Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil

  “She shouldn’t have lied to me.”

  “She shouldn’t have had to, Ali.”

  “My business will survive this. So will the family name. But do you honestly think that Jocelyn is going to be everyone’s favorite fund-raiser, or playdate mum?”

  Layla grinds out the cigarette. “You’re going to lose her if you’re a dick about it, Ali. Fix this up before she packs her bags for good.”

  31

  Saffron rang him on Thursday. Not a particularly good morning for Bish. He had gone from cutting down to just one drink a day to going cold turkey. It introduced the shakes. It introduced the reality of a drinking problem.

  “Are you there, darling? Did you know that Anthony Walsh is the district judge on the Charlie Crombie case? Remember him from school?”

  A. J. Walsh and Bish had never traveled in the same circles. Walsh had been a demigod back in those days, while Bish was awkward in his own skin, his personality a deterrent to the well-adjusted and well-connected. Being friends with Elliot hadn’t helped. The same Elliot who met Bish outside the Strood courthouse, his crumpled suit marked with food stains.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be babysitting Sarraf?” Elliot asked.

  “It’s not a babysitting job.”

  “Really? I understood you’re not supposed to let him out of your sight until you’ve found Violette and Eddie.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Elliot.”

  Elliot studied him. “Don’t piss off Grazier.”

  “Why? Because he’ll make sure I never work in this town again?”

  “This is personal for Grazier, so you don’t want to piss him off.”

  “Personal in what way?”

  “In a none-of-your-business way,” Elliot said.

  “I’d say my daughter being on that bus makes it my business.”

  “Did you hear A.J. was running the show today?” Elliot asked, changing the topic.

  Bish found himself under the scrutiny of a young journalist he recognized from the campground and the Boulogne hospital. She’d been outside Buckland as well. She walked over and offered him her business card: Sarah Griffith. He didn’t take it.

  “Let’s talk about Eddie Conlon sooner rather than later,” she said. Owen Walden had got it wrong. Sarah Griffith didn’t work for one of the rags, but for an online news and entertainment paper. Not that it made a difference. The confident woman standing in front of him was no different from the hacks he’d come across over the years. Age was irrelevant when it came to integrity. And for the life of him, Bish couldn’t find a wisp of integrity in revealing Eddie Conlon’s identity.

  Elliot, still beside him, reached across to take her business card. “Sarah Griffith?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He handed back the card. “Just committing your name to memory.”

  In the foyer, Bish saw Crombie’s parents and reintroduced himself. Arthur Crombie was holding a suit for his son. They seemed relieved to see Bish.

  “The barrister has managed to get us a few minutes with him,” the reverend said. “Apart from that, she’s not making much sense to us.”

  “Unlike the Kenningtons, Russell Gorman has chosen not to drop the charges,” Bish explained. “So this hearing is to determine whether bail will be set.”

  “And if it’s denied?” Crombie’s father asked.

  “He’ll be remanded in custody and a court date will be set.”

  “Charlie doesn’t deserve to be locked up, Chief Inspector,” Arthur Crombie said. “What happened in Calais has set him over the edge.”

  “He hasn’t had a night’s sleep since,” his mother said.

  The Crombies didn’t seem the sort of people who made excuses for their son, but it was Charlie’s second arrest in as many weeks, and Bish didn’t want to promise them anything.

  “This judge is a decent man,” Bish told them, “and can probably be swayed by an accused’s statement. So Charlie being personable and sincere may be the way to go. Have him talk about his trauma after the bombing.”

  The Crombies exchanged a look. “Personable and sincere” didn’t seem to describe their son. They were led away by their harassed barrister and Bish moved into the courtroom with a handful of others. There he saw the Kenningtons. Crombie may have got away with breaking their son’s nose, but they were no doubt going to make sure he didn’t walk away from this one.

  A short while later, Crombie was accompanied into the dock, where he stood looking as sullen as ever, his usual sour, pasty-faced self, dressed in skinny black jeans, white shirt, skinny tie, and black jacket. The judge entered, his eyes sweeping the room and settling on Bish and then Elliot, who were sitting beside the Crombies.

