More silence. Arun looked perfectly relaxed, and Roche was studying the menu. Dan wiped his palms on his shorts. People in silk and suits and diamonds were filling up the tables. A string quartet began to play. Lights shone, fan-shaped, up the walls behind him. The sky above was purple-blue, and the distant village glowed with illuminations. It was a rich man’s view, but the rich man wasn’t interested.

‘Arun, order some canapés and whatnot,’ said Griff, getting up. ‘Dan, come with me.’

‘Certainly,’ said Arun, picking up the tasselled menu as Griff left the table.

He assumed Dan would follow, and he did, careful not to bump into any chairs as he picked his way. He joined his father-in-law by the balustrade at the terrace edge. It was darker here. There was a sweet smell in the air, drifting up from the valley below.

‘That’s better,’ said Griff, breathing deeply.

‘Yes,’ said Dan, his anxiety receding under the sedative of comfort. He had been wrong, it wasn’t strange to be here after the day they’d had. It was the perfect place to be.

‘Funny, what shock does to the brain,’ said Griff.

Dan waited for him to elaborate.

‘Some things seem important, and then – others.’ He gestured, a disappearing into the air. ‘D’you know what I mean?’

‘I think so.’

‘You poor bastard.’

Dan’s mind went blank. He couldn’t think what Griff meant.

‘Are you all right?’ Griff asked.

‘… Yeah?’

‘I suppose you’re used to it.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Police stations,’ said Griff.

Dan began to laugh, but stopped himself. He didn’t like to offend, Griff meant well. Then he wondered why he was worrying about offending Griff, when he was the one who should be offended.

‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘And we were all in there.’

‘Not as long as you.’

‘They couldn’t find me an interpreter,’ said Dan. ‘They had to call the university.’

Griff wasn’t listening. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘Bea?’

‘Obviously.’

It was touching he asked. Fatherly, Dan thought, surprised, feeling a strong need to confide in him.

‘A lot of the time she’s just, like, normal,’ said Dan. ‘You can’t think about it all the time.’

‘It’s too much,’ said Griff. It didn’t usually show that he was in his seventies. It did now, in the visible working of his mind. His face was mobile. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Roche says a post-mortem – autopsy, whatever you call it – is a fairly standard thing. He says they wouldn’t have the full results yet, but they must know the cause of death.’

‘But they haven’t told you?’

‘No. They haven’t. It’s bad enough’, said Griff tightly, ‘without being kept in the dark.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Whatever.’

Bea always said her father’s generation didn’t have the language to express emotion. Dan put it differently: they were tough old bastards. It was not unenviable.