She moved her mouth, but her eyes were fixed on a woman waiting in the queue, at the next till, with a year-old baby on her hip.

‘Bea?’

The mother had his small hand, and put it in her mouth, lips cushioning her teeth. His head lolled in paroxyms of silent laughter, completely confident he would not be dropped backwards onto the tiled floor.

‘Um-num-num,’ the mother said, chewing her baby’s fingers.

‘Look at her,’ said Bea.

‘Cute.’

‘Do you think that’s what it’s like? Do you think you want to eat them like that?’

‘He is kind of fat and tempting,’ said Dan.

Bea’s expression was blank. He didn’t know what she could have been thinking about, looking at the baby.

‘So, what about the bedrooms?’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t think.’

They were still making beds when they heard a car and went down to meet it. Griff was driving a black SUV, with another man in the passenger seat. They could just make out Liv in the back seat and, next to her, the shape of another person, another man.

‘Four,’ said Dan, ‘bloody four of them. Who the hell is that?’

Bea bent to look. ‘That’s Arun. Griff’s lawyer.’

Even as Griff got out of the car, he was talking. ‘Christ, what a journey. They didn’t even have a decent car. You’d think somewhere in Dijon would have a proper range, what do they call them? Prestige cars? Forget it. Not a bit of it, awful.’

‘Hello, Griff,’ said Bea.

‘This is Philip Roche.’

Roche, a small man in a dark suit, came forward. ‘How d’you do? I’m sorry for your loss. I hear you had a bit of a shock yesterday. The French system can be quite overwhelming. Your father may have told you, I’ve applied for the family to have access to the police files.’

‘Christ,’ said Griff, stretching. ‘An hour and a half in a car full of bloody lawyers.’

Next to Arun’s chic blandness and Griff’s linens and Lobbs, Philip Roche was a study in bourgeois discomfort. Arun smiled, came over, and kissed Bea’s cheek.

‘Bea. I’m so sorry about Alex.’

‘Dan – Arun Karnad. Arun, my husband, Dan.’

Her mother stood a little apart, like a wound-down toy. She wore dark glasses. Her hair was tied back, her thin arms were covered by the sleeves of her black shirt, tucked into jeans. It was easy for Bea to ignore her but the others were satellites to her, as if her tiny body had a gravitational pull, glancing at her, exchanging glances.

‘You didn’t say Arun was coming,’ Bea said.

‘Forgot you again, Arun,’ Griff laughed, patting him.

‘You’re a very ill-mannered person.’