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class.’
    ‘Does he know you fancy him?’
    ‘NO WAY!!!’
    ‘!!!’
    ‘You?’
    ‘?’
    ‘You got a boyf?’
    ‘No. Not right now.’ Lucy didn't add that she had never had a boyfriend. They chatted some more about boys and their past boyfriends. ‘I loved him but he dumped me L,’ Lucy lied. No one would ever know it wasn't true and she wanted to sound interesting. Zoe was the only real friend she had now.
    ‘How old are you?’ she asked Zoe.
    ‘You say first.’
    ‘I asked first.’
    ‘You want to know.’
    ‘Fourteen. You?’
    ‘I'm nearly fourteen!!’
    ‘What's going on, Zoe?’
    ‘I hate school!!’
    ‘Me too!!’
    Lucy suggested they chat on instant messenger. ‘More private. You can tell me about the boyf.’
    ‘He's not my boyf!’
    ‘Hate school, LOVE Edward Cullen!!’ Lucy wrote.
    Zoe sent her a red heart on instant messenger. ‘Friends!’
    ‘Friends!’ Lucy agreed.
    ‘Best friends!!’
    ‘Forever friends!’

7
    Morgue
    A bigail Kirby lay on the table like a waxwork model, her face cleaned-up to reveal her square chin. Geraldine approached and forced herself to look at the victim's open mouth: between even teeth the stump of her tongue looked surprisingly neat. Abigail Kirby stared back as though in silent protest at this scrutiny.
    The pathologist looked up and Geraldine recognised the tall dark-haired medical examiner who had examined the body in the wood. ‘Hello again Inspector. You'll forgive me if I don't shake hands.’
    Geraldine glanced at his bloody gloves. ‘Good morning, Dr Hilliard.’
    ‘Please, call me Paul.’ Geraldine smiled. The pathologist was about to speak to her again when Peterson entered.
    ‘Shall we begin?’ Geraldine said.
    Paul Hilliard nodded. ‘Abigail Kirby looked after herself. She was fit for her age, well nourished, with excellent muscle tone. She probably worked out, or at least took regular exercise. She'd recently had a manicure, and a pedicure as well I suspect, and her hair's well cut. She looks as though she lived in the public eye, or else she was a narcissist.’
    Geraldine couldn't help laughing. ‘You know she was a headmistress.’
    Paul Hilliard smiled at her. ‘That fits with a controlling profile. At any rate, she certainly took care of herself.’ Geraldine squinted at her own nails, short and functional, and wondered if Abigail Kirby had been right to be so aware of the dignity of her position. Either way, it didn't matter now. ‘The victim has several injuries. She was struck on the back of her head with a blunt instrument. The killer used considerable force, so her attacker was probably an adult male. The blow fractured the skull resulting in cerebral bleeding.’
    ‘And the tongue?’
    ‘That was removed subsequent to the blow on the back of the head.’ He indicated bruising on the victim's upper arms. ‘Whoever hit her on the back of the head grabbed her and lowered her onto her back, after which she was secured by her arms and legs.’ He pointed to marks on her wrists and ankles.
    ‘So he could get to her face easily,’ Peterson said.
    ‘The tongue was removed after the head trauma was sustained. The blood loss was considerable so she was still alive at the time it was removed. The stump bled quite profusely. She must have been unconscious, the gag reflex inoperative, and she was lying on her back. Blood flowed into the back of her mouth causing her to choke.’ Paul Hilliard placed a hand gently on the victim's head. ‘Abigail Kirby drowned in her own blood.’
    There was silence for a few seconds.
    The pathologist glanced at Geraldine before he continued. ‘Head wounds are always serious. There's a very real danger of brain damage. In this case severe head trauma would probably have killed her, without immediate medical attention, possibly even with it. She would most likely have died from the knock on the head if she hadn't choked first.’
    ‘He must have used a very sharp blade to cut her tongue out,’