“Really? I wore a hijab my entire third form,” she said. “I wanted to make a point about how Muslim women were treated after my mother was verbally abused at a park. My point was proven. On top of the discrimination I was subjected to then, eighteen years later someone labeled me a fanatic over it. No one labels a nun a fanatic for wearing a habit. Or a priest for wearing a collar.”
“Do you practice Islam?” he asked warily, and to his continuing surprise she answered him.
“On my terms.” She was emphatic. “I pray at sunrise and sunset because my brother does and it’s the only control we have over our lives together. I fast during Ramadan because Violette wanted to do it one year and Nasrene wouldn’t let her. It would have been hypocritical if I insisted that she be allowed to if I wasn’t going to join her. Now I do it for my mother, who did it year after year on her own.”
She took a moment to collect herself. “My mother practiced goodness. Part of that came from her religion. Giving to those less fortunate is one of the five pillars—the giving of alms. That’s what I practice, the aspects of both my parents’ religions that make sense to me as a human. My brother is the same.”
Now he couldn’t take his eyes away from her. From the passion and her fury.
“And you? How do you feel about Catholicism now?” she asked.
He grimaced. “I can’t get past the pedophile priests and brothers and cover-ups. I hate the hypocrisy of it. But probably the same as it was for you. My mother and father practiced the good side of it, and that was the part of my childhood I remember most. The teenage years weren’t so good. I was petrified that everything I did was a sin. That every time I masturbated, I’d be struck down.”
“I’m presuming that was often.”
“Every single day of my life when I was fifteen.”
“Not during your St. Francis of Assisi obsession.”
“No, I abstained that year.”
She had a knowing creeping smile. It began with a twitch.
“Next?” she said, going back to the file. But this time Bish managed to take it from her and she didn’t protest.
“I wish just one person of substance had written something of worth about me,” she said. “Even if it was negative.” She pointed to the file he held. “That’s what I’ve been reduced to? Petty people claiming to be authorities on my life. I wrote an amazing thesis, you know. There were only two copies out there. One with my professor and the other on my computer. My professor chose to publicly burn hers and the police confiscated my computer. So four years of feeling guilt for neglecting my husband and daughter and being seen as the least maternal person to join a mothers’ group amounted to nothing!”
He had opened up an old wound. He’d seen that same wound before in Rachel.
“Not to mention moving my family back into my father’s house so I could complete my PhD. That was right up there with the best decisions I made.”
Bish wondered how often that had plagued her mind over the years.
“What they have on Ahmed Khateb isn’t concrete,” she said suddenly. “It’s the same way they arrested my family. On circumstantial evidence.”
“At the moment he’s the only suspect,” Bish said.
“One with no motive. He’s a suspect because he’s Muslim.”
“We don’t know that. The French may have something on him that they’re not letting on. For now, every lead is important, and you have to face the possibility that Violette was the target.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if that were too much to bear. “Etienne’s mother has very strong ties to a number of Algerian families here and in Le Havre. They looked after Etienne and Violette after I was arrested. So to point a finger at a member of the community, with so little evidence, is an insult to them.”
“Another reason we need to speak to Violette. Find out what she argued with Khateb about.”
“Well, she hasn’t made contact with any adult but you,” Noor said.
“She’s sent you letters.”
“I want to hear her voice!” she cried. “I spoke to her every day until three weeks ago, and something’s happened to distance her from me. All she had to do was give you a number I could contact her on and she didn’t.”
Cruel teenage children were cruel teenage children regardless of who their parents were. Slowly he sat up, positioning his back against the wall, and he took a chance.
“She isn’t contacting you because she had sex with Charlie Crombie.”
“She told you that?”
He couldn’t quite lie. Shrugged reluctantly. “She thinks you’re disappointed.”
“I am disappointed. Violette knows how I feel about smart girls turning into needy sex objects for dumb boys.”
“Maybe she’s too smart to be serious about him,” he tried.
Noor retrieved a photo from her pocket. The one of Bee, Violette, and Eddie. She pointed to a corner and Bish saw something he had missed before. “She’s serious about this person,” Noor said. “It can only be Crombie.”
One of Violette’s fingers was entwined with another finger, its owner out of frame. It was a tiny detail that spoke of a great intimacy. Not a fumble of adolescent groping—just two fingers linked.
“How can you be so sure?” he asked.
“Because Violette’s never had a boyfriend, so what are the chances that within seven days she’s going to have sex with one boy and hold hands with another?”
“How do you know she’s never had a boyfriend? They do lie, you know.”
Noor sent him a look that said she knew what she was talking about.
Bish thought back to the interview that day with Braithwaite and Post. After a bomb and carnage and being locked in a cupboard and threatened, it was mention of Charlie Crombie kissing the girl from Worthing that had made Violette weep.
He tried to lighten the mood. “Anything else, Sherlock?” he asked.
She pointed to his daughter. Bee was staring into the lens, looking luminous.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Can’t you see? She’s in love with whoever’s taking the photograph.”
Bish heard the buzz of the door and Gray was there.
