Jack and Shotgun squeezed through the onlookers and passed a pack of reporters. The reporters threw a barrage of questions at him.
“Sorry no, we cannot answer any questions.” He evaded the questions. “No comment. We do not speak for the police. We’re not at liberty to say. Didn’t I say, no comment?’’
A policeman held back the crowd. “We’re consultants with the Nodlon Yard.”
“Go on in sir,” said the officer. “We were told to expect you Mr. Clay.”
They ducked under the police tape and scrambled up the school’s steps. A policewoman directed traffic into a classroom. A few middle-aged mole women stoically waited for news. A husband comforted his wife.
Outside the principal’s office was a portable table. A knot of officers and technicians blocked the office.
“Mr. Clay,” a police matron waved at them. “Constable Wiggles and Inspector Lestrayed are upstairs. They’re in the gym on the top floor.”