Frank Coulson saw the name Andrew Latham listed in the contacts section of Amy's e-mail account. He made a note of the address next to the phone number he'd already scribbled down then he clicked on the portion of the screen marked inbox.

More messages that would also never be answered, Coulson thought, looking at the eighteen messages displayed before him. He recognised many of the names beside the messages. Friends of Amy's, many of whom had been at the funeral earlier that day. He'd been struck by how many friends she'd had, touched by how many had come along to pay their respects.

He moved the cursor to the first message, wondering if he should actually open it. Even though his daughter was dead, this felt like an invasion of her privacy and the thought that she wasn't going to burst into the room screaming at him for meddling with her personal effects only served to hurt him more. He would have given anything in the world to have her burst in now yelling at him, demanding he leave her room. One single tear welled in his left eye and rolled down his cheek.

*I'm sorry, princess,' he whispered under his breath.

He clicked on the first message and opened it. Dated the morning after his daughter had taken her own life it had been sent by a girl called Charlotte Stone. Coulson remembered her. Pretty girl with long dark hair. She worked as a waitress in a cafe in Walston. She'd been friends with Amy since primary school and she'd been at the funeral that day.

Why has he done this to you? I told you he was a bastard. I think we should have word with him. They're all the same at that school . . . Spoiled rich brats.

Love Charlie.

Coulson ran a hand through his hair and opened the next message. Like Charlie's first communication, this one was also dated the day after Amy's death.

I looked at what Latham did on those websites. He is such a fucking bastard. You have got to stop seeing him. I know it's none of my business but you can't let people treat you like that. Especially not Latham. He is a pig.

Love Charlie.

The third message was junk e-mail. So was the fourth and the fifth was notification that Amy's order of a pair of brand-new skinny jeans had just been despatched. Coulson scrolled down and found another message from Charlotte Stone.

I know you've already seen it and I looked at the videos he posted on Youtube and that porn one. What a fucking sick bastard. Call me. I rang earlier and left a message. We need to talk.

Love Charlie.

He read two more messages from Charlotte Stone, both of them listing names of websites that Amy should look at. He had no idea why.

Now Coulson began to cry, the tears coursing down his cheeks as he sat at his daughter's desk. He made no attempt to wipe them away but merely clicked on the websites mentioned in the e-mail. It didn't take him long to find them.

By the time he'd watched the films with his daughter in, he was sobbing uncontrollably. But, as well as sorrow, Frank Coulson was enveloped by the most intense anger he'd felt for many years.

He glared at the name of Andrew Latham, his teeth gritted furiously together.

51.

Andrew Latham took a sip from the can and scanned the screen of his laptop, checking what he'd written.

He nodded approvingly to himself and got to his feet. He took a couple of steps across his room and eased up the volume on his stereo. He looked at the selection of CDs beside the unit, selecting the one he would play next.

It was then that his phone rang.

Latham checked his expensive watch and saw that it was almost eleven fifteen.

The phone continued to vibrate on the desk, set on silent as it usually was.

Latham returned to the desk and picked it up. He didn't recognise the number but flipped it open and accepted the call anyway.

For long moments he didn't speak and it seemed like more of an afterthought when he finally opened his mouth.

*Hello,' he said.

*Is this Andrew Latham?' the voice at the other end of the line asked.

*Who wants to know?' he enquired, not recognising the voice. It was someone much older than himself, that much he knew but otherwise he was oblivious of the identity of the caller.

*My name's Coulson,' the caller told him. *Frank Coulson. You knew my daughter, Amy.'

*Did I?'

*Don't try to be a smartarse with me, sunshine,' Coulson snapped. *You know bloody well who she was.'

*I know a lot of people and I'd appreciate it if you didn't swear at me over the phone. I haven't done anything to you.'

*You did plenty to my daughter though, didn't you, you little bastard? You and your rich fucking friends.'

*Now wait a minute, old man, I didn't do a thing to your daughter.'

*I saw the videos. I looked at what you put on the internet. I saw how you humiliated her. All of you.'

*I don't know what you're talking about,'grinned Latham.

*I found your name on her computer and on her phone. I saw the flowers you sent to her funeral. I saw what you wrote on the card.'

*I'd have thought you'd have appreciated the flowers.'

*Why did you have to write a message like that?'

*You saw the videos, I would have thought that was obvious.'

*You little bastard. She killed herself because of what you made her do.'

*I didn't make her do anything. Now would you mind telling me why you're bothering me at this time of night?'

