The paramedic must have understood, because she chuckled. Laughter. That didn’t happen where death was present. Bish felt as though he could take on the world. Zero body count.
Regardless, the place was chaos. Parents were still arriving in droves, hurrying past the ancient walls. Pushing past police, hysteria in their voices. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and retrieved it. The screen was cracked. His ears were still ringing and it got worse when he answered the phone. Someone was asking if he’d take the call. Then Noor’s voice: “Where are you? All I can hear are sirens.”
“I’m in Calais. There’s been another bomb—”
“What?”
“Jimmy’s here—”
“Oh God!”
“No one’s hurt.”
“You’re slurring your words.”
“I haven’t been drinking.”
“I didn’t say you had.”
He could see her brother being questioned now by a couple of uniforms. He hoped they wouldn’t do something stupid like arrest him.
“Slow down and tell me everything,” she said, her tone gruff. Not hostile. Not tender. But “gruff” belonged to the caring family.
He gave her the shortest version he could. One with an optimistic ending in which he hoped Benoix’s people got caught. “This means Violette and Eddie are safer out there now, and once they realize it, they’ll ask for help,” he said. “And the Home Office will stop sending me to bother you.”
She didn’t respond and he wanted her to.
“My Holloway privileges will be revoked, I’m guessing.”
“A privilege, was it?” she asked.
“A great privilege.”
He thought she was gone and then he heard a ragged breath. “Etienne LeBrac was the love of my life. But some days you make me forget him and I don’t think I can forgive you for that.”
Good. Now he knew what he was up against. The ghost of a man who hadn’t lived long enough to fuck up a marriage. Who would stay eternally perfect in the eyes of the woman and child who adored him.
“When you can forgive me for making you forget, send me a letter. Handwritten. I might just have to give up my Saturday afternoons to see you.”
She didn’t have a response. And for now, Bish was happy with that. “Do you want to talk to your brother?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He waved Sarraf over.
“You know you’re going to faint if you don’t lie down,” Sarraf told him before taking his phone.
“I’m not prone to fainting.”
When he came to again, Attal was standing over him, one eye concealed by a heavy swollen lid, which had bled down his face. A man that ugly didn’t need another scar.
“Benoix,” Bish mumbled.
The captain knelt and gripped his hand. Didn’t let go. Bish could see he was gutted, but there was relief in his eyes. Then the paramedic dared suggest Attal sit down so she could attend to his face, and a shouting match ensued.
Bish eventually learnt from Sarraf that Attal was combing through the Eurostar at Fréthun when he was alerted to their message. It was minutes before the bomb went off. His first instinct was to contact the school, but there had been no answer and at 4:05 he had collapsed to his knees and wept. Then he got the call from Marianne telling him she was safe. So he went after Benoix, arresting him at one of the bars on the Boulevard Jacquard. But not before beating him to a pulp. Benoix managed to get a few in himself, by the looks of things. He was now in the custody of French intelligence and Attal was told to stay away.
“French intelligence want Eddie’s photos,” Sarraf said. “Especially the one with Dussollier.”
Attal was mumbling something to Sarraf while fighting off the paramedic.
“He wants us to come home with him.”
“Tell him it’s not necessary,” Bish said.
“I think we should go,” Sarraf said quietly.
Sarraf pulled up at the capitaine’s home just as Attal and Marianne were getting out of the car. She was silent. Aloof. Her blue eyes filled with angry tears.
“They are dead because of me. The English and the Spanish girl and Monsieur Sagur,” Marianne told Bish when he joined them.
“No,” he said. “They’re dead because of Benoix.”
The woman who opened the door to them held Marianne wordlessly and Bish could see her hands trembling. When she let go, she ushered them all inside.
