‘She thought you were an idiot first time we met you,’ he said, because he wanted to destroy something and Maynard was accessible.

Maynard nodded. ‘Yes, she told me. And that you totally disagreed and said I was the sort of chap you’d enjoy a pint with.’

Bish didn’t go around using the word ‘chap’ so it rankled even more to be misquoted.

Fearing that Grazier or French Intelligence would somehow discover a more intimate connection between his daughter and the missing kids, Bish drove to Gravesend late that afternoon to see Bee. The house had been in the family for generations. A three-acre property that was ridiculously too big for a woman living on her own, but it was home. Saffron had spent decades travelling for his father’s work, ‘to some of the most tedious parts of the world, darling’. His father had never made it high enough up in the service to have preference regarding where to be sent next. Great-Aunt Margaret Worthington had commented more than once that lack of ambition ran in the Ortley line. It’s what some people believed when a cop chose not to become a detective.

When Bish pulled up at the former coach house on Church Lane, his mother was pruning roses in the front garden. He watched her work and realised that regardless of her beauty, Stevie’s death had aged her. It had aged them all.

‘Rachel rang,’ she said when he stood beside her.

‘Does Bee know I’m coming over?’

They looked up to see Bee staring down at them from her window.

‘Well, she obviously does now.’

Inside the house Bish climbed the stairs and waited a while at Bee’s door before knocking, then entering. It had been his room once and now it was Bee’s whenever she came to stay. He was pleased to see that she hadn’t thrown out his posters. Bauhaus. Joy Division. Siouxsie and the Banshees. He had Elliot to thank for his post-punk obsession.

Bee was lying on the bed with her headphones on. She removed them and shook her head bitterly when he handed her the photos he’d printed out.

‘You have no right looking at my personal stuff.’ A tremble of fury in her voice.

Bish sat down on her bed. ‘We’re worried about you, Bee. You’ve been so cagey – even before Calais. What’s this about you dropping out of martial arts? Where have you been going every Saturday morning?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ she said.

‘Actually it is, sweetie.’

Bee got off the bed and pulled on a pair of runners. ‘Let’s make a deal, Bish. I won’t ask why you’ve been suspended and you don’t pry into my life.’

‘Tell me about the photos,’ he said, not giving in. ‘You said Violette wasn’t a friend.’

‘I’ve got photos with everyone!’

‘No you haven’t.’

Bish had never seen a photograph of Bee with friends. She slipped in and out of friendship groups with little fanfare. It didn’t worry Rachel, who claimed that not many people still hung out with their schoolfriends; Bee would find her tribe one day. Were Violette and Eddie part of her tribe now? Violette LeBrac’s arm had hugged Bee to her in an almost sisterly way.