His ex-wife had once warned him that the key to dealing with Bee was not to beg. She was extra cruel when Bish or Rachel pleaded. But he’d trade a lifetime of that cruelty to hear her voice right now.

‘Sweetheart, ring as soon as you get this. Even if you’re angry with me, just ring. I need to know you’re okay.’

He rang Elliot back.

‘What does your coms person know?’

‘Not much. Just that it happened about twenty minutes ago. Someone at the campsite tweeted that the bus had French numberplates, but they’re saying it was carrying British kids. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s hers.’

Bish’s mouth was dry and he didn’t know where he found the word, but it was there. It had formed on his tongue the moment Elliot had said ‘Bee’ and ‘bombing’ together.

‘Fatalities?’

‘Nothing clear yet. But some online images are coming through now. It doesn’t look good. Ambulances, helicopters. Definitely kids being taken away. The French will lock out the press and may jam mobile phone signals if there’s a threat of another device going off. If it were my kid, I’d go now. Can’t imagine the French letting anyone else but parents in.’

Bish didn’t need to be told twice. He’d have to let Rachel know, and he wasn’t sure how. His ex-wife was eight months pregnant, and if Calais came across on some news feed she was following, it wouldn’t be good. But a phone call from Bish while their daughter was away would alarm her. He knew he had to do the right thing, regardless of the fact that the man who’d replaced him was the last person Bish wanted to speak to. He rang before he could change his mind.

‘It’s Bish.’

There was a moment’s hesitation.

‘What’s wrong?’

Good. No pleasantries.

‘Listen, you need to prepare Rachel. There’s been a bombing outside Calais. A tour bus of British kids.’

‘Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck! ’

Maybe not such a good idea to tell the second husband.

‘I haven’t heard from Bee yet,’ Bish said. ‘Tell Rachel to keep off her phone. Bee may try to ring her. Tell her I’m driving there now and I’ll ring the moment I’m at the campground.’

‘Bee doesn’t cope with the tunnel,’ Maynard said. ‘So drive her back on the ferry.’

Bish hung up. His daughter. His claustrophobia she’d inherited, thank you very much. He couldn’t think of anything worse than going through the Channel tunnel, but he didn’t need to hear that from the man who stole his family.

Twenty minutes later he was on the M20 heading to Dover. He’d exhausted every radio station, all regurgitating the same facts or predicting the worst. August in France meant the campsites were packed with kids on tours and families on holidays. He turned down the volume when the talk switched to how many British kids travelled to Europe each year. Next they’d be calculating possible death tolls.

His phone rang and he fumbled to see whose name appeared on the screen. His heart sank.