The Attals lived in a cramped apartment. There were two other kids, a boy of fifteen or so and another of six, both talking at once. They threw themselves onto their father as soon as they saw him, and Bish heard him suppress a groan of pain. For the next few hours Bish spoke through Sarraf and Marianne, who managed to keep texting as she translated, while her mother sewed up her father’s brow with rough, furious fingers. She was a nurse, Bish was told, and she pointed a finger at him, so he knew he was next.
The family were big talkers. It sounded to Bish that they were shouting half the time, except when eating. Halfway through dinner, two lads, twins of about twenty, burst into the house, shouting even louder. One of them dragged his sister out of her seat and all but choked her while hugging her. The other was crying.
“Any more?” Bish asked Marianne, trying to make light of all the emotion.
She shook her head and gleefully made a scissor with two fingers, pointing to her father. Attal had had the snip. Who could blame him after five kids?
Then the bottle of Brenne came out and Bish knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. He was tired and homesick for Bee. And strangely also for Noor. It made him feel like a fool—not because of feeling this way about a convicted terrorist, but because she was a woman he couldn’t possibly be with. He’d have this drink to forget the fool he was. He had tried the sober thing for days now, but anyone would understand.
Just as he was about to take the glass of Scotch held out to him, he noticed a photo on the mantelpiece. Marianne standing on a podium holding a gold medal. Goteborg Sverige. Beside her, holding the silver, was Bee. Bish caught Marianne’s eye. Bee and Marianne knew each other from Gothenburg? And at that moment Bish knew with certainty who had taken the photo of Bee, Eddie, and Violette. Marianne Attal had put that look in his daughter’s eyes. Oh Bee, of all the girls in the world, you pick the daughter of a copper?
When it was time to say good-bye there was a lot of kissing on both cheeks with all of them. Except Attal’s wife, who held Bish in a robust embrace. “Merci, Bashir. Merci.” And it felt strange but familiar to hear her use his proper name.
Attal grunted something to him and Sarraf interpreted. “He says, ‘Learn French and I’ll take you fishing.’”
The capitaine held out a hand to Sarraf and said something in such earnest rapid-fire French that Bish figured it was personal and didn’t ask him to translate.
Outside, on the sort of night when the wind speaks cruelly of summer’s end, Bish couldn’t help sighing with regret. “I speak one language,” he said as they got into the car. “Should have learnt more. You can conquer the world that way.”
“My sister and I speak quite a few and we’re not exactly ruling the world,” Sarraf said. He started the engine. “You can crash on the sofa,” he offered.
Bish didn’t argue, though he knew the ferries ran all night.
They drove in silence until they neared the flat above the gym. “I’ve drawn you up a fitness plan,” Sarraf said.
“Really?”
“You’re a heart attack waiting to happen, Ortley. You need to get yourself fixed up here.” He pointed to his own head. “Make your goals reasonable. You’re never going to have a six-pack again so don’t aim for that.”
“Never had one in the first place.”
“You’re good at what you do, Ortley. Ask them for your job back. You’re not the first copper to get pissed on the job.”
“Yes, but I’m probably the first to stick a gun down a colleague’s throat.”
Inside, Sarraf grabbed
a couple of blankets from a closet and threw them on the sofa. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, moving to his side of the room.
“Jimmy?” Bish called. He’d remembered something Noor had told him about the Sarraf family’s guilt.
“It was a twelve-seater bus today. Twelve kids. Twenty-four parents. Thirty or so siblings. Forty-eight grandparents. All those people and I haven’t even counted friends. Tonight, be a mathematician for the living and not the dead.”
50
Bish was still on a high next morning on the ferry heading back to Dover. The Guardian reported the arrest of Benoix and the bomb on the Calais bus. Also that Jamal Sarraf had been working with the police and was being hailed as a hero. Two students were interviewed about the terrifying moment. “Monsieur Sarraf, he says, ‘Rentrez! Rentrez!’ Go back!”