*I wanted you to know that you're not going to get away with what you did. None of you.'

*This is harassment you know. I could have you arrested for this. Now go away.'

*This isn't over, Latham.'

*Am I supposed to be frightened?'

*I couldn't give a fuck who your father is and how much money he's got. Those bloody teachers at that school might treat you and all your little friends like you're something special, but not me. I want to talk to you. I want to know why you hurt my Amy. I'll go to the police if I have to.'

*And tell them what? That your daughter knew me and some of my friends? I'm sure they'll be very impressed.'

*Perhaps I'll speak to that headmaster of yours, tell him what you're like.'

*I think he already knows,' grinned Latham.

*I told you, you won't get away with this.'

*Listen, I appreciate the call but it's late and I'm tired.'

*Fuck you.'

*No, fuck you,' Latham snarled. *And don't blame me because your daughter was a slut.'

He snapped the phone shut and banged it down onto the desk.

It rang again almost immediately and he smiled to himself as he lifted it up and glanced at the number. Coulson calling again. Latham shook his head and slid the phone into one of the desk drawers, covering it with a sweatshirt so he couldn't hear the buzzing as it vibrated against the wood.

He walked across to his bed and lay on it, gazing out of the window into the night.

The phone rang three more times before he finally drifted off to sleep.

52.

Mason was standing behind his desk as he watched them file into the classroom.

Immaculate in their expensive uniforms, some carrying books in bags that cost as much as his monthly wage. They were the oldest pupils at Langley Hill and also the most senior that he'd taught on this first day. The other lessons had gone smoothly enough and Mason had been delighted at how well the lessons had worked out and at how polite the pupils had been. He'd had to raise his voice a couple of times to quieten some of the more excitable among them but, other than that, his first day had been uneventful. Enjoyable even.

Now as he watched the older pupils take up position behind their desks he regarded them evenly, nodding greetings occasionally when one of them smiled at him. He waited until the last one was in position, standing obediently behind their desks then he motioned for them to be seated. They did so with the minimum of noise, settling themselves until every one of them sat looking appraisingly at him.

It was a class of twelve, split evenly between girls and boys. Mason moved to the front of his desk and perched unceremoniously on it.

*Good afternoon,' he said.

*Good afternoon, sir,' they chorused in almost faultless unison.

*My name is Peter Mason and, as I'm sure you're aware, I'm new here at Langley Hill so, if I get things wrong occasionally perhaps you'll help me out.' He looked at the class before him. *If you can tell me your names that would help.Then at least I'll know who I'm shouting at.'

There were several chuckles and Mason smiled to himself.

*Let's start with you,' he said, pointing at a boy seated near to the front of the room.

*George Parry, sir,' the boy told him.

Mason nodded and looked at the girl seated at the next desk. He recognised her striking good looks from somewhere and he was conscious not to gaze too intently at her.

*Samantha Bell, sir,' she told him. *But I prefer Sammi.' Again Mason nodded.

*I'll remember that,' he said.

*Precious Moore, sir,' the next girl told him.

*Josephine Campbell, sir,' the girl with the light brown hair informed him.

*Or Jo, perhaps?' Mason offered.This girl too was little short of stunning and, again, as with the blonde, there was something vaguely familiar about her.

You saw her and the blonde the day you came for the interview here.

The girl nodded and smiled.

The introductions continued until Mason came to the last figure in the room. Tall, shoulder-length hair and a swarthy complexion.

*Andrew Latham, sir,' the boy said, languidly.

Mason nodded again, hoping that his expression had not betrayed him when he heard the name.

So, you're the one I've got to watch out for, are you?

*Right, now that we've introduced ourselves, perhaps we should do some work,' Mason said.

There were a few groans.

*Unless there are any questions before we get started,' he smiled.

*What kind of questions, sir?'

The words came from Felix Mackenzie.

*Anything you want to ask me?' Mason told him. *Anything you're concerned about. I know it's not always easy for a class when a new teacher takes over.'

*We call them masters here, sir,' Mackenzie told him. *Not teachers.'

There were some subdued giggles.

*Thanks for putting me straight on that, Felix,' Mason said. *I'll try to remember it.'

*What did your pupils call you at your last school, sir?' Mackenzie enquired.

*Some called me Peter, some called me Mister Mason,' the teacher informed him. *What they called me behind my back I'd rather not know.'

More good-mannered laughter.

*Will you be picking up where Mr Usher left off with our work, sir?' Sammi Bell enquired.