But your child’s alive, he wanted to say to her. He asked about her husband instead.

‘We have four other children at home. He needs to be with them. He needs to work.’ Her Bengali accent sang him a sad tune. Of something more than pain for her daughter.

‘It was my pride,’ she said bitterly. ‘I demanded that my husband let her go to France. He is very protective, but I shamed him. “Do you want our clever daughter selling cucumbers at the markets like her clever father?’’ I asked him.’

She met his eyes across her daughter’s empty bed. ‘Who would do this to our children, sir? Who would be so cruel?’

Bish had been asked that question too many times over the years, and could never find the right response.

They spoke for a little while longer about the other students before he left to look in on Fionn Sykes. Bish had found out little about him from Bee, but the papers had profiled all the injured kids. Despite losing part of his left leg from below the knee, his injury was simple compared to Manoshi’s and Lola’s, and he seemed to be healing better than the others. Bish had no idea how the boy was faring mentally, except that according to Sadia Bagchi he was pining for his mother.

Bish knocked at his door and went in. A rather plain face looked up at him from the bed. ‘I’m Bee’s father,’ he said. ‘She sends her best,’ he lied.

‘She’s not hurt then?’ Fionn asked.

‘One of the lucky ones.’

‘That’s a relief.’ A twist of a smile transformed his face.

Bish made small talk. The kid was quiet, unassuming. Just a few minutes in his presence and Bish was already a fan. Fionn seemed to be an old soul, which would no doubt have made him an outcast among the likes of Crombie and Kennington.

‘Well, I won’t keep you,’ Bish said after a while. ‘Just thought I’d say hello.’

‘I haven’t really spoken to anyone in days,’ Fionn said. ‘The nurses and doctors are kind but it’s hard to communicate.’

Bish figured it was an invitation to stay, so he sat down in the chair beside the bed.

‘What about the others, sir?’ Fionn asked, a flicker of pain on his face. Bish couldn’t tell whether it was physical or from the memory of what happened. ‘I know about Mac and Serge, the bus driver. They won’t bring me newspapers or a TV yet, but I know someone died here on the first night. I can’t understand much because they speak so fast, but I saw one of the nurses crying.’

Bish nodded gently. It felt like an insult to deny the deaths. ‘Michael Stanley and Astrid Copely,’ he said. ‘And a Spanish girl called Lucia Ortez.’

Tears sprang to the boy’s eyes and he gave a ragged sigh before composing himself. ‘They were younger than me, Michael and Astrid. Fifteen, I think.’

‘Did you know them well?’