned it. Neville. The name had escaped his mind. It didn't speak so highly of the quality of care when a lad's Christian name was as elusive as a dandelion seed on the breeze.

He wished Alison would stop looking at him like that. She made him feel like Uriah Heep. What did she expect him to do – beat his jackboots with a horsewhip while breaking the news?

"And now – what?" she asked tiredly. "The police?"

"The police – and afterwards Colonel Goldthorpe."

"And the rest of the governors, too, I suppose? It's like living in the days of the inquisition. Why drag them into it?"

"It's better they should hear about it directly from me."

"It's better no-one should hear about it at ali. You could have waited another hour before telling the boy's father – before calling in the police."

He held on to his patience. "A child is missing – a child is at risk."

"And the school is at risk. It has been ever since the Fleming child died."

He ignored her and began dialling the number of Marristone police station. Detective Inspector Grant came on the line and from him he at last got the support he needed. The school would be searched – this time professionally – and the surrounding countryside would be searched. All patrols would be alerted as soon as he had personal details of the lad. He would be up at the school in fifteen minutes. In cases like these the child was usually found quite quickly. He made it sound very easy and ordinary. Brannigan imagined a Pied Piper line of young Corleys making their way through the countryside and coming up against Grant's substantial midriff one by one. He had been very cool and phlegmatic about David Fleming, too. That time he had been presented with a fait accompli – this time there was a chance of doing something about it.

As soon as he put the phone down it rang again almost immediately..

"Is that the headmaster, Mr. Brannigan?"

"Yes." He thought it was Mrs. Corley and felt a lurch of dismay. Speaking to the lad's father had been bad enough.

"This is Lorena Durrant – Steven's mother." The raucous voice should have been familiar and now that he heard it again it jogged his memory of several irritating conversations he had had with her in the past.

"Good morning, Mrs. Durrant."

His eyes met Alison's and for the first time that day sympathy was mutual.

"Good morning." She pushed out the greeting as if she were dropping a wasp through a window, and then got on quickly with what she had to say. "It was my birthday on Tuesday. I had a most extraordinary present from Steven. I really can't get over it."

Jesus God, Brannigan thought, she's on about the Keats. He remembered Durrani's embarrassment as he had stood at the study door and asked for permission to go down to the town to buy it. Why in the name of sanity was she ringing him up to complain about it? Especially now.

He tried not to speak irritably, but failed. "Some people like that sort of thing. The boy was trying to please you."

"Oh, so you knew about it, then? I thought perhaps you did."

"Yes – he asked my permission to go down to the town to buy it."

The words, like bullets leaving a gun-barrel, cracked out sharply, "And where did he get the money from, Mr. Brannigan? Answer me that?"

She was using up valuable telephone time and he was tempted to put the phone down, but if he did she would ring him back and keep ringing him back.

"I'm busy, Mrs. Durrant. Do you think you could come to the point?"

"The point – oh yes, Mr. Brannigan, I can come to the point. The point is the amount of money my husband sends to Steven – and doesn't send to me. What is he trying to do – buy the boy's affection? Inveigle him away from me?"

Brannigan, at a loss, waited. There was no affection from either parent, and there wasn't much in the way of money either. Durrant senior gave the boy mighty little in either hard cash or fatherly interest.

Not getting a response, she went on. "At first I didn't think anything of it. I'm not well up in these things. And then one of my friends saw it and read the name on it. Would it surprise you to know that it didn't cost Steven a penny less than eighty pounds?"

It surprised Brannigan very much. The woman must be mad. The local bookshop didn't go in for first editions.

He spoke mildly, "Your friend must have misled you. Steven spent less than five pounds."

"Not on that camera, he didn't. My friend's an expert.

He's done model photography for the high quality artistic market. If Steven's father is giving him that sort of pocket money then he's earning a sight more than he tells me he's earning."