  Although it was only a bail hearing, Russell Gorman’s barrister was more interested in a character assassination. The cheating incident at Charlie’s previous school was rehashed. His sexual relationship with Violette LeBrac was brought up. The drinking, smoking, causing of public nuisance, breaking of curfew, and urinating in public fountains while on the tour were discussed in detail. Bish wondered if this had come from Rodney Kennington. Wasn’t it the rule that what happens on tour stays on tour? Kennington was a corporate whistle-blower in the making. Not a moral one, but one who’d do it out of spite, out of bitterness for not getting the promotion. Bish surreptitiously moved forward in his seat and poked Crombie’s barrister in the back. Say something, you stupid woman, he wanted to shout. This wasn’t a trial.

  In the dock Crombie was staring from Kennington to Gorman, hatred in his expression. Bish could see that he was going to be the media’s next target.

  “You’re a strange one, Charlie,” Judge Walsh said, looking far from impressed. “Decent people raising you, and you reward them with disgraceful behavior. I think this court needs for you to start with an apology to Mr. Gorman.”

  Walsh was giving Charlie a chance to keep his record clean. The Crombies turned to Bish for confirmation and he nodded. It was now up to Charlie to impress Judge Walsh.

  “Mr. Crombie?” Walsh said. “We’re waiting.”

  Rodney Kennington was leaning over and whispering something to his parents. They seemed amused by what he had to say. Suddenly Crombie leapt to his feet, throwing a punch at the glass wall before him. “Fuckers!” he shouted.

  “Oh, Charlie,” his mother muttered.

  “They locked my girl in a cupboard like she was nothing. Called her a slag and no one tried to stop them!”

  Bish was as stunned as everyone else in the room. The judge ordered that procedures be stopped and Crombie was dragged from the dock, still yelling threats at Gorman.

  “I’ll come for you again, and this time I’ll cut out your heart!”

  “A Shakespeare in the making,” Elliot muttered.

  The Crombies were ashen-faced as they watched their son disappear beyond doors not open to the public.

  Bish and Elliot shouldered their way past the reporters, into the restricted hallway, where one of the guards was trying to hold Charlie back. He had lost control, his fists flying way too close to Walsh, who was waving off security. Two guards finally pinned him to the ground.

  “The thing is, I’m going to have to set bail or put this down to post-traumatic stress and have him go through a psychological assessment,” Walsh said in his chamber a short while later. He had asked Elliot and Bish to join him after Charlie had been taken back to his cell. The judge had ordered a written apology from Charlie. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything with that pen,” he warned the guards.

  Walsh was trying to find the best way around the situation. “But I’m not going to waste my time if Crombie’s not worth the trouble.”

  “Let’s hope he’s not going to track down every person on that bus and knock them out,” Elliot said.

  “Do you think the Crombies can find someone to vouch for a sliver of decency in this kid?” Walsh asked.

  “He was sticking up for a girl,” Bish tried.

  “Yes, that’ll make
me very popular with the public,” Walsh said. “‘Charlie Crombie was sticking up for the granddaughter of the Brackenham bomber, so let’s wipe any record of wrongdoing from the files.’”

  “I doubt there are too many people who could say much in Charlie’s defense at the moment,” Bish said.

  Elliot agreed. “And Gorman will make a media fuss if you let the kid off the hook.”

  “Gorman reminds me of that bastard who used to thrash us raw in geography,” Walsh said.

  He stood up and walked to the cabinet in the corner of his office. Unlike Elliot and Bish, Anthony Walsh hadn’t aged disgracefully. He had never done anything disgracefully. He’d always been ahead of his time, the first openly gay head prefect at his school.

  “Are you two an item?” he said, looking back at Bish and Elliot. “The marriage wasn’t a cover-up, was it, Ortley?”

  Bish tried not to look offended in case Walsh believed it was a homophobic reaction rather than an Elliot-phobic one.

  “It’s what we all thought back in fifth form,” Walsh said. “You two hung out at each other’s homes for the hols quite a lot. What was the attraction, then?”

  “His Italian exchange student,” Bish said.