Bish wondered if all the students had also seen Monsieur Ortley have a fainting spell. But he was too happy to care. Until he saw Eddie Conlon’s face on the TV screen in the lounge. Had that journalist done exactly as she’d threatened? Or was it something worse? Don’t let him be dead. Bish strained to listen, as if he might understand by sheer force of will. His phone rang and for once he was glad to see it was Elliot.
“Eddie Conlon?” Bish said.
“Then you’ve seen it. Sarah what’s-her-face ran with the story and it’s gone fucking viral.”
The cruelty of it. Just when the boy was out of danger he was exposed as the grandson of a terrorist. Bish watched footage of the media camped outside a cottage. The graffiti on the stone wall read Eddie Bin Lardin leaves hear. All the sacrifices made to keep Eddie from this sort of hate. All for nothing.
The segment crossed to Layla Bayat walking out of the Holloway grounds, closely followed by a press pack.
“Why is the press after Layla Bayat?” he asked Elliot.
“Asking whether it’s true she was asked to leave Silvey and Grayson because of her links to a terrorist cell.”
Bish swore under his breath, moving closer to the screen.
“What’s Noor saying about her children, Layla?”
He watched as Layla stopped walking, and for a moment he thought she was going to have a meltdown on live TV. But only for a moment.
“We’ll deal with the treatment of Violette and Eddie soon enough,” she said to the first microphone poked in her face. “For now, I’m here because Noor LeBrac’s confession thirteen years ago was obtained illegally, by coercion. Her imprisonment is unlawful. Louis Sarraf acted on his own and my client is innocent.”
Bish felt his heart somersault.
His phone beeped a message.
Can you make sure nothing happens to her? Please.
Jimmy. Helplessly watching the girl he loved from across the Channel.
51
Layla’s phone rings all morning. Interviews. A death threat. Her mother. A death threat. Phillip Grayson wanting her to “pop into the office for a talk.” And yet another death threat. She sits on the stairs outside her flat door. She can hear her home phone ringing nonstop inside.
If the truth be told, Layla’s petrified. Not just because of the death threats, but because there’s no turning back now. She’ll have to make a list of all the things she needs. Office space. A barrister. A paralegal. God Almighty, she’ll have to sell her flat and move back in with her parents.
Her mobile rings and she sees her sister’s name.
“If you’re going to speak to the press, Layla, you need to look like a million pounds or they’ll make out that you’re nothing but a council flat girl who has no idea,” Jocelyn says.
“A million isn’t that much these days.”
“Two million, then. So two suits. I’m taking you shopping.”
Jocelyn’s crying. Everyone seems to be these days.
“And if Ali offers you an overdraft, Layla, take it.”
“Well, I’ll think about it, but I may have another way.”
“Layla, do not move back in with Mummy and Baba.”
“Keep telling me that,” Layla says. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She returns Phillip Grayson’s call.
“Come in and let’s talk, Layla,” he says. “If you win this, LeBrac and the Sarrafs will go for compensation. You can’t go after those responsible on your own.”
Can she really still be naive enough to feel surprised? It was always going to be about money for the Graysons of the world.
“Remember when you used to send me out to see the ‘Arab clients,’ as you liked to call them, Phillip?” she says. “Because most of them were old-fashioned and preferred to meet with one of their own kind? So what if they find out that it was you who told the press I was sacked because of my so-called links to a terrorist? I have a feeling they’re going to want to start looking for different legal representation. A firm that doesn’t reek of racism.”
He makes an impatient noise. “Then why call me back, Layla?”
“I want you to swap the word ‘sacked’ for ‘made redundant’ and I want a package. I’ll get back to you with the details. And for your information, Noor LeBrac and the Sarrafs would never go for compensation. Out of respect for the people Louis Sarraf killed.” Layla wishes she had one of those old phones she could slam in his ear.
She hears the sound of the front door opening on the ground floor and tentative footsteps walking towards the stairs.
“Layla?”
Surprised, she peers down the staircase and sees Jemima.
“They’re wasting your time,” Layla calls out. “I’ve already told Grayson what I want.”
