‘Arnaud Benoix. You heard of him?’

‘No. Should I have?’

‘Local drug dealer. Pig-ignorant. The type who pimps thirteen-year-old migrant kids. At the beginning of the year he made news when his eighteen-year-old son was high on ice, swinging a semi-automatic all over Novamatique. The laundromat. The cops shot him dead during the arrest. It’s all anyone round here could talk about for weeks.’

Sarraf showed Bish an internet image of Benoix. Nothing going on in his eyes. Dead cold.

‘I’m presuming Benoix’s man isn’t coincidentally in the same place where people die the next day,’ Bish said.

‘What else do people do around there but camp?’ Sarraf asked.

‘Birdwatch.’

‘This guy, Dussollier, is more the type to hunt birds with a semi-automatic,’ Sarraf said.

Bish dialled Attal’s number and put the phone on speaker. ‘Just tell him what we know,’ he told Sarraf. They waited, only to hear Attal’s recorded message. Bish hung up and tried Attal’s landline. There seemed to be a diversion, and then a voice answered, identifying the Bureau de Police. It was the first and last thing Bish understood before Sarraf started speaking, apart from Arnaud Benoix’s name. The woman’s response was quick. Then the click of the line being disconnected.

‘Attal’s out and she’ll let him know,’ Jamal said.

‘Out where?’ Still on speaker, Bish tried Grazier next, who picked up with his usual blunt ‘Grazier.’

‘Can you ring the Bureau de Police in Beaumarais and find out where Attal is?’

‘What have you got?’

‘A name that might interest him. Arnaud Benoix.’

‘Stay on the line.’

Bish couldn’t sit still. Less than an hour until a possible repeat of what took place at the campsite. He walked to the window, needing air.

‘Who is he?’ Sarraf asked. ‘The guy on the phone.’

‘Someone who makes things happen,’ Bish said as truthfully as he could.

‘What sort of things? Arrests? Because I know that name.’

Bish caught Sarraf’s eye. Looked away.

‘He makes two-day London visas happen,’ Bish said. ‘And adoptions.’

Sarraf swore under his breath.

Grazier was back on the line. ‘It’s not good. There’s been a bomb scare at Calais-Fréthun Station and they’re taking it very seriously. A Brussels to London Eurostar train arrives there at 4.01.’

‘Any suspects?’ Bish asked.

‘Who knows? What about the French bus driver? I still don’t understand why he’s not a suspect.’

‘Apparently Serge Sagur had an issue with him because of parking spots,’ Bish said. ‘Did you at least mention Benoix to them?’

‘Yes. That name seemed to get a reaction, but not one they shared with me,’ Grazier said. ‘Stay put. If it’s not a hoax, I’ll need you out there.’

Grazier hung up. Sarraf looked gutted.

‘A trainload of people.’

Bish didn’t want his brain going there. ‘Could Benoix be responsible?’ he asked Sarraf.

‘Not his sort of thing. And why go after a bunch of British kids, or a train heading for London? Why wouldn’t he blow up the police station instead? His issue is with Attal, not tourists.’