  “His mother,” Elliot said.

  Walsh looked slightly amused as he took out a bottle of Johnnie Walker from his cabinet and held up a glass to them.

  Yes. Please. Would love to.

  Bish shook his head to the drink. Elliot’s phone rang and he walked out to take the call.

  “What’s this business about your suspension from the Met?” Walsh asked when they were alone.

  Bish was back at school and his head prefect was about to tell him off. “Lost my temper, sir,” he said, feigning humility.

  Walsh laughed. “Fuck off.” He sat down and took a sip of Scotch. “What was your nickname back then, Ortley? The Hulk? Mr. Meek and Mild until someone set you off.”

  “Did I do that much? Don’t remember.”

  “Fourth form. Study hall with Thomas Simpson from Plymouth. It still gets mentioned once or twice at reunions. The ones you refuse to turn up to.”

  Bish couldn’t think of anything worse than a high school reunion.

  “I was gutted when I heard about your son,” the judge said quietly. “I lost a brother the same way.”

  Bish remembered the Walsh family tragedy back when they were fourteen. It had happened in Spain on a family holiday.

  “Better see what Elliot’s getting up to,” he said, standing and extending a hand just as a knock sounded on the door. Walsh’s clerk came in with an envelope.

  “Little cunt,” Walsh muttered after reading the apology note, then handed it to Bish.

  I’d rather rot in jail than apologize to those fuckers!

  It wasn’t the words that surprised Bish but the handwriting. He recognized it, knew it by heart, because it was from the one document that had provided information on the day of the bombing and beyond. Regardless of everything, Charlie Crombie had managed to do what the two surviving chaperones had failed to. He had also made sure that most of the kids spoke to their parents on his phone. Fionn Sykes had said it. Charlie Crombie took care of his minions.

  “I think I’m it,” Bish said. “Charlie Crombie’s referee.”

  They spoke about Charlie and the list a little while longer, and when Bish went to leave again he couldn’t resist asking, “What did you think of the Brackenham Four case?”

  Walsh was pensive. “I would have liked to see it presented in a courtroom with a jury.”

  “I think—”

  “Don’t!” Walsh said. “I’m about to be tapped for the federal court, Ortley. I can’t afford a drama.”

  In first form, when Elliot was getting thrashed by the prefects, Bish hadn’t had the guts to stick up for him. But he did write a note and put it in Anthony Walsh’s locker. Elliot was never touched again. Walsh’s idealism had always outweighed his ambition.

  “Just five more minutes?” Bish said.

  Reluctantly, Walsh sat back down, and Bish started talking, knowing full well that someone else would be waking at 3 a.m. with Noor LeBrac in his head.

  It felt good to be spreading the insomnia around.

  32

  Jamal can hear her moving around in the bathroom next morning. Would she want him in her home in the cold light of day? Would she worry about him being alone in her flat while she was at work? Layla, who trusted him with her getting-the-fuck-out-of-Brackenham money back when they were fifteen. She was planning to run away all the years he has known her, yet here she is, in the same neighborhood.

  She walks into the living room dressed for work. Jamal’s never been impressed with suits until he sees Layla in one. She’s been avoiding him ever since he arrived last night. Avoiding the inevitable. Layla and he are unfinished business.

  “Can we talk?” he asks, but she’s disappeared into her study.

  “I can’t find my keys,” she calls.

  He assumes that means a big fat no to the sort of talk he wants to have.

  In the kitchenette he puts on the kettle. “Do you want a cup of tea?” he asks when she comes in.

  She puts her briefcase on the table, which he takes as a yes. “I was wondering if I could use your computer today. Thought I’d get on Facebook.”

  “You? On Facebook?”

  He likes that she knows he’s not on Facebook. Perhaps she’s searched him out over the years.

  “Just trying to find a way to let Violette know I’m here,” he says.

  She stares at him a moment, then rummages through her bag, grabs her phone, and dials.

  “Oh sorry, Gigi. Meant to ring your mum. Can you just let her know that Jimmy Sarraf staying here is a bit hush-hush?”

  She hangs up with a sort of smug victorious expression.

