The bearded man shut the door behind them and turned, his eyes wide. He reminded Patrick of a hamster, with his chubby cheeks and furry face. ‘What’s your name?’ Patrick demanded.

‘Simon Fletcher.’

‘How long have you worked here, Mr Fletcher?’ Patrick knew that if he asked questions rapidly like this, in his most authoritative tone, he would get speedy, honest answers.

‘Five years.’

‘I need to speak to someone who was here a decade ago.’

Fletcher hesitated.

‘Come on!’

‘Fran Dangerfield. She’s one of our senior care workers. She’s here now, but—’

‘Get her,’ Patrick said. ‘And tell her we’re investigating a murder and abduction. This is life or death, Mr Fletcher.’

‘You’d better come to my office.’

On the way up to the office, Patrick and Carmella passed a communal room, where several teenagers of both genders were watching TV and chatting loudly. They reached the office – more official posters on the walls, plus lots of photos of groups of teens – and Fletcher scurried away to fetch Fran Dangerfield.

‘I didn’t know places like this still existed,’ Carmella said after a while.

‘They’re still necessary, unfortunately.’

A woman in her late fifties had entered the office. She had short plum-tinted hair and the air of someone who had seen a lot and didn’t take any nonsense.

‘Some kids aren’t able to go into foster homes because of the terrible situations they faced at home. Or they have very difficult behavioural issues. We exist for the minority of children who can’t fit into family life.’

Patrick nodded, remembering the skinny redhead downstairs, the kids watching TV and chatting boisterously. What had they been through? Imagining it made his heart ache.

‘What’s this all about?’ Dangerfield asked. ‘We had one of your blokes here this morning, asking ridiculous questions.’

‘About Mervyn Hammond? This may or may not be related to that.’

Patrick remembered what Kerry Mangan had told them about Mervyn’s visits to St Mary’s. Could Kerry have been lying? A chill ran through his blood as he imagined one possible scenario: that Kerry was Mervyn’s accomplice, or even working on his own, and that Topper had been right.

‘What do you mean?’ Fletcher, who had re-entered the room, asked.

‘We know that Hammond helps out here, gives motivational speeches and so on to the children, and that he wants this to remain confidential.’

Neither Fletcher nor Dangerfield responded verbally, though he could see in their eyes that this was right.

‘We actually want to ask you about a former resident here: Melanie Haggis.’

‘What about her?’ Dangerfield asked, crossing her arms over her heavy bosom.

‘You remember her?’

‘I do.’

‘And are you aware that Ms Haggis died last year?’

Dangerfield’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh. No, I didn’t know that. How awful. What happened?’

Patrick met her eye.

‘She committed suicide.’

Dangerfield almost fell into a chair. For someone who had clearly dealt with hundreds of kids, who must be hardened to some degree, she appeared surprisingly upset.

‘That poor girl.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘I guess she was, what, twenty-six?’

‘That’s right.’

Fletcher looked on as Dangerfield gathered herself. ‘She was a lovely girl, but . . . damaged. Like so many of the children here. Her mum and stepdad, they . . . well. Do you need to know all these details?’

‘Not necessarily. Did Melanie meet Mervyn Hammond?’

‘I think . . . I guess so. She would have been here when he first started visiting us. Why are you asking that?’ She had recovered a little from the blow of hearing about Melanie’s death. ‘Simon said you are investigating a murder, not a suicide. Oh my God, do you think somebody murdered Melanie, made it look like she’d killed herself? Not Mervyn Hammond?’

‘Mervyn is a good man,’ Fletcher said. ‘A great man.’

Carmella spoke up. ‘Was there any deeper connection between Melanie and Mervyn that you know of?’

‘No. To be honest, Mervyn has always seemed more interested in helping boys – and no, not for sexual reasons, before you make insinuations. There have been one or two boys who Mervyn helped after they left: gave them a hand finding a job, for example.’ She made an amused noise in her throat. ‘Actually, one of those boys was Melanie’s boyfriend.’

Patrick stepped towards her.

‘Mervyn helped Melanie’s boyfriend?’ Was that the connection? ‘What was his name?’

But Dangerfield appeared to be lost in a memory. ‘You know, even though Melanie had a lot of serious issues – emotional problems, difficulties with trust and authority, you name it – I always thought she’d be OK, that no harm would befall her. We all used to talk about it.’

‘Why?’ Patrick asked.

‘Because of her great protector. The boyfriend I mentioned. They were only fourteen, fifteen, but they were obsessed with each other. It was a bit of a mismatch intellectually, but I think he liked the fact that she was vulnerable, and that she saw him as some kind of hero. He thrived on it, on the way she worshipped him. If anyone did the slightest thing against Melanie, he would be there, protecting her. It caused a lot of issues because he often went too far.’ She frowned as she remembered more details. ‘There was a girl who Mel had a big falling-out with, typical teenage-girl stuff. But then Mel went running to Graham to tell him and the next thing we knew, this girl’s room had been trashed, her teddy bear’s head ripped off, pet goldfish nailed to the wall . . . God, I’d forgotten about that.’

Patrick and Carmella both stared at her.

‘What did you say her boyfriend’s name was?’ Patrick asked.

‘Graham,’ Dangerfield replied. ‘Graham Burns. Like I said, Mervyn helped find him a job. I think he works with that band now, OnTarget, and . . . What is it? What did I say?’

Patrick was already on his phone, calling Suzanne. Graham Burns. The social media manager at Global Sounds.

He was the killer.

Chapter 57

Day 14 – 10 p.m. – Chloe

Chloe slid down the pipe she was attached to, her legs unable to bear the weight of her – or, rather, the weight of Jade’s screaming. It felt as though the sound of it was pressing down on her head, filling her eyes and nose and mouth as well as her ears – quick-drying cement that she would never escape.

She couldn’t even put her fingers in her ears to block it out because her hands were tied to the pipe behind her back. The smell of Friendship drifted over to her as if Jade had screamed it out of her own mouth.

Chloe squeezed her eyes tightly closed and told herself to think of the worst, most painful, frightening, horrible things that had ever happened to her:

 

Chemotherapy.

Lumbar punctures.

That terrifying moment right before jumping out of the plane.

The guilt. The guilt.

Stem cell transplant.

That time that Brandon shut her hand in the car door.

Pete punching me in the chest.

Finding out that Melanie Haggis, the girl we tormented online, following Jade’s lead like a pack of crazed dogs, had killed herself.

But none of it, nothing, nothing, nothing was, ever had been, or ever could be worse than this.

She forced herself not to look, to peek out between the stage flats like she was waiting in the wings – well, she was waiting in the wings, wasn’t she? Waiting for it to be her turn, for him to carve her up with that horrific knife, as if she was in some nightmarish play and she had to wait for her cue for it to be her turn in the spotlight . . .