But she didn’t smoke. She knew she could try ducking into the underventilated gym farther along the corridor, or she could take a walk to the cells. But there was nothing to stop Templer using the station’s PA system to hunt down her quarry. Word would get around anyway that she was on the premises. St. Leonard’s was like that: no hiding place. She yanked on the cola can’s ring pull, knowing what the uniforms at the table would be discussing-same thing as everyone else.

Three dead in school shoot-out.

She’d scanned each of the morning’s papers. There were grainy photos of both the teenage victims: boys, seventeen years old. The words “tragedy,” “waste,” “shock,” and “carnage” had been bandied about by the journalists. Alongside the news story, additional reporting filled page after page: Britain’s burgeoning gun culture… school security shortfalls… a history of suicide killers. She’d studied the photos of the assassin-apparently, only three different snaps had so far been available to the media. One was very blurry indeed, as if capturing a ghost rather than something made of flesh and blood. Another showed a man in overalls, taking hold of a rope as he made to board a small boat. He was smiling, head turned towards the camera. Siobhan got the feeling it was a publicity shot for his water-skiing business.

The third was a head-and-shoulders portrait from the man’s days in military service. Herdman, his name was. Lee Herdman, age thirty-six. Resident in South Queensferry, owner of a speedboat. There were photos of the yard where his business operated from. “A scant half-mile from the site of the shocking event,” as one paper gushed.

Ex-forces, probably easy enough for him to get a gun. Drove into the school grounds, parked next to all the staff cars. Left his driver’s-side door open, obviously in a hurry. Witnesses saw him barge into the school.