  “It’s not really hush-hush,” he says. “Joss knows I’m here, so that means your mother knows, and if your mother knows…”

  “Yes, but my mother isn’t in secret contact with Violette. Gigi is. This is quicker.”

  She bristled a bit when he mentioned her mother.

  “And my mother doesn’t gossip as much as she used to.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Ortley joined Facebook,” she tells him. “He’ll want to be your friend. You’ll get a request every day.”

  “Doubt it. But I made a list of Violette’s pseudonyms. It’s unlikely she’s on Facebook, but if she is I know I’ll find her.”

  “Violette has pseudonyms?”

  “Yeah, like Lette Le-Hyphen.”

  She smiles for the first time since he arrived. It’s a good one, Layla Bayat’s smile is. Always was. It promised things.

  “Niece of James Hyphen-Hyphen?” she asks.

  “Affable chap—bit dashing, really.”

  She laughs this time. Accents were Etienne and Jamal’s thing when Etienne appeared on the scene. That was when James Hyphen-Hyphen came into being. Noor would roll her eyes and remark on her husband’s maturity being comparable with that of her little brother. But she’d be laughing. In their repertoire, there were the Rothfuss-Joneses and the Franklin-Mays and the Atkinson-Hills and the Fuckety-Fucks. The hyphen joke got old, but a couple of years back, when Jamal told Violette about it, she had to have her own, and Lette Le-Hyphen was born.

  Jamal is suddenly overcome with a bittersweet ache. As long as he lived, he’d never get over Etienne’s death. It was senseless, and a shock, and he found out about it while sitting among the inmates at Belmarsh, watching the communal TV. For Jamal it was a breaking point. Etienne was like a blood brother to him, but also their only hope in the outside world. That night Jamal smashed his head against the wall of his cell so many times they had to restrain him, while he begged them, “Just kill me, kill me.”

  Layla is watching him carefully. “Are you all right?” she asks. He’s holding the kettle and she’s pointing to her mug that he hasn’t yet filled.

  “It’s hot,” he murmurs, taking th
e mug from her to make sure she doesn’t burn her hand. But it’s just a pathetic excuse to touch her.

  When the doorbell rings she gives him a questioning look and he retreats to the partitioned study. He hears more than one male voice.

  “Is it true he’s here, Layla?”

  “Wouldn’t mind seeing him.”

  Jamal knows those voices, even after all these years. The Tannous brothers, from the neighborhood. He ran around with these guys. Hasn’t seen them since he was seventeen. Alfie was the wilder of the two, in trouble with the law more than once. Disturbing the peace. His brother Robbie was smarter. Last Jamal knew, Robbie was teaching PE at a local high school.

  “You’ve heard wrong,” Layla says, and Jamal, peering around the partition, watches her go to close the door on them.

  “People are saying he’s here,” Alfie persists.

  “People are having you on, Alfie,” she says. “Go home.”

  “Your mother told us, Layla,” Robbie says softly.

  Jamal hears her swear under her breath.

  “We’re not here for trouble,” Robbie says. “Just let him know that the old guy’s still coaching down at Haversham Park tonight. He’ll want to see him.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  “You’re looking good, Layla,” Alfie says.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she mutters, shutting the door in his face.

  She looks over to where Jamal’s standing and points to the door and he knows the boys are still on the landing outside. He shakes his head. Jamal isn’t here to get nostalgic about football and old friends. Although he understood everyone’s fear at the time, he still feels betrayed. The lads he grew up with were tight and they always vowed to watch one another’s backs, didn’t they? But his father’s bomb killed locals. Everyone was connected. They knew either the families of those who died or the family of the accused. It was seen as disrespect to the dead to be in any way associated with the Sarrafs.

  After Layla leaves for work, he rings John Conlon. He first spoke to Conlon after the visit from Violette and Eddie. It was an awkward conversation but he reasoned Conlon would want to hear from the last person to see Eddie. Now he has in mind a visit, and when Conlon has no objection he makes his way down to the tube station. On the corner he passes a restaurant called Algiers Street Food, where a man stands outside.