Sasha Blake puts down her pen and closes her notebook. She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, music on low in the background. The pen has a feather on the end and the notebook is pale blue, with a scatter of white flowers across the front. She likes the sheen of the pages, the feel of the book in her hand, but the real reason she chose it was because it's small enough to fit in her bag. She knows better than to leave it lying about anywhere, that's for sure. She loves her mum, she really does, and she knows she wouldn't snoop deliberately, but no mother has the sort of willpower you would need to stumble across a book like this and not read what's inside. Isabel gets round it by using code, and Patsie sticks everything on her phone, but Sasha likes being able to write things down. It makes it easier to demuddle her thoughts `“ helps her work through what to do. But her mum wouldn't get that. She'd think everything in the book was true. And it is, in a way. Just not the way her mum would understand.
There's a noise from downstairs now and Sasha quickly leans over and slides the notebook into the pocket of her pink satchel, then sits back against the headboard and picks up her copy of Keats.
`You OK, Sash?' asks her mum, pushing the door open, her arms full of ironing.
Sasha looks up. `I'm fine, just chillin' with my homeboy.'
Fiona Blake smiles. `Don't work too hard. You're allowed to enjoy yourself as well, you know.'
She shunts the laundry on to the top of the chest of drawers and pulls the door to behind her as she leaves. Sasha opens the book again. `Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath.' She sighs. Imagine having someone talk to you like that.
* * *
`So, you can see why we're concerned.'
Somer sits back in her chair. The principal of the college hasn't said a word throughout Somer's entire account. She's just sat there, frowning, fidgeting with an elastic band, staring out of the window. Outside, the sky is darkening. It looks like rain and Somer curses to herself. She has no coat, no umbrella and entirely the wrong footwear.
The principal still hasn't said anything. Somer glances at Quinn, who shrugs.
`Mrs McKenna?' she says, raising her voice slightly. `Is there anything we ought to be aware of? Do you know if Faith has been having problems with any of her fellow students recently?'
The woman turns to face her. `No. Nothing I know of. Faith is very popular with her peer group.'
`Do you know who might have played this April Fool joke on her? Do any names come to mind?'
Another, deeper frown. `I hope you're not suggesting that one of our students might be responsible for this `“'
`Not at all. But we do know Faith's family only moved here last summer, so she may not have that many friends outside her college circle.'
McKenna starts fiddling with the elastic band again. Somer's a hair's-breadth from leaning over and grabbing it out of her hand.
`Mrs McKenna? It's quite urgent `“'
The principal turns to her suddenly and leans forward. It's like a switch has flicked. She's sharp, attentive, brisk.
`I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about Faith's personal life or what she does outside the college gates. I can tell you that she is a talented and hard-working student, and I fully expect she will make a great success of her career.'
`But she does have mates, right?' Quinn now. `You must have some idea who they are.' His tone is short of sarcasm, but only just.
`You want to interrogate my students?' The frown is back.
`Not interrogate, no,' says Somer quickly. `We were hoping to make it much more informal. Just circulate with the group and get a sense of whether there might be undercurrents `“ any sense of animosity `“'
McKenna raises her eyebrows. `In that case, I dare say I can't stop you. But I would ask you to exercise more discretion than the police are habitually famed for.'
`Have there been any incidents lately that might make our presence here rather more plausible? Any problems with alcohol?'
`No.'
`Or drugs?'
`Absolutely not.'
Somer senses Quinn's reaction but doesn't dare to look at him.
`OK,' she says evenly. `In that case we'll just make it something general about personal safety.'
`Good idea,' says McKenna crisply. `I've had two of my female students in here this week already because they thought they were being followed on the Iffley Road. It's a sad reflection on your constabulary that you see these issues only as a useful smokescreen for something else you evidently consider far more important.'