‘Keep me posted on any developments,’ Grazier said before ringing off.

Bish followed Attal out to where his team was studying a wall covered in hundreds upon hundreds of photos. Bish recognised some from his trawling on Instagram. Photos taken by kids and teachers from every bus at the campsite the night before the bombing. Here, he saw the bigger picture. It’s what he hadn’t noticed in his cynicism. That the United Nations of youth having fun on Instagram looked all the same in the end. Happy and safe. He recognised those he had sent through. Shots of the shadowed man lurking in the woodlands. Birdwatcher or murderer?

Two blocks away, he saw Sarraf walking in the direction of home. Didn’t know whether to beep the horn or stop or just keep driving. But he couldn’t rid himself of the image of Sarraf on the floor, gun to his head. Bish wound down the window and Sarraf glanced at him but kept walking.

‘I need your help, Jimmy.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘There’s going to be another bomb,’ he said, trailing him in the car. ‘This afternoon at 4.05 and we don’t know where.’

That made Sarraf stop.

‘I need a computer and a place to work,’ Bish said.

Without a word, Sarraf got into the car.

Some ten minutes later, Bish followed him through the gym and up a flight of back stairs that looked nailed solid but still creaked. Sarraf unlocked a door and led Bish into a small flat. Kitchenette in one corner, table at its centre, neatly made bed in the opposite corner. It was surprisingly clean and homely.

‘You use the desktop. I’ve got an old laptop,’ Sarraf said, unlocking a cabinet. ‘And then you’ll tell me what we’re looking for.’

Bish was surrounded by photographs of the family. Mostly Violette at various ages, snapshots sent by the LeBracs, perhaps, or Violette herself. Images of her horse, her dog, the ducks, the pigs, the cows, the sheep. There were one or two of a younger Jamal and his sister. Noor’s wedding, Etienne LeBrac’s grin so wide, her joy so potent. A photo of the Sarraf and Bayat siblings from sometime in the eighties, judging by the clothes, a wild promise of beauty and intelligence and talent and a sense of wicked fun shining in all their eyes. The four of them would have been a force beyond reckoning, he thought. These were photographs Sarraf must have begged from others; those in his home at the time of the bombing had been confiscated, locked up like the rest of their lives. Along with Noor’s thesis and Violette’s childhood keepsakes and Jimmy’s football trophies.

Then Bish saw a photo of Violette and Eddie. He couldn’t believe Sarraf had been stupid enough to take a photo of the kids in public, until he realised with a quickening heart that Lola was standing behind them, waving. It had been taken in Normandy.