He succeeded in ignoring them, but inside was a different set of problems. A strong police presence stopped him in the foyer. According to the hostile receptionist, who at least spoke English, the list of people allowed up to the third floor didn’t include media or troublemakers. Bish tried anyway. Explained that he was the father of one of the English kids and he just wanted to check on those injured. He thought it best not to mention that he was a police inspector because he had no badge to prove it. He also suspected that unauthorised British law enforcement came under the category of troublemaker. The receptionist dismissed him.

Next he tried the uniform stationed at the lift, politely asking in slow English how it was possible to get onto the third-floor list. The cop snapped back in fast French. Bish was about to walk away when he heard a familiar voice behind him. He turned. Attal. No sleep, little food, and a whole lot of grief were taking its toll on the French captain. Attal exchanged a few words with the officer before acknowledging Bish with a sound that perhaps meant ‘hello’ or ‘fuck off’. Whatever the case, Bish found himself on the list.

Outside Lola’s room he encountered her father berating an orderly. Ian Parker was a member of parliament. He came from wealth, had married into wealth, and his public rhetoric reeked of xenophobia and Britain’s decay.

When he was finished Bish introduced himself.

‘Ortley?’ said Parker. ‘Aren’t you with Scotland Yard?’

Bish shook his head. ‘I’m here as —’

‘I’m fed up with you people and your inane questions,’ Parker barked. ‘Make yourself useful. Get out there and find that LeBrac bitch or I’ll have someone do it for you, and there’ll be nothing left of her to put on trial.’

His much younger wife put a cautionary hand on his arm. ‘Ian,’ was all she said, softly. Down the corridor, a doctor exited a ward and headed for the lift. Parker went after her, leaving Bish with the insipid Katherine Barrett-Parker. Moments later, they could hear Parker yelling at the doctor down the corridor.

‘Lola is his youngest, and the only one of his children who gives him the time of day,’ Katherine finally said. ‘Arrogance is one thing. Mixed with heartbreak it’s lethal.’

Not quite insipid. Just grief-stricken.

‘Can you do something about the press?’ she asked. ‘Sometimes my husband and I need fresh air. Apparently the Pakistani mother is frightened to step outside as well.’

Bish was going to point out that the Bagchi family were originally from Bangladesh, but decided not to make an enemy of Katherine Barrett-Parker. When her husband’s shouting grew worse she excused herself and went to rescue the doctor.

Two rooms and another world away was Manoshi and her family. Manoshi had qualified for one of the travel grants the Bengali community in Spitalfields provided for their youngest and brightest in public housing. Her mother was inconsolable as they took Manoshi away for another set of tests. The girl’s hair was half shaved, her arm bandaged and the hand missing. Sadia Bagchi told Bish she’d spent the past three nights on a stretcher bed in her daughter’s room, weeping.