Walking down the track, they could see a large crowd of journalists ahead. Arguments with police were already breaking out, cameras were held overhead in an attempt to catch a glimpse of anything. At the barricades two young uniforms weren’t letting anyone through. Bish grabbed his mother’s hand and pushed through all the same, finding his way to the front. There must have been a different sort of desperation on both their faces, because one of the French uniforms gave them the time of day. Saffron spoke to them in French and managed to get a slight gesture from the younger of the pair.

‘Show him a photo of Bee, darling.’

Bish struggled to pull it out of his wallet with shaking hands. Perhaps the truth was etched on his every grimace and wince of pain, because a wordless flick of a thumb indicated they were in.

Debris lined the road, mostly bits and pieces of the iron gate that led to the camp car park, with what was left of it hanging from one hinge. Beyond was carnage, partly concealed by a canvas being erected around a bus. Bish could see it was split in two, its front section black and smouldering. The back half looked untouched. Some suitcases had found their way into a clustered pile, others were blown apart. A team of forensic techs worked quietly, the eerie silence mocked by birds that chirped a sinister-happy tune in the surrounding woodlands. Another ambulance passed them, guided by a uniformed cop who had constructed an access path that would not interfere with evidence.

Bish knew there were fatalities. He could see at least two smaller tents pitched close to the half-destroyed bus, and another about a hundred metres away at the steps of a second bus. Three deaths. Bish counted seven other coaches in the car park and recognised a few foreign numberplates at a glance. Polish. Italian. Bee’s bus had seemingly been blown up as it approached the exit gate.

A woman in plain-clothes approached, questioning them in French.

‘Nous sommes anglais,’ his mother said, and Bish saw a flash of pity on the woman’s face.

‘La salle des jeux,’ she said, pointing to the closest building.

Inside the recreation room, paramedics and camp staff were tending to the kids. No one seemed badly injured here, and Bish figured those seriously hurt had already been taken to the closest hospital. Although he hadn’t received an official call about his daughter’s bus being involved, he knew that most of the kids on the tour were from Kent and Sussex, close enough for a worried parent to contemplate crossing the Channel just to be sure. He knew, too, from dropping off Bee at the port in Dover, that out of forty-six places, the tour organisers had managed to fill only twenty-three. He did a quick count, wanting to see twenty-three kids and their chaperones. But then he saw Bee and it was all that mattered.

She was sitting on a bedroll against a wall. The moment she saw him she forgot herself and scrambled to her feet, running to Bish and his mother, her arms trembling in their grip. He held back the choke of emotion, not wanting to let go, because Bee always let go too soon these days. Once upon a time, Bish and Rachel called her their little orangutan because of her clinginess, but three years ago his daughter had stopped believing that her parents could save her from anything.