They were close to it now. It swung above them, violent and torn apart. The driver’s door was missing – not hanging, gone – from the crushed side of the car. She could see the leather seats, and cigarette ends tipped out on the carpet. The bonnet was a stub and the buckled wheels thickly caked with earth, but the panels behind the doors were intact, and so was the boot. It was open but undented, just mud-spattered and normal-looking. She stared through the gaping hole at the driver’s seat. She could almost see blood. She jammed her hand over her mouth. She had a clear picture of the door being sawed through and pulled off and the ambulance crew dragging out his body. She leaned over her knees to breathe. Blanchard started towards her and seeing him distracted, Griff took his chance. He ran towards the trailer. Bea looked up. Blanchard glared at her and went after him, but it was too late. Griff had sprung up onto the trailer, the powerful jump of a much younger man, and grabbed one of the cables holding the car. The men watched, amazed, as he hooked the fingers of his other hand under the back bumper. The car swung towards him. Thrown back, he hung over the drop, shoulders straining under his linen shirt, then he let go of the bumper, and reached into the open boot, groping for purchase. He clung to the broken car and it moved, swinging on the chains, as he embraced it.

Bea realised that as everyone else was warily closing in on her father, she was walking slowly backwards. Griff put his head against the rim of the boot. It was hard to tell from that distance, but it looked as if his cheek were pressed against it, then he let go, and jumped to the ground. The awkwardness of the jump, half turning in the air, betrayed his age. He twisted his ankle as he landed, and stumbled. Blanchard and two traffic police closed in on him, berating him, and gesturing. Ignoring them, he started back. Limping slightly, he walked towards her. Expressionless, he ducked under the tape, looking down with irritation at the dirt on his hands.

Blanchard stopped in front of her. ‘What was he doing?’ He was frightened and angry.

‘I don’t know, I’m sorry,’ said Bea.

‘He is not allowed to cross the police tape. This is an official procedure.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Bea.

Blanchard looked over her shoulder at Griff, who stood waiting as if nothing had happened.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bea again. ‘He just needed to see.’

His expression changed. ‘Are you all right now, madame?’ he asked, like a different man. He put his hand onto her arm, not intimate, but kind.

She nodded.

‘It’s terrible. I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said.