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rhythm on the door frame. It’s an enthusiasm that is pretty infectious, and I don’t know anyone who was in his GCSE history class who didn’t get a B or higher. He’s pretty much the reason I took it at A Level, but I like Radclyffe just as much. To be honest, all the teachers at Aggers are good. They don’t have the war-worn look the teachers at my oldschool did.
    Selby comes out of his office and starts talking to the two officers. I can’t hear what they’re saying – stupid soundproof doors – but Selby’s got his most earnest face on, nodding, one arm folded across his chest, the other propping up his chin. He taps at his mouth with a finger as he listens.
    It suddenly occurs to me that the police are telling Selby someone has been loggingonto Lizzie’s Facebook from pretty much this location.
    As I think this, his brow furrows and I swear he looks up and through the glass at me. I look down at the book open in my lap, the words just a black smear on the page, and by the time I dare glance back up, Selby is talking, head on one side, his eyes wide.
    The policewoman, the one who seems to be doing all the talking, nods and passesSelby a brown cardboard folder, a thin thing, like the kind you find in a filing cabinet. He looks down at it, takes a step back, and ushers them both into his office. I feel a shiver travel through me as I wonder what’s in that file.
    My phone buzzes in my pocket and I slip it out as the door to Selby’s office shuts. It’s a Facebook notification: one new message. I unlock the keypad and openmy inbox.
    Cheska Summersall.
    Whoa. Probably the very last name I expected to see.
    Hey , she writes. Want to talk to you
    She’s friend-requested me as well. Despite the fact I think Cheska Summersall is the worst kind of human, I accept. Curious, I guess. And you know what they say about curiosity.
    Sure , I type, even though the thought fills me with dread. Seeing as I’m pretty sure CheskaSummersall previously had no idea I even existed, I guess she’s yet another person to hear about the police interviewing me.
    It takes her exactly thirty seconds to reply.
    Are you free tomorrow afternoon?
    I have a free fifth period so after 2.30, yeah
    Cool
    And that’s it. Nothing else. I flick back to my newsfeed and see an update she’s posted two minutes ago.
    Cheska Summersall isexcited about this week’s shoot! It’s getting juicyyyyyy!! ;-)
    When her sixteen-year-old sister’s missing. See what I mean? Worst. Kind. Of. Human.
    Spoilt in the Suburbs
has been filmed in and around Abbots Grey for two years now. It was meant to be a one-hour documentary about wealthy teenagers in the home counties, but when the producers came here to scout for possible locations, and startedinterviewing a few of the kids who would eventually become the cast, they quickly decided it had more than enough material to carry a show all by itself. The first series was a smash hit, despite the fact that the ‘acting’ is really awful (although everyone involved in the show swears it isn’t acted or scripted and is all about real people and real lives). It focuses mostly on who’s sleepingwith who, who’s throwing a party that episode, and who will have an argument with who
at
that party. Cheska got a smallish part towards the end of the first series, and she’s been working pretty hard to make herself the star ever since.
    ‘Hey,’ someone says beside me, and I jump. I’ve been too busy glaring at Cheska’s profile picture (her in a bikini, from a cast promo shoot for
Spoilt in theSuburbs
) to notice Scobie come up beside me.
    ‘Hey,’ I say, pulling my bag off the seat next to me so he can sit down.
    ‘Police are about again today,’ he says.
    I nod. ‘They’re in with Selby.’
    ‘Birchall reckons they’re gonna start interviewing everyone in our year.’
    ‘Really?’ Ollie Birchall is the biggest gossip going, but, as the son of one of our deputy heads, he’s usually accurate whenit comes