“I’m in Manchester now,” Bish said, “so if she’s close by according to the ever reliable Twitter, let me know where. But do you know what I’d bet my life on? That nothing and no one is getting that kid out of hiding for the time being.”
“Not even someone who lives in Margate, Kent?”
Charlie bloody Crombie.
“Ring Grazier when you get to London,” Elliot said, sounding smug. “One of our drivers will pick you up from the airport and drive you to Margate. Grazier mentioned you had a fainting spell.”
A fainting spell? That’s how it was being described to the home secretary? As if Bish were someone out of a Regency romance.
“Dehydration and low iron,” he corrected. “I’m perfectly fine now. My car’s parked at Gatwick so I’ll go straight from there.”
“Well, if Violette is with Crombie, tell her I’m spending a couple of days in the outback with her grandparents.”
“They live in the country, Elliot. Not the outback.”
“Tell her that Nasrene and Christophe have taken a great liking to me, and if she doesn’t come back I’m moving into her room. I’m seriously thinking of migrating.”
“With your skin you’ll be dead within the year.”
When Bish switched his phone back on at Gatwick he saw that Bee had rung. He was about to return her call when his phone rang. A blocked number.
“This is Holloway Prison,” a voice said. “Will you take a call?”
Had the acting governor worked out that one of her officers had let Violette and Eddie through to visit Noor? Bish didn’t want to be the one responsible for Lorna Vasquez losing her job.
He reluctantly agreed and heard a click.
“Did you find out anything?” Noor asked, sounding even more cool and clipped over the phone. Bish was taken aback to hear her voice.
“Through Bilal?” she asked when he didn’t respond.
He was sort of flattered that someone who had such limited use of phone time would call him.
“Jamal’s phone is turned off,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “Your mother suggested I call.”
“My mother?”
“On Friday she gave me her number. We’ve been chatting for the past two days.”
“You and my mother?”
“Yes, Bashir,” she said.
“I’m trying to imagine what you and my mother could have in common,” he said.
“You mean apart from her father and mine coming from the same city in Egypt?”
“I’m just surprised,” he said, suddenly on the defensive. “That’s all.”
“Well, I find it therapeutic speaking to Saffron,” Noor said.
“What do you talk about?”
She hesitated. “About how much we love our children. How much we miss our husbands and our mothers and our brothers…and our fathers. How she regrets never going to university. How one day she hopes she’ll have the courage to ask you to come along to an AA meeting with her.”
“I might have a drinking problem,” he said, “but I’m not an alcoholic.”
“No one said you were.”
It took a long moment to sink in. His mother had a drinking problem? Or did have? And had managed to hide it from him all these years.
“Do you know what’s strange, Bashir? I’m locked up here and I have more communication with my family than you do as a free man. What are you afraid of finding out if you ask her the questions?”
That Saffron had stopped loving him. Wanting him. He understood his father’s absence from his life. Stephen Ortley had always been emotionally distant, but his mother’s love had promised so much when he was a child.
“It’s a bit like circumstantial evidence,” she said.
“What is?”
“The way we remember our childhood.”
“So you’re a psychologist now?” It came out harsher than he meant it to.
“No. But I meet a lot of troubled people in here and it all seems to stem from either childhood or the men these women met.”
As much as he resented Noor being privy to his personal life, he wanted to keep talking to her. “Can I ask you something? And you don’t have to answer.”
“All right.”
He heard hesitation in her voice and almost changed his mind. “That circumstantial evidence thirteen years ago—you were overheard threatening the manager of the Brackenham supermarket two days before the bombing. You told him, ‘Your time will come.’ Is that right?”
Silence.
“My father was demoralized,” she finally said. “And don’t think for one moment I’m justifying what he did. But he started his life in this country stacking boxes and he ended it stacking boxes. The manager of the Brackenham store was thirty years younger and was patronizing and rude and had no respect. My father was losing the plot in the end—he thought his own family were conspiring against him. Jimmy had made decisions without him. Apart from the Premier League, he had been pursued by a French team before signing with Man United. My father found out through a magazine article months later. He was angry…hurt that Jimmy had consulted his own brother but not him. There was a rift, and Uncle Joseph came to visit because he wanted peace. It was the handshake caught on camera that supposedly incriminated Jimmy and my uncle. But days before, when my father came home from work humiliated, I was so angry I went down to the supermarket and told Jason Matthews what I thought of him. The witnesses heard right. I did say that, but in a sane world where the media and the public aren’t baying for your blood, those words would be taken as they were meant: that one day Matthews would be a man in his sixties demoralized by someone younger in the workplace, and then he would know how my father felt.”
There was something besides regret in her voice. Bish wished he were hearing this face-to-face.
“So many assumptions. So many. You were there that day,” she said. “My mother’s crying was scaring Violette in that cell, and I told Jimmy to make her laugh. And all anyone could say was that the Sarrafs were laughing while Brackenham buried its dead. How could people I’d known all my life possibly believe that my words meant I was going to make a bomb and blow Jason Matthews up? How? I bet you’ve said the exact same thing, in your own anger.”
