‘The only decent year eleven was Fionn Sykes. The type of lad who helped the younger ones and took the time to chat with us shaps rather than argue. He was thinking of reading theology at Cambridge when he finished school.’

She looked away, pained. ‘I asked Charlie if he could help Lola with her overhead luggage this morning. He resisted of course. Claimed people like Lola should learn to take care of themselves. So it was Fionn I asked next, knowing he would do it.’

Bish winced. Lola was on the critical list. The seats around her had been the most impacted. If Fionn Sykes had stayed where he was . . .

‘Part of Fionn’s leg was blown off,’ Saffron said. ‘I spoke to the paramedics.’

‘What about his parents?’ Bish asked.

‘There’s a mother,’ Saffron said. ‘In Newcastle. She doesn’t drive, apparently.’

Bish looked again at the Kenningtons, who seemed to be speaking nonstop to the reporter.

‘I think it’s best if someone tells Kennington and his parents not to talk to the press about any of the other students.’

‘It’s too late.’ Lucy grimaced. ‘It’s already hit Twitter. Violette LeBrac Zidane is trending.’

At that moment a young boy emerged from the dining hall next door. Dark eyes, thick curly black hair, olive skin. The same sort of foreign. This must be Eddie Conlon. Bish thought he’d stopped comparing every kid out there to Stevie. Saffron’s Egyptian roots had never really been acknowledged by her family. It had been strange to hear her mention it earlier to Lucy. The only thing that could be said to give away her Arab blood was her dark hair. The rest was all English rose, as his father loved to say. But when Bish and Rachel had kids it was his grandfather’s colouring and features that were prominent. Rachel was a redhead, Bish’s colouring nondescript. Bee’s beautiful olive skin and dark eyes were a surprise to them both, but they were prepared for Stevie. ‘Let’s call him Omar,’ Rachel had joked. They spent years explaining to people that they hadn’t adopted him from the Middle East.

Eddie Conlon was fidgeting, not out of nervousness, but from a whole lot of excess energy.

‘Can I talk to her?’ he asked Lucy. ‘Violette, I mean. Because I can get to the bottom of all this with her, I swear I can because it’s not true, everything they’re saying about her and the bomb. It’s all rubbish, if you know what I mean.’

Bish studied him. The way his eyes shifted away when he said Violette’s name. He was hiding something.

‘Tell them, Lucy,’ the boy pleaded. ‘How Violette and me were pretty tight. She’ll talk to me.’

There was an endearing musicality to the way he spoke and moved. Bish hoped this kid hadn’t been unwittingly dragged into a mess of a situation.

‘What’s everyone saying about Violette and the bomb, Eddie?’ Bish asked.

Lucy introduced him. ‘This is Sabina Ballyntine-Ortley’s father, Eddie.’