But Rebus was shaking his head. “Best if you wait here, sir. I’ll let you know what DI Hogan says.”

Bell nodded, but he was not to be placated for long. “It’s scandalous, you know. How can someone just walk into a school with a gun?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir.” Rebus looked the MSP up and down. “Got a cigarette on you, by any chance?”

“What?”

“A cigarette.”

Bell shook his head, and Rebus started heading towards the school again.

“I’ll be waiting, Inspector. I won’t be budging from this spot!”

“That’s fine, sir. Best place for you, I daresay.”

There was a sloping lawn to the front of the school, playing fields to one side. Uniformed officers were busy on the playing fields, turning away trespassers who had climbed the perimeter wall. Media maybe, but more likely just ghouls: you got them at every murder scene. Rebus caught a glimpse of a modern building behind the original school. A helicopter flew over. He couldn’t see any cameras aboard.

“That was fun,” Siobhan said, catching up with him.

“Always a pleasure to meet a politician,” Rebus agreed. “Especially one who holds our profession in such esteem.”

The school’s main entrance seemed to be a carved wooden double door with glass panels. Inside was a reception area with sliding windows leading to an office, probably the school secretary’s. She was in there now, giving a statement from behind a large white handkerchief, presumably belonging to the officer seated opposite her. Rebus knew his face but couldn’t put a name to it. Another set of doors led into the body of the school. They’d been wedged open. A sign on them stated that ALL VISITORS SHOULD REPORT TO THE OFFICE. An arrow pointed back towards the sliding windows.

Siobhan gestured towards a corner of the ceiling, where a small camera was fitted. Rebus nodded and passed through the open doors, into a long corridor with stairs off to one side and a large stained-glass window at the far end. The floor was polished wood, creaking under his weight. There were paintings on the walls: robed figures of past teachers, captured at their desks or reaching towards a bookcase. Farther along were lists of names-prefects of the school, headmasters, those who’d gone on to die in service of their country.