“I have indeed. You and I aren’t that different.”
“Oh, but we are,” she said bitterly. “Because if your father had blown up those people, they would never have come for your mother, or for you. They came for the Sarrafs because of our race.”
What could he say to that? He didn’t want to insult her with denial.
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Don’t,” he found himself saying. Almost begging.
“Is that ‘Baker Street’?” she asked suddenly.
Gerry Rafferty’s voice rang out from the speakers.
“Yes.”
“I haven’t heard that for years.”
“My first slow dance was to ‘Baker Street,’” he said. “Francine Riley. I got to touch her boobs. Your first dance?”
“‘Mandy.’ Barry Manilow,” she said. “Wouldn’t let anyone touch my boobs that night.”
“Well, what a disappointment you’ve turned out to be today.”
It was the first time he had ever heard her laugh. A great laugh. Coming from someplace real.
When he got through to Bee after hanging up from Noor she told him Rachel had delivered a baby boy named Rufus, after David’s father. Bish thought it was a ridiculous name, meant for pets, but he didn’t articulate that thought.
“Will you go and see them?” Bee asked.
And because his daughter asked Bish for so little, and because Noor’s words about his son’s spirit were stuck in his head, he took a detour on his way to the Crombies and went to see Rachel. He met Rufus, who had his mother’s red hair and his brother’s mouth. From Bee he would probably inherit her attitude. Bish could tell this by the way Rufus screwed up his face when Rachel mentioned that David was spending the night in the b
ed beside them. Bish stayed longer than he’d planned to, and they spoke of Bee and Stevie, and how their hearts would always be tied because of their amazing kids. He felt a bittersweet ache, but Rachel was so happy, and he couldn’t want more for someone he loved.
He heard his phone beep and checked the message. It was from Jamal Sarraf. About time you started on that fitness program we spoke about. 9am tomorrow at the gym.
They’d never discussed a fitness program. Not even the fact that Bish needed one. Sarraf must have had news that he didn’t want whoever was tapping his phone to know.
“Can I crash at your place later tonight?” he asked Rachel. “I’m heading over to Calais in the morning.”
“Where are you off to now?”
“Margate.”
“Manchester, Ashford, Margate, Calais, all in twenty-four hours? No wonder you’re fainting left, right, and center.”
“Once,” he reminded her.
The Crombies were surprised to see him later that evening, but hospitable. Charlie had avoided a police record, so Bish was welcome anytime in their home.
“Has he done something else wrong?” Reverend Crombie asked.
“Not really.”
The “not really” got him an offer of a cup of tea.
“I know this may sound alarming,” Bish began, “but we think Charlie could be hiding Violette Zidane and Eddie Conlon.”
The Crombies looked at each other.
“What on earth would make you think that?” the reverend asked.
“Violette and Eddie were caught on CCTV just outside the Margate railway station.”
Now they were staring at the ceiling. Obviously Charlie’s room.
“He just got home from taking the senior citizens to bingo,” the reverend said.
“Community service with the Salvation Army,” Arthur Crombie added.
Charlie Crombie unleashed on the elderly?
Bish followed the Crombies upstairs to Charlie’s room. Arthur Crombie knocked gently. After a moment there was an exchange of a look among them all and they entered the room. The reverend gasped.
“Oh, Charlie,” she said.
45
It was a shadow Charlie had seen first, when he walked into his room the previous night. He saw it and he knew. Because he had been waiting for this, every day since Sykes had told him she’d been to visit at the hospital.
“You didn’t tell me your mum was a reverend,” she said.
And there it was. That slight lisp. That awful accent. That funny face that made him ache. Charlie wasn’t just a cheat. He was a liar as well. Because Violette Zidane wasn’t just the girl he was shagging, like he told the cop. She sort of owned his heart a little. Kind of a lot. He knew that now. He may have been angry with her, but he had never been so relieved to see someone in his life.
Eddie Conlon was studying the Tottenham posters on the wall, shaking his head. “Lame,” Eddie muttered.
She walked towards Charlie and then whack. The slap made his eyes sting.
“Do that again and I’ll slap you back,” he growled.
Eddie had tackled him to the ground in an instant. The little bastard was strong. Violette pulled the kid off.
“Did you tell everyone on the bus that I gave you a hand job?” she asked.
Eddie covered his ears.
“You did give me a hand job,” Charlie said, getting to his feet, “and you were rubbish at it.”
He could tell she wanted to hit him again. She had been rubbish at it, but he liked the fumble. He liked the inquisitive hand. Contrary to popular myth, they hadn’t shagged every night. They only did it three times. It took them that long to get it right.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “Who you were?”
“Why do you think, Charlie? Because every time I tell a guy my grandfather blew up a supermarket, I never get a second date.”
She sat down on his bed and watched Eddie touching all Charlie’s stuff, as if they both had every right to be there. Eddie held up a pair of headphones.