“The acting governor wants you back in your cell,” he ordered Noor, before turning his attention to Bish. “And Mummy with the BBC voice is downstairs waiting for you,” he mocked. “We’re just getting you a wheelchair.”
After a moment Noor held down her hand to Bish and, greedy needy fool that he was, he let her help him up, his fingers lingering in hers like those of the two adolescents in Violette’s photograph. He chanced a look at her and saw the flare of something in her eyes. A salve to the emptiness that sometimes threatened to suffocate him.
36
Friday morning, Layla steps into Algiers Street Food, inhaling the smell of coffee and baked eggs. Bilal is behind the espresso machine talking to a customer. He looks up and his eyes send her to the door leading to the kitchen.
It feels strange, not putting on a suit and going to work, but it isn’t as if she has nothing to do while searching for a job. Jemima has made sure of that. Layla realized last night that there was more camaraderie in the girls’ bathroom at Silvey and Grayson than she has given credit for. Every woman there had to store her makeup bag in the toilets so she didn’t have to carry it across the office and hear someone say, “Off to apply some lippy, eh?” At times Layla wanted to say, “Off to have a wank, eh?” Her stash in the bathroom was simple—a Jocelyn rule: perfume, mascara, lip gloss, a brush. Four items that fitted in a pencil case. Too small for the large M & S bag Jemima handed over. She may have been sent in to clean out Layla’s office and find evidence that she has been compromising the firm, but Jemima held on to a manila folder labeled “Skipton” from Layla’s drawer.
In the kitchen, staff are arguing and music blares from someone’s iPod. Jimmy is at a table in the corner with Violette and Eddie, his head bent low as they talk. The kids are hanging off his every
word.
Violette is the first to notice her standing there. Once, Layla was Violette’s favorite babysitter, but teenage Violette is a different story. She has a dismissive, disdainful look that could send the best of them into the fetal position. Nevertheless, she stands and kisses Layla on both cheeks.
“Eddie, this is Layla,” Violette says.
The boy has a mouth full of bread and can respond only with a few mumbles and a nod.
When Bilal walks in to speak to one of the chefs, Violette excuses herself and goes after him. Eddie follows with his plate.
“Well, Violette seems ecstatic to see me after all these years,” Layla says.
Jimmy holds out a hand and leads her outside. In the courtyard they stand in silence. She puts a hand to his face. He’s tense.
“Talk to me, Jimmy.”
“I can’t call the copper on them. I can’t.”
“They can stay with me.”
“Violette won’t stay put. Noor thinks she’ll head up to the place Etienne died, but I don’t know. She’s telling me nothing, and in about an hour I won’t have any control over the situation.”
He gathers himself. “I want you to promise me something, Layla. Go to those bastards and beg for your job back.”
“Are you going to waste time arguing with me about that? When we could be doing this?” She stands on tiptoes, kisses his mouth. When she hears a sound beside them, she glances over to see Eddie standing at the door with a plate of pita and baked egg yolks.
“I’m so confused,” the kid says. “I can’t get heads or tails of who’s related.”
“We’re not related,” Jimmy says, and can’t help laughing. Eddie disappears back inside.
A waiter steps out for a smoke, eager to talk football with Jimmy, so Layla goes back to find Violette and Eddie. When he sees her, Eddie whispers something in Violette’s ear and wanders off. Layla receives a loaded stare from a frightening miniature version of Aziza Sarraf. It’s the same look Jimmy’s mother had given her when Layla was seventeen and started sleeping with him. “If your mother finds out, it will all end in tears, habibi.”
It ended in tears for so many different reasons.
“Gigi reckons you were wasted at that dumb place you got sacked from,” Violette says.
“Thank you?” Layla is unsure if it’s a compliment.
“I’ve got some money saved, so I’d like to hire you, Layla.”
“Hire me?”
“For Noor.”
“Oh Violette, I’m not the right person to be talking to. I’m a solicitor.”
“Who’s out of a job because she sent an email to the Skipton police asking about my father’s death. Gigi overheard you telling Jocelyn. She says you’ve got a file. We think you’re the right person. It all begins with a solicitor.”
“Violette—”
“All my mother needs is someone smart who won’t give up. That’s what keeps happening—people give up because it’s too hard or the timing is wrong.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Layla says. “I’ll find out all I can about what happened with your father—”
“My father would have wanted you to take care of my mother first,” Violette says. “He loved you, Layla. The way he loved Uncle Jimmy. He used to tell my mum that Brackenham breast milk must have been pretty potent. That when a Bayat and a Sarraf put their heads to something, they never gave up.”
Layla sees a glimpse of tears, feels them sting her own eyes.
“I’ll give you all the money I have,” Violette says. “Just get my mum out of there.”
Jimmy returns with Eddie on his heels.
“Pity we can’t go on one of those double-decker bus tours,” Violette says, as if the intense conversation with Layla hasn’t happened. “Eddie wants to see Big Ben and I want to see where Wills and Kate live when they’re in London.”
“Yeah, heartbreaking,” Jimmy says, his voice gruff with affection. He puts an arm around each kid. “What were you speaking to Bilal about?” he asks Violette.
“A favor,” she says. “His two firstborn children.”
