‘My parents would be calling her a slag too.’

The others around him laughed nervously. But not Crombie. ‘Is it true what they’re saying about her?’ he demanded. ‘Who she is?’

‘So Violette didn’t tell you anything about herself?’ Bish said.

Crombie shrugged. ‘Why would she? We were just shagging.’

The girl standing beside Crombie shifted to drape herself over him. Charlie had already moved on. Nothing like a rumour of being a terror suspect to kill a relationship.

Gorman stepped out from inside the recreation hall. The man seemed to be in his element. Bish had met his type before. Disasters gave them purpose, and Gorman wasn’t quite finished playing his part in this tragedy.

‘Could you assist me in a matter, Chief Inspector Ortley?’

Charlie Crombie disengaged himself from the girl’s tongue in his ear, his eyes fixed on Bish.

‘You’re Ballyntine-Ortley’s father?’

A rhetorical question. Crombie looked away, muttering. Bish heard the words ‘Useless fucker.’

Gorman’s phone rang and he answered it. ‘The embassy,’ he mouthed, as if Bish had asked. ‘I’ll be a minute.’ He walked back inside.

‘Does anyone know where Violette’s been taken?’ Bish asked the group. She wasn’t at the hospital, according to Carmody, and her disappearance didn’t sit right with him.

‘Ask Gorman,’ Charlie Crombie said. There was a suppressed rage about the kid.

The last thing Bish wanted was another conversation with the chaperone, but he went after him. Inside, the parents made a beeline for Bish. Saffron was there, holding out a tea for him.

‘Are you going to speak to the parents?’ She tucked two digestive biscuits into his hand. ‘They’ll be relieved to know our police are involved.’

‘But our police aren’t involved,’ he said.

‘They don’t need to know that. Just flash your badge. Everyone wants reassurance.’

Bish wasn’t really in a position to flash anything these days. He’d been asked to leave his badge behind a week ago. But his job with the Met hadn’t been out on the streets: he was the man back at the station taking care of the uniforms. He was also the liaison guy with the community, and that was the part he’d miss the most if they didn’t let him return. He knew how to distribute information and answer questions and keep the peace.

He ushered the adults to a small room at the back of the hall used to store gym equipment. He could hear the words ‘police inspector’ whispered among the dozen or so people surrounding him.

‘Is everyone’s child accounted for?’ he asked.

A show of hands and nods. Thankfully no one belonging to Michael Stanley or Julius McEwan had turned up in the past hour.

‘I’m one of the fathers too,’ he said, ‘so I’m not here as the police. I know exactly how you’re all feeling. Frustrated and tired and emotional and all I want to do is take my daughter home.’

‘Where are our embassy people?’ one of the women asked.

‘They’ve been dealing with the injured at the hospital,’ Bish said. ‘Someone will be here soon, though.’