Eddie Conlon had been born on the same day Noor LeBrac confessed.

His hunches didn’t really come out of the blue. They brewed and festered and kept Bish awake for yet another hour. Until he called Layla Bayat’s number.

‘What did Violette say to Eddie that day in Boulogne?’ he asked.

‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘What’s the connection between Noor LeBrac and Eddie Conlon?’

There was silence, but he knew she was still there.

‘Layla?’

‘I’m not answering personal questions about Noor. Not at this time of the night and not over the phone. Someone’s probably tapping us now like everyone’s tapping phones these days, So can I say, Fuck off to you all and I hope none of you ever get a good night’s sleep again!’

Layla hung up.

A thought suddenly came to him. Bee had used his phone more than once at the campsite. Had she used it to set up contact points with Violette? He scrolled urgently through his calls back to the day after the bombing. He went through the list of everyone he’d rung then until he came across a number he couldn’t identify. He called it, and after a few rings someone picked up without speaking.

‘Violette?’ he said.

Silence.

‘Violette, listen, it’s Bee’s father. Please trust me. I’d never let anything happen to Eddie. You know that.’

He was disconnected. Bish tried again, but this time an automated voice told him that the phone was switched off. He tried three more times before he fell asleep, cursing himself for being so slow on the uptake. A link to Violette had been right there all along, in his hands.

The next morning he was surprised to see that Layla had finally accepted him as a Facebook friend. She’d accompanied it with a message. Short and to the point. Princess Victoria. Uxbridge Road. Noon.

Watching his daughter run a race was one of the few pleasures left in Bish’s life. He had always been in awe of his children’s accomplishments, but was particularly astounded by the idea that any such talent might have come from his half of the genes. Bee wasn’t just fast, she had grace. Ever since she won a ribbon in the twenty-five metres at the age of four, Bish had gone to most of her track meets. He’d been watching her run up north on the day Stevie died on a beach in Newquay, learning to surf. It was bad enough that he would never forgive himself for not being there, but now Noor LeBrac’s words were in his head. It killed him more than a little inside to learn why Bee had stopped competing. He knew it was due to Stevie’s death, but hadn’t known she was cutting herself. He and Rachel were both happily surprised when she started training again this year. She easily made the junior British Athletics team sent to Gothenburg for the European titles and had come home with a gold and a silver.