37
Bish had to talk Saffron out of taking him straight home. The trip to Ashford and then over to Calais needed to happen sooner rather than later.
“Could you drive me to Bee’s?” he asked. “I’ll work out how to get around from there.”
“You need to see a doctor.”
“One that will tell me what I already know. ‘Drink plenty of fluids and rest.’”
“Bish…”
“I don’t really have a choice,” he said. “Sorry. I feel as if I’ve stuffed up your day.”
She put on her indicator and turned illegally. “I was wanting to visit Sadia and Katherine and the kids in Dover,” she said, “so nothing ruined about my day.”
“I can’t believe you just did that,” he said. “Double lines.”
“Are you going to give me a ticket, darling?”
Her phone rang and when she answered it Bee’s voice came through on the Bluetooth. “Rachel wants an update on Bish.”
He looked at his mother. “Did you have to let them know?”
“I can hear you,” Bee said.
“Daddy’s fine, sweetheart,” he called out.
“Then what’s going on?”
“I’m coming down to see you.”
“Why?” He heard the alarm in her voice.
“I’m fine, Bee. I’m not dying. I just want to talk to you and Mum.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Listen,” he said before she hung up. “Did you take a photo of Lola and Manoshi dribbling while they slept on the bus the night before the bombing?”
“No, Bish. I’m not thirteen! Why?”
“I’ve found three versions of the same photo on three separate Instagram accounts. Just curious. Maybe you took one as a joke.”
“Why would I think that taking a photo of people dribbling is funny?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Why would the others?”
“Because they’re thirteen! Aren’t you listening to me?”
She hung up and Saffron glanced at him. “Why don’t you close your eyes and have a bit of a sleep?”
“No, Saffron. I’m not thirteen!”
She laughed. He couldn’t help laughing himself.
“I’ll come down to the hospital if you don’t mind dropping me off at Bee’s on the way back,” he said.
It was a pleasant drive down to Dover. They talked politics—local, national, and international—TV and films. His mother had an awful habit of not being able to contain herself when it came to revealing endings. They shared a love for Game of Thrones, and though he was two episodes behind, he already knew who had died in the past two weeks.
“Between you and Elliot, I’ve never had a cinematic surprise. He used to give away the cliff-hangers; you’d tell me about the deaths.”
“Well, I wanted to prepare you for the worst.”
They were both quiet after that. Because nothing had prepared his family for the worst.
At the hospital, Iqbal Bagchi was playing cards with his daughter, and Sadia and Katherine had gone for a walk in town. When they returned twenty minutes later they looked animated but exhausted, the sort of exhaustion that comes from living out of a suitcase. The friendship that had developed between them was on the surface surprising, but Bish figured the two had more in common than first appeared. Katherine’s husband may have had all the money in the world and Sadia’s very little, but both women were controlled by the roles they played as wives. Not that they allowed their husbands’ hostility towards each other to affect their budding friendship. Saffron had filled Bish in on a couple of arguments she had witnessed between the two fathers. One blamed everything on Islam, the other blamed the problems of the world on Western dominance.
Bish ended up in the cafeteria with Sadia and Katherine, drinking bad coffee and eating almond biscuits made by Iqbal’s aunt.
“Would it be p
ossible to see Lola’s and Manoshi’s photos from the trip?” he asked.
Sadia told him that Manoshi wasn’t allowed on social media yet. It meant that all her photos had been stored on her phone, which was destroyed in the blast.
Katherine retrieved her iPad. “Most of Lola’s are very silly, so I don’t think they’ll be much help.” She logged into an Instagram account and showed Bish.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that the French haven’t asked for them? Or even British intelligence?” she asked.
“I’m presuming they don’t have to ask,” Bish replied. “Not if they’re investigating a terrorist attack.”
“We’ve been able to collect some photos of Astrid and Michael to send to their parents,” Katherine said. “Not much of a consolation, but those kids were very happy.”
Bish flicked through the screen while the women chatted. “Katherine and I have set up a blog,” Sadia told him. “It’s been such a big job keeping everyone up to date otherwise. Family, friends, the other children on the tour, their parents. We even get letters from people on the foreign buses who were at the campsite that day. Everyone is desperate to know how Manoshi and Lola and Fionn are coping.”
Looking at the photos, Bish was even more convinced that the kids on the Normandy tour had enjoyed it, regardless of what Lucy Gilies had implied. Lots of tongues in ears. Pouts. A few Blue Steel Zoolander poses. Perhaps there may have been a touch of antagonism, hostility, indifference, but these shots showed a connection among the kids before the bomb went off.
“Our readership has doubled in two days,” Katherine said. “We even get comments from people in Australia. They’re quite upset there about the treatment of Violette, apparently.”
“Well, their government should have taken a strong stance earlier,” Bish said.
“Astrid Copely’s sister wrote a beautiful piece in her honor,” Katherine said. “Of course we’d never ask her parents for anything, but teenagers are used to expressing their every thought on social media. She wrote about the fear she has that Astrid will be remembered as a tragedy, when she was such an annoying prankster.” Katherine burst into tears. It took the others by surprise, and seemed to surprise Katherine even more.