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inside the room and Perlman continued along the corridor. He stopped briefly outside the door of the room where Indra Gupta had been shot. A couple of crime-scene technicians were dusting in silence. Perlman noticed lower-case words written on a blackboard in coloured chalk: tree sun dad mum . Blood dotted the chalk and darkened the white wood frame of the blackboard. Paperchains hung from the walls. There were shelves of kiddy stuff, plastic figures, plasticine models, puppets.
    He shivered unexpectedly, although the cold he felt had no external source. You’re four years old and you see somebody gunned down from a distance of a few feet, does the memory stay deep inside you and fester like a wound? How does it change you – bad dreams, anxieties? And then later in life, recurring flashes of memory?
    He kept moving down the corridor. He paused beside PC Dennis Murdoch, whose expression was sombre. ‘Singh didn’t look good when they took him into the ambulance, Sergeant. The wound was chest, dead centre. I’m no doctor, but –’
    â€˜So you can’t make guesses.’
    â€˜No, Sergeant, I can’t.’
    â€˜Speculation’s for the stock market, Dennis.’ Perlman liked Murdoch, which was probably why he felt the need to temper the young man’s enthusiasm every now and then with caution; it was a tricky craft, the practice of giving advice without coming off like a stuffy old fart, and Perlman was never sure he accomplished it. He wondered if he saw a slightly deflated look in Murdoch’s eyes.
    The police photographer snapping the spot where Singh had fallen was a dark-bearded man called Cameron ‘Tizer’ Dunlop, nicknamed after the soft drink to which he was addicted. Tizer was bent forward, knees locked, as if he was shooting a model from an oblique angle.
    Perlman said, ‘It’s not a fucking fashion shoot. It’s bloodstains. It’s not going on the cover of Vogue .’
    Tizer made a faux gay gesture, limping a wrist. ‘I am constantly berated by philistines.’
    â€˜I’d watch out. You do that a little too convincingly.’
    â€˜Bitch,’ Tizer remarked.
    Perlman stopped outside a door with a small wooden plaque that read: Amy Blyth . He knocked, heard a voice from inside, then he entered. Amy Blyth, a fair-haired woman in a pink shirt and black trousers, sat behind her desk with her hands clenched in front of her; an attitude of prayer, Perlman thought. She wore a tiny silver crucifix and gold-rimmed half-moon glasses.
    He introduced himself. Amy Blyth acknowledged him with a slight gesture of her hand. She had a big lipsticked mouth and the foundations of a double chin. She didn’t rise.
    â€˜It’s a total disaster,’ she said. She was about to weep, but managed to contain herself. ‘The parents will blame me for not providing proper security. This is the last thing you expect. You read about … you never think. A gun. A man with a gun.’
    Perlman observed a moment of quiet sympathy. ‘We don’t live in a safe world, Miss Blyth. Even security guards can’t keep everyone out. Somebody wants inside a place badly enough, they find a way. What are you supposed to do? Electric fences, watchdogs, a platoon of armed men? Don’t blame yourself.’
    Amy Blyth remarked, ‘Easy to say.’
    Perlman glanced round the room. Amy had scores of diplomas in frames. Certificates from colleges, teaching associations, civic groups. She had a document naming her as the registered owner of this kindergarten, which was called the Sunshine Day School.
    I’m going to phone my lawyer,’ she said. ‘I was just about to when you came in. If the parents think about damages for, I don’t know … mental and physical distress, I have to know where I stand. I worked so bloody hard for this place.’ Amy Blyth whipped her glasses off and pressed the tips of her fingers into her