She raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me…’
‘No little girls lost. No newly divorced and still bitter. And absolutely no married women.’ He grinned at her.
She smiled, despite trying not to, and blushed again.
‘Like I said! Jack the lad.’ She hummed along to Shakira.
They turned through the impressive school gates and followed a narrow winding road that was signposted to the main building and the visitors’ car park. Ahead of them was a once-magnificent estate, now a very prestigious school.
‘Great place,’ said Mann.
‘It’s a former stately home, parts of it dating back to the sixteenth century. It stands in a hundred acres.’
‘Let’s just drive around first. Are there any other exits by car?’
‘No. All traffic comes in one way and goes out the same way. Behind the school are the playing fields. You can only exit there on foot.’
‘Let’s see how many other car park options there are.’
They drove past the visitors’ allotted spaces and through a narrow section that opened out to a small lawn area and two large boarding houses. It was rush hour—eight-thirty lessons were about to start and there was the inevitable panic to make it to class on time. They waited whilst the last of the children dropped books, tucked shirts in and scrambled past on their way to lessons. Past the houses, at the end of the road on the right, was a larger overflow car park for teachers and match days. They turned the car round and headed back to the visitors’ area at the side of the main entrance, parked and sat. A sudden stillness had descended on the place as the frantic rush to lessons on time was over. There was not a child to be seen. A teacher, dressed in a tracksuit with a whistle around his neck, passed and smiled in at them. Becky smiled back and whispered under her breath.
‘Like I said, this place isn’t exactly a fortress. Nobody has asked us who we are or what we’re doing here.’
‘It would have been really easy for him to check this place out first. All he needed to do was come at rush hour, like we have.’ They watched the sports teacher disappear up a few steps and into a side entrance. ‘There’s not even any need to use the main entrance. All the action seems to come and go from over there.’ He gestured towards the disappearing teacher. ‘You ready? Let’s go.’
They left the car and walked around to the front of the building, up the impressive sweep of granite steps and through a carved arched doorway. Then they followed the signs to reception. A charming receptionist—beautifully spoken, impeccably polite—asked them to sit whilst she went to find the headmaster’s secretary. Two minutes later both women reappeared and the detectives were led to the headmaster’s suite to wait. They skimmed through the usual literature about the school, the current glossy magazine full of sixth-formers’ excursions to South America and poems by a six-year-old genius.
‘Anything of Amy Tang’s in here?’ asked Becky.
The room was filled with the sound of the secretary’s rustling skirt as she came bustling around from behind her desk. ‘I’m not actually sure. Let me see. Amy is a fourth-former and I know she loves art.’ She flicked through the magazine till she reached the photos of the art exhibition. She scanned the page. ‘No. She doesn’t appear to have any work in this issue. But I know she helped with these.’ She went over to a tabletop covered in various items: raffia bags, string baskets, and macramé jewellery. ‘The children learned how to make these wonderful things from a Fair Trade organisation that came over from the Philippines. They were here a few months ago. I know that Amy attended every class and produced some lovely pieces. She is such a nice little girl, quiet, thoughtful, resilient. The whole school is in shock. We just can’t believe…’
The door opened and the headmaster floated in, his black gown billowing out around him. He introduced himself as Mr Roberts.
Shit! thought Mann. He’s about the same age as me! Headmasters are supposed to be old and crusty. When did this happen?
They all went into his study. Mr Roberts closed the doors behind him and asked them to sit. They declined his offer. The headmaster went to stand by the fireplace. It was obviously his favourite posing place. Behind him there were numerous photos of him shaking hands and smiling with famous speakers who had come to impart their wisdom to the pupils. He didn’t look like such a happy man today, though.
‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Roberts. My name is Inspector Mann of the Hong Kong Police. I am here to assist the Metropolitan Police in the investigation into Amy Tang’s disappearance. Could you tell me what kind of checking procedure is in place for exeat requests and who is responsible for making sure the request is genuine? I appreciate you have told others but I would like to hear it from you.’
‘I am happy to help, so far as I can. I will do anything to get the child back. Her loss would be disastrous for the school. Most of our income comes from overseas children. It would be catastrophic if this situation were not resolved expediently and satisfactorily.’
Becky and Mann exchanged glances. The headmaster was not making the best of impressions.
‘Sometimes the child will tell us that they have been invited somewhere, then we ask for it to come in writing in some form or another—an email has become an acceptable method. If we do not know the person then the usual thing is for the housemistress or master to contact them to ensure that they are prepared to take full responsibility for the wellbeing of that child whilst they are off school grounds. If we are satisfied that all is in order we authorise.’
‘The child is collected from where? This office?’
‘No, not generally. Ordinarily, the child has been invited to go with another pupil and is simply picked up at the same time. It’s always on a Saturday after the matches and match teas are done. The children tend to gather in the various common rooms. Those that have an exeat get picked up from there.’
‘And in Amy’s case?’
‘The request came in email form. I have it here.’ He handed it to Mann. ‘I believe she received a text telling her to meet her host at the side entrance that leads to the car park.’
‘And in between those two things? Who phoned and checked this person out?’
‘I am afraid it wasn’t done. The housemistress forgot to do it. She has been having some personal problems recently and…’
‘So none of your staff got a look at the person?’
‘No. I’m afraid not. Can I just say that we have never encountered a problem of this type before. We would expect to be confident that the child was going home with someone they knew. Amy is twelve. We expect the child to be quite responsible by that age.’
Mann was not warming to Mr Roberts.
‘What would have been going on at the school at that time?’
‘It was Saturday afternoon so all the pupils would have finished morning lessons. They would have been either at sports matches—playing games against other schools—or unwinding in common rooms.’
‘Do you have a photo of Amy?’
‘Yes.’ Headmaster Roberts went to his desk, dug into a file, and produced one standard Christmas shot for the child to take home to the parents in the holidays. He also had one of her and the other four members of the school chess club. The third picture was of Amy holding a picture she had drawn. It had runner up written beneath it. She was short and square—a plain child with glasses and a mouth full of braces.
‘So, what kind of child would you say Amy is? Would she go with someone she didn’t know? Someone she didn’t feel comfortable with?’ asked Becky.
Mr Roberts screwed up his face ‘It’s always possible. She wasn’t so much of a loner, but she is self-contained—she