‘Next time, he sees LeBrac in the visits hall like everyone else,’ the older guard told Allison.

‘Next time, he sees LeBrac wherever the acting governor says he sees her,’ she said.

Bish was asked to follow the older guard, the aptly named Officer Gray. He was led to a small interview room and buzzed in.

‘Knock on the door when you’re finished,’ Gray ordered. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes.’

Inside, Noor LeBrac was seated at a table, dressed in tracksuit pants, a T-shirt and cardigan. Her dark stare followed Bish the moment he entered the room and he dared not look away. He sat down and found himself trying not to focus on the freckle on her lower lip. If he were to set up any sort of dialogue, he couldn’t come across as distracted. Or hostile.

She was still striking, despite her face being drawn and thin. Her dark hair was in a thick loose plait. There was a coarseness to it, unlike the sleekness on the day of her arrest. The LeBracs had been an attractive couple and back then Bish could tell she was a little vain about her appearance. Now he couldn’t help but think how small and helpless she was, this monster who had built a bomb. But the fragility was revealed to be a façade the moment she stood. Bish hadn’t realised she was holding the tabloid until she threw it down in front of him. Violette’s photo was plastered over the front page. It had been taken at the campsite, from outside the dining hall looking in. Bish had managed to get himself photographed standing behind her.

‘I just wanted to look into the face of the man who locked my daughter in a cupboard and called her a whore to the world,’ she said.

Her voice was clipped and polished, and jail had done nothing to soften her arrogance.

Noor LeBrac walked to the door and knocked twice in a way that seemed to suggest she was in charge. She was buzzed out and taken away.

After his short stint as the connection between Noor LeBrac and the British government, Bish spent the rest of the day returning calls from parents he had met at the campsite. Their questions were mostly the same. How were the injured kids? Had he found out any more about who was responsible? Was his daughter having nightmares, as their kids were? Very few had come from the same town, so there was no place to meet and talk. Social media was all they had; their grieving was done online, collectively but disconnected.

His mother rang in the evening. Bish felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t rung to check on her.

‘How was Bee when you left her?’ he asked.

‘Back to angry and withdrawn. She went for a run this morning, before they dropped me home. Rachel made David go with her.’

Just what Bish wanted to hear.