‘Probably hormones,’ Ant said.

Pip wound the invisible crank by her hand, jerkily raising her middle finger up at him.

They were on to her already. She waited a full five minutes for the group to have a conversation about the latest episode of that zombie programme they all watched, Connor stuffing his ears and humming loudly and tunelessly because he was yet to watch it.

‘So, Ant,’ Pip tried again, ‘you know your friend George from football?’

‘Yes, I think I know my friend George from football,’ he said, clearly finding himself rather too amusing.

‘He’s in the crowd that still do calamity parties, isn’t he?’

Ant nodded. ‘Yeah. Actually I think the next party is at his house. His parents are abroad for an anniversary or something.’

‘This weekend?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you . . .’ Pip sat forward, resting her elbows on the table. ‘Do you think you could get us all invited?’

Every single one of her friends turned to gawp at her.

‘Who are you and what have you done with Pippa Fitz-Amobi?’ Cara said.

‘What?’ She felt herself getting defensive, about four useless facts simmering to the surface, ready to fire. ‘It’s our last year at school. I thought it would be fun for us all to go. This is the opportune time, before coursework deadlines and mock-exams creep up.’

‘Still sounds Pip-ish to me,’ Connor smiled.

‘You want to go to a house party?’ Ant said pointedly.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Everyone will be smashed, people getting off, throwing up, passing out. A lot of mess on the floor,’ Ant said. ‘It’s not really your scene, Pip.’

‘Sounds . . . cultural,’ she said. ‘I still want to go.’

‘OK, fine.’ Ant clapped his hands together. ‘We’ll go.’

Pip stopped by Ravi’s on her way home from school. He set a black tea down in front of her, informing her there was no need to wait a jiffy for it to cool because he’d thought ahead and poured in some cold water.

‘OK,’ he finally said, his head bouncing in a part-shaking part-nodding movement as he tried to process the image of Andie Bell – cute, button-faced blonde – as a drug dealer. ‘OK, so you’re thinking the man who supplied her could be a suspect?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you have the depravity to peddle drugs to kids, I definitely think you could be the sort inclined to murder.’

‘Yeah, I see the logic,’ he nodded. ‘But how are we going to find this drug dealer, though?’

She plonked down her mug and sharpened her eyes on his. ‘I’m going undercover,’ she said.

Eighteen

‘It’s a house party, not a pantomime,’ Pip said, trying to wrestle her face out of Cara’s grip. But Cara held on tight: facial hijack.

‘Yeah, but you’re lucky – you have a face that can pull off eyeshadow. Stop wriggling, I’m almost done.’

Pip sighed and went limp, submitting to the forced preening. She was still sulking that her friends had made her change out of her dungarees and into a dress of Lauren’s that was short enough to be mistaken for a T-shirt. They’d laughed a lot when she’d said that.

‘Girls,’ Pip’s mum called up the stairs, ‘you’d better hurry up. Victor’s started showing Lauren his dance moves down here.’

‘Oh jeez,’ Pip said. ‘Am I done? We need to go and rescue her.’

Cara leaned forward and blew on her face. ‘Yep.’

‘Cracking,’ said Pip, grabbing her shoulder bag and checking, once again, that her phone was at full charge. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Hello, pickle!’ her dad said loudly as Pip and Cara made their way downstairs. ‘Lauren and I have decided that I should come to your kilometre party too.’

‘Calamity, Dad. And over my dead brain cells.’

Victor strolled over, wrapped his arm round her shoulders and squeezed. ‘Little Pipsy going to a house party.’

‘I know,’ Pip’s mum said, her smile wide and glistening. ‘With alcohol and boys.’

‘Yes.’ He let go and looked down at Pip, a serious expression on his face and his finger raised. ‘Pip, I want you to remember to be, at least, a little irresponsible.’

‘Right,’ Pip announced, grabbing her car keys and strolling to the front door. ‘We’re going now. Farewell, my backwards and abnormal parents.’

‘Fare thee well,’ Victor said dramatically, gripping on to the banister and reaching for the departing teenagers, like the house was a sinking ship and he the heroic captain going down with it.

Even the pavement outside was pulsing with the music. The three of them strolled up to the front door and Pip raised her fist to knock. As she did, the door swung inward, opening a gateway into a writhing cacophony of deep-bass tinny tunes, slurred chattering and poor lighting.

Pip took a tentative step inside, her first breath already tainted with the muggy metallic smell of vodka, undertones of sweat and the slightest hint of vomit. She caught sight of the host, Ant’s friend George, trying to mesh his face with a girl’s from the year below, his eyes open and staring. He looked their way and, without breaking the kiss, waved to them behind his partner’s back.