“So I don’t have to hear anything else that will turn my stomach,” he said before putting them on.
Charlie sat on his bed beside Violette.
“Did you kiss that girl?” she asked.
“Fucking angry at you. Meant nothing.”
“Meant everything.”
He looked at Eddie, now grooving in the corner. “Like he means everything?”
“You’re jealous of a thirteen-year-old?”
Yeah, he was.
“I would’ve looked after you,” he said a lot more fiercely than he intended. “If you’d asked me to, I would’ve run with you.”
She had that closed look that he recognized. The one that said she wasn’t going to let anyone in. Except Eddie Conlon, who she had sat with all day long on the bus. Never Charlie. Charlie was just for nighttime flirting and sex. During the day, he sat at the back of the bus and watched them with their heads together, talking nonstop. He wanted that with Violette.
“He’s my brother,” she said quietly. “And if you ever tell anyone that, I’ll do something to hurt you really bad, Charlie.”
Now he was confused.
“My mum had him in prison,” she said, and gave him a mumbled family history. She wasn’t facing him and he thought maybe she was crying.
“We’re tired,” she said eventually. “We need to sleep. Are your parents around?”
“They don’t come in here unless there’s a pretty good reason.”
Like an arrest. Or the principal telling them he wasn’t going back to school because cheating wasn’t part of its tradition.
“You people should lock your back doors,” she said. “Lots of weirdos around.”
“Violette,” he said. He wanted to see her face. “Turn around. Please.”
When she did he saw the angry tears in her eyes and they made them look like liquid black gold. The last time they had sex they came together. She’d been embarrassed after that and he remembered the way she hid her head in the crook of his throat. It was as if when they were rubbish at sex they had a better handle on their nonexistent relationship.
“Fionn said you’re heading north,” he said. “So why are you here?”
“I can’t believe you punched Kennington and Gorman for me,” she said, pressing her brow to his. It gave Charlie hope. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I can’t believe he wore a Chelsea hoodie to do it,” Eddie muttered. Charlie hadn’t noticed him removing the headphones.
“It was good thinking,” Charlie said. “I got to smash them one, and put Chelsea fans in the bad books at the same time.”
“I had to wear an Arsenal beanie the other day,” Eddie said.
“You’d have to kill me before I’d wear an Arsenal beanie.”
They all slept in Charlie’s bed that night. When he heard Eddie’s snore he tried to kiss her, but she just pointed to her brother and shook her head. She did let him hold her hand, and they whispered all night.
“Do you want to know why I’m going to be a doctor?” she asked in the early hours of morning, her voice drowsy.
“No. Why?”
“So I can save twenty-three people. And make things right.”
“I can’t believe you hid them in our house!” his mother is saying now, still staring around his room.
“Why would you think that?”
“Look at this room! Just look at it,” his mother repeats as if no one heard the words bellowed in the first place. Sometimes the Reverend Crombie forgets she isn’t standing at the pulpit of a half-empty church. “I’ve never seen it so clean!”
Charlie is irritated that she’s worked it out so quickly. “Violette made me clean it,” he mutters.
“Oh please. Don’t let me have to like this girl.”
Bee’s father is standing there staring at him, as if that will make him reveal what he knows. And in a strange way, Charlie wants to. Because every morning when he listens to the news he expec
ts to hear that Violette and Eddie have got themselves killed. Like that time they found the body in the Channel. Charlie was glued to his computer all that day, waiting for news.
Once they’re downstairs, Bee’s father tells Charlie to follow him out to his car.
“Where is she?” he asks when they’re out on the street.
“Don’t know. She’s not big on sharing her plans.”
“I think you’re keeping something from me, Charlie.”
“I don’t care what you think, Bish.”
“One day Violette will forgive you for telling me where she is,” Bee’s father says. “But she’ll never forgive herself if she puts Eddie’s life in danger.”
He gets into the car and shuts the door, and Charlie knocks at the window.
“I got a call from one of the journalists who was at the courthouse. Sarah Griffin. Griffith. She contacted me through the rectory.”
“What did she want?”
“Most of the others want to talk about Violette. This one says she’s going public about Eddie. Wanted to know if I had anything to say.”
“Did you have anything to say?” And Charlie can tell that Bee’s father knows exactly who Eddie is.
“Yeah, I told her to go fuck herself.”
Charlie walks back inside to where his mum and dad are watching Britain’s Got Talent. “You know the worst thing about the cheating, Charlie?” his mum asks just as he’s about to go back up to his room.
Charlie doesn’t want to talk about the cheating thing. It always brings tears to his father’s eyes.
“It’s that it makes me forget sometimes how decent you are deep down.”
Charlie shakes his head. “Some people are born decent. I have it thrust upon me.”
“They thrust you with decency?” his father asks.
“With a dual-edged blade, good man.”
Charlie catches a glimpse of a smile on his father’s face. It’s the sort of game they used to play.
“I can’t understand how we turned into the sort of people who don’t know that refugees are hiding in their attic,” his mother says.