‘Liv? It’s Dan again. Is there something I can get for you? Are you OK?’

The noise stopped, abruptly. He stood there, listening for her voice, but she didn’t say anything. Quietly, he tiptoed back to the sofa and resumed staring at the blank screen and the flowers. He wondered if the room being so expensive made any difference, if it would have been harsher if she’d had to wait in the street, or in the car, or like those other grieving mothers, in the rubble of her home. He felt he should believe distress was the same the world over, wherever it was, but it seemed to him her misery was defined by its luxurious setting, that even the death of a son could be cushioned by wealth. He felt guilty for thinking it. It was probably just his own reaction, to this muffled room, stifled by the scent of room spray and clean carpets. Alex wasn’t his brother, but he must be in shock, too.

A knock at the door made him jump and he sprang up and opened it, just a few inches, to see a maid. She looked shocked to see him and took a big step back, her eyes wide in her round and pasty face. Her hair was pinned to her scalp with grips, one hand rested on the push-bar of her trolley, stacked with little decorated bottles for the bathrooms, and the other held her pass key. Dan wanted to explain the room was occupied, and they didn’t want to be disturbed, but he didn’t know the French words and hesitated over the English ones. The maid’s expression hardened. She glanced down the corridor.

‘We don’t need anything, thank you,’ said Dan.

Her mouth was set against him. She hurried off towards the lifts. Dan saw her turn to look at him as she rounded the corner. He shut the door, and went back into the gloomy room, glancing through the gap to where Liv lay. He took out his phone and texted Bea but there was no response.

After a minute or two, there was another knock at the door. He opened it to find a white man in his thirties, with very tidy hair and a dark suit.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I am Henri Michaud. I am the manager of the hotel.’

Dan saw the maid by the lifts whispering to another maid, both watching.

‘May I ask your name?’ said the manager.

‘Daniel Durrant,’ said Dan.

Glancing over his shoulder, he stepped out into the corridor.

‘What can I do for you?’

The manager smiled coldly. ‘May I ask why you are here? This is Monsieur Adamson’s suite.’

‘I’m his son-in-law,’ said Dan. ‘Mrs Adamson is inside. Is there something I can help you with?’

The manager’s face flushed, instantly, and it made him look much younger. He was the same age as Dan, and the same height. He darted a look at the maids, standing together at the end of the corridor, exchanging glances.