Early on Tuesday morning he stood watching Bee warm up for the two hundred metres at a London club that was putting on a summer-holidays carnival. It was her strength and it was Bish’s favourite race to watch, whether it was his daughter or an Olympic runner. It was the race of champions. He liked the fact that Bee had chosen it, rather than the length choosing her.

His phone rang. A blocked number. He ignored it. Twice. Accepted the call reluctantly the third time.

‘I will ring you back,’ he said, ‘and for the record, if someone doesn’t pick up the first time, Elliot, they don’t want to speak to you.’

‘But you eventually did pick up, Chief Inspector Ortley, so it must have worked.’

A calm voice. Practical-sounding. A girl with a slight lisp.

‘Where’s Eddie, Violette?’

‘Safe.’

‘He needs to be home with his father.’

‘John Conlon had his chance and stuffed up. No more talk of Eddie or I’ll hang up.’

Their accents may have differed, one private-school-educated, the other broad country Australian, but Violette and Noor LeBrac shared the same tone.

‘Where are you, Violette?’

‘Why would I tell you that, Chief Inspector Ortley? I’m a suspect and you’re a cop.’

‘There’s never been talk about you being a suspect,’ he said. ‘We all just want you and Eddie safe.’

‘How do you know everyone wants me and Eddie safe? Have you been following Twitter lately?’

‘Okay, so how about we limit it to Bee and I want you both safe. She’d love to see you and Eddie.’

‘You reckon? I think she’s angry because I didn’t tell her who I was on the tour.’

‘Yes, but you asked her for quite a big favour and she helped you out, regardless.’

‘She was still pissed off.’

‘Bee’s a bit pissed off with everyone.’

‘Well, so am I,’ she said, irritated. ‘Look, I just need you to tell my mum I’m okay.’

‘What are you angry about, Violette?’

‘Nothing! Everything. Just shut up and promise you’ll tell my mum I’m okay.’

He did part of what she asked and shut up. Knew she was still there.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said moments later. ‘That was rude.’

She had manners. Who would have thought?

‘Do you know what pisses me off the most?’ she asked. ‘My father was proud of being a LeBrac and my mother still is. I hated not sharing something that belonged to my parents. For all these years I’ve been Violette Zidane, and now you go and take even that away from me.’

‘Tell me the story of the watch,’ he said.

There was such a profound silence that he thought she was gone. Then: ‘Who told you about the watch?’

‘Your mother. She said I wasn’t worthy of hearing it, but since you’ve bothered to return my call, Violette, perhaps you think I am?’

‘Is she angry with me?’

‘Why would she be angry with you?’

‘Because of the talk about me and Crombie!’ she said, as if Bish were an idiot for not working it out.