In the light from the open door, they could see the elaborate crest on the side of the van, Chateau L’Orée des Vignes. The waiters were taking things from the back and assembling them on the gravel, shining a wide-beamed torch, like soldiers deployed on an aid operation.

‘We all need cheering up,’ said Liv, with shining eyes.

‘Cheering up?’ said Bea, incredulous.

‘We had a talk with Arun,’ said Griff.

‘Lovely Arun had a talk with us,’ corrected Liv. ‘He said we must let go of the expectation of answers.’ She spoke as though she were reciting. ‘We can’t live in limbo.’

‘The police investigation is ongoing.’ Griff said. ‘It’s a process. Likely to be a long one.’

‘So, we’re going to eat in the garden!’

‘Your mother organised it,’ said Griff, subservient.

‘We’re going to celebrate life,’ said Liv, her voice strident and brittle. ‘Alex loved life.’

They had even brought a table. No cheap hexagonals for them. Linen cloths, candlelight, stemmed glasses and a hostess trolley.

‘Delightful,’ said Bea flatly.

The waiters hurried back and forth from the van.

‘We’re going to have a party at home,’ said Liv. ‘I’ve decided.’

‘In London?’ said Dan. ‘When?’

‘Roche cleared it with Vincent,’ said Griff.

‘As soon as we can,’ said Liv.

Dan glanced at Bea to see her reaction. She was blank. One of the waiters was very young; the other, lantern-jawed, was his boss. When Bea showed them the kitchen, they barely hid their disgust. Dan unlocked all the garden doors. They hadn’t bothered to open up the back of the hotel all day.

‘I don’t even need my pashmina,’ said Liv. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful night?’

The question was, where to hold the party? She talked as the waiters trekked across the stringy grass, setting up the table, laying out dinner.

‘I thought Stowe would be lovely – what do you think? Because it’s so gorgeous, and Alex was so happy there.’

‘He was expelled,’ said Bea.

But Liv had risen to an altitude too high to be brought down. Bea and Dan, opposite, not beside one another, barely spoke.

‘Then I thought, we could go more traditional, and do the Brompton Oratory? But it’s not a wedding. Or a funeral.’

Her energy was electric. She thanked the waiters repeatedly, and jumped up to help, running back to the table when they shook her off. Polystyrene trays produced a feast. Lobster, salads and cheeses, on china, linen and silver, a heaped still life against the tattered canvas of Paligny.

‘Alex would love this,’ said Liv, commanding them to obey. ‘It’s like an enchanted garden.’

‘Yes, it’s very nice.’ Griff seemed cowed by her, and tentative, like a man handling a bomb.