Jemima reaches her, holding a takeaway coffee. “Everyone says you’d be a fool not to take the job back.”
“Why, when I can get a redundancy package instead?”
“Enough to pay a paralegal?” Jemima asks.
Layla can’t hide her surprise.
“Offer me a job or you’ll end up with someone like that crap paralegal from Leeds who couldn’t understand your writing.”
Jemima holds out the coffee. “Latte with half a sugar?”
Layla can’t help a smile.
“What else do we need?” Jemima asks.
We. Paralegal. Tick.
Her phone beeps again. “If you’re going to work for me, start by reading this.” She hands the phone to Jemima. “And if it’s a threat, delete it.”
Jemima studies the screen. “Sounds more like a come-on than a threat.”
“Jimmy?”
“Nope. Someone called Rachel.”
Layla’s heartbeat is back to out of control. Forgive me, Jimmy, she thinks, but a come-on from Rachel Ballyntine is what I need at the moment. “What does it say?”
“‘Let’s do this.’”
52
Bee came to stay with Bish and even took him out for brunch at an old church converted to a café on Westferry Road.
“My treat,” she said when they were seated at an outside table. It was one of London’s drearier autumn days, and Bish and Bee couldn’t have been happier with the weather as they enjoyed spectacular eggs and coffee under a filthy sky.
“Is this because you’re impressed that I sort of saved your girlfriend?” he asked, reaching over for the last of her bacon.
She sipped her coffee before answering. “First, she’s not my girlfriend. Second, you didn’t ‘sort of’ save her. You did actually save her.”
Not according to Grazier. “We’d rather you don’t get identified as having anything to do with what happened in Calais yesterday,” he’d told Bish on the phone. Bee had found out from Marianne.
“Anyway, I was impressed long before that,” Bee said. “When you rolled around in the rubbish with Gorman at the campground.”
“Really? I was oblivious to impressing you for a couple of weeks?”
“No. You haven’t impressed me for a couple of weeks; you impressed me a couple of weeks ago. Bum crack showing and all.” Bish could tell she was trying not to laugh. “Even Crombie admitted you wer
en’t as useless as you looked. He was also impressed.”
“With the bum crack?”
This time she did laugh. But then she set her coffee cup down on a precise spot. “I’m going to tell you something and you can’t get mad.”
There was a look in her eye that said he wasn’t here for a treat. “I can’t promise you that, Bee.”
“Of course you can.”
“But I’m not going to.” Now Bish was truly suspicious. “I’m presuming there’s a ninety-nine point nine percent chance you’re not pregnant.”
She was slightly amused, so he figured it couldn’t be that bad. “People trust you,” she said, leaning forward and moving his cup out of the way. “Parents. The government. Now even the French trust you, and they think everyone’s beneath them. Violette’s mum trusts you, and according to Violette she trusts no one.” Bee looked hard at him. “So if anyone rings with what may appear to be alarming news, tell them to trust you. Because you’ll take care of things.”
As if on cue, his phone rang. He looked at the screen. Grazier. They had already touched base that morning but Bish picked up the call anyway.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“Manoshi, Fionn, and Lola have gone missing from the fucking hospital.”
Bish stared in alarm at Bee, who was looking over his shoulder to avoid eye contact, he presumed.
He covered the phone so Grazier couldn’t hear. “Bee, what’s going on?”
Before she could answer, someone pulled up a chair and sat beside him.
“I’ll get back to you, Grazier,” Bish said, looking from Bee to Violette. “Trust me.”
Violette was thinner in the face and the dark circles under her eyes were prominent. But she seemed less fierce. Even relaxed.
“I need you to come with us, Chief Inspector Ortley,” she said. “We mightn’t be terror suspects anymore, but we’ve got a better chance of getting up to Yorkshire with you. I want to show Eddie where our father died. It’s part of why I came over here, and I’m not going back without doing that.”