‘Is that it?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘OK.’ She turned away from him, absorbing the information. ‘They’re calling it murder now,’ she said. ‘Officially.’

They were out of the city, on the dual carriageway now, and the air beat like helicopter blades through the open windows.

‘Do you mind?’ said Arun, and both back windows rolled slowly up. ‘So what’s the decision?’

Dan didn’t want to be back at Paligny, just the two of them. He needed Griff’s context, and his reaction. He needed his company.

‘I should be the one to tell him about the CCTV,’ he said.

‘The chateau it is, then,’ said Arun. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead.

‘Sorry, Arun,’ said Bea, ‘do put on the air conditioning, if you like, I don’t want everyone being miserable. It’s fine.’

Without speaking, the driver adjusted the dials. Bea took Dan’s hand. She kissed it. She whispered, so Arun wouldn’t hear.

Do you mind if I wait downstairs?’

‘No, sure.’

‘It’s just – I’ve just – had enough of my mother for today.’

18

18

Bea waited in the bar and Dan went upstairs with Arun. The Adamsons’ suite occupied the corner of the first floor. A brass plate on the door proclaimed Suite Présidentielle.

‘Good, you’re here,’ said Griff, talking before Dan had even closed the door. ‘Presidential suite. Christ. The only president to set foot in this place is the president of the West Minge Montrachet Appreciation Society.’ He strode away across the room. ‘The chief morris dancer of Little Squirtingdon, celebrating being twinned with – what’s the village called, Arun? The one just there?’

Arun had melted away into the shadowy expanses of the suite, without actually leaving.

‘Sainte –’ came his voice from somewhere, but Griff had moved on.

‘Anyway, she’s in there.’ He meant Liv. He went to a faraway sofa.

Dan followed him, stifling his desire to exclaim at the panelling, and the view, framed like a procession of oil paintings along the room. Griff sat, and gestured Dan to join him.

‘Ordeal, was it?’

‘No, it was all right,’ said Dan.

‘Fucking outrage,’ said Griff.

‘More a question of style than substance,’ said Arun’s voice. Dan still couldn’t work out exactly where he was.

‘No real trouble?’ said Griff, eyes narrowed, ready for the facts.

‘No. But – there was something I thought you should know. I told Bea.’

He saw Griff prepare himself; it reminded him of Bea, brave and direct.

‘Go on,’ said Griff.

‘They showed me a CCTV photo.’

‘Where from?’

‘A petrol station somewhere.’

‘What do you mean, somewhere?’

‘They didn’t tell me.’

‘What was it?’

‘Alex’s car, and Alex, going into the shop, like, to pay, maybe. And another man.’

‘Another man? What man?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why did they show it to you?’

‘They wanted to know if it was me.’ He kept eye contact. ‘Which was stupid.’

‘Obviously. Arun?’