Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil (8 page)

‘There’s no way Violette did it, you know,’ Bee said.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I asked her myself after you got her out of that cupboard, and she said if she truly wanted to blow someone up, she’d have put the bomb under Crombie’s seat.’

Bish flinched. He hoped for Violette’s sake that she hadn’t said this to anyone else.

Bish had been home for less than a day when Elliot rang again.

‘Get yourself to Kingly Court, Ortley. A colleague would like to have a word.’

He’d already downed his second Scotch for the morning. Wasn’t in the mood to stay focused. The previous evening he’d left an exhausted Saffron and Bee with Rachel and Maynard and driven home alone. Bish had always refused to break bread with David Maynard in the home he once owned. And here was Elliot trying to involve him in something he didn’t want to be involved in. It was boarding school all over again except now the Home Secretary was involved.

‘Get off at Oxford Circus. I’ll send you the address,’ Elliot said before hanging up.

Bish hated public transport. These past two years he had lived in the Isle of Dogs. He worked locally and drove there, avoiding the West End at all costs. Saffron lived in Gravesend, his daughter in Ashford, both accessible within an hour via the A20. Getting to the West End was another story. The DLR seemed unnatural to him. An automated tram was too close to a metaphor of his life, on so many levels. No one at the helm, people putting their lives into those driverless hands. So he took the Tube from Canary Wharf, regretting it in an instant. The heat and the body odour combined with his throbbing headache made him want to take up cycling.

Elliot’s directions led to a café with outdoor tables. Bish suffered from the opposite of seasonal illness. He hated sunshine, and for the life of him couldn’t understand how a man with skin as white as Elliot’s would want to sit outside. At school Elliot had been called anything from Casper to albino boy, and the older he got, the more ghostly he seemed to become. Rachel used to refer to him as the Spectre of Death.

The man sitting with Elliot had a pissed-off look that he directed at anyone who ventured too close. It was the sort of look that belonged to a harassed man at the end of the day, not at ten in the morning. Elliot introduced him as Grazier. He was older than Bish, but fit. Bish didn’t question whether Grazier was his first or last name because he didn’t want a relationship with the man and asking such a question would suggest he did.

A selection of morning papers lay on the table before them. All about the same person.
SPAWN OF SATAN. VIOLENT VIOLETTE. POISONOUS AND PROMISCUOUS
. The alliterations were turning his stomach. Violette LeBrac was front-page news everywhere he turned. Most media outlets had dropped the Zidane surname.

Earlier that morning Bish had watched a panel arguing about Violette on a talk show. How had a minor’s name been made public, one of the panellists wanted to know. The killers of James Bulger were given more anonymity, and they’d actually been convicted of a crime. Violette LeBrac had not, so why was she being treated like a criminal? Another panellist brought up the rumours of Violette running off with one of the lads from the tour. At least Eddie’s name and age were being kept out of the media. Bish could just imagine the further savaging she’d receive about what pact existed between a seventeen-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old boy.

‘We were relieved to hear your daughter wasn’t injured in the bombing, Chief Inspector Ortley,’ Grazier said.

That ‘we’ again.

‘You had the opportunity to speak to most of the students and parents as well as the French police, I hear?’

‘As a father. I have the right —’

‘That wasn’t a reprimand.’

But it was something other than a friendly discussion, and Bish hoped Grazier would get to the point sooner rather than later.

‘I don’t even know where you work,’ Bish said, looking at Elliot.

‘We work for the government.’

‘My postman works for the government,’ Bish said. ‘Can you be more specific?’

The waiter came with a tea for Grazier and a fried-up feast for Elliot.

‘Violette LeBrac Zidane holds dual French-Australian citizenship, so neither country is going to be happy with us,’ Grazier said, ignoring Bish’s question. ‘Basically we want this to go away, and the only way that will happen is if we find Violette and Eddie, alive. Every bleeding- heart organisation in the country is crying foul over the way she’s been treated. So what’s your theory?’

‘About what?’

Bish didn’t want to have theories. He had got used to the numbness since being forced to take leave.

‘About why someone would want to blow up British kids in Calais,’ Grazier said.

On the table before them, Bish caught the squinting distrust in Violette LeBrac Zidane’s eye.

‘Well, I don’t believe it was Al Qaeda or ISIS. I don’t think it was some French fanatic angry with the UK over what’s happening to refugees in Calais either.’

These were some of the theories floating around.

‘It was targeted,’ Bish said, ‘and I think Violette Zidane could have been the target. She spent six days sitting in one of the seats that were most impacted.’

‘But on the seventh day she wasn’t on the bus and it blew up,’ Grazier said.

‘I’m not exactly buying that Violette bombed the bus because Lola Barrett-Parker took her seat the day before, and I don’t believe she’d be able to make a bomb just because she was coming first in chemistry.’ According to the panel on the morning show, that fact had been posted on a Facebook page titled ‘Who Went to School with the French Bomber?’

‘Her mother was incriminated all those years ago partly because she got honours in chemistry,’ Grazier said.

‘Noor LeBrac had time to make the bomb,’ said Bish. ‘And she was convicted because she confessed. Violette was travelling on a full itinerary with a large group.’

‘And she shared a room with your daughter,’ Elliot said. ‘Not exactly the freedom to build a bomb. Although you and I did in first form.’

Elliot held up his left index finger, minus the tip. Bish remembered the event vividly.

‘We’d really like to know where Violette was on the night before the bombing, Chief Inspector Ortley,’ Grazier said. ‘Can your daughter shed light on that?’

‘Why not ask Crombie?’ Bish said.

‘According to Charlie Crombie, Violette wasn’t with him. According to Crombie’s roommate, Crombie wasn’t in his room.’

‘So apparently half the tour bus was missing from their beds that night.’

‘Not quite half, Ortley,’ Grazier said, looking him in the eye. ‘Five, in actual fact.’

Bish didn’t like where this was going, and he was now down to ‘Ortley’, which meant the niceties were over.

‘Aren’t you going to ask who the others without an alibi are?’ Grazier asked.

Bish leaned forward in his seat. They were going to drag Bee into this. Now he was seething, blinding headache in this damn sunshine and all. Elliot poured a glass of water and handed it to him.

‘Sit back, Ortley. You’re scaring the boss.’

Grazier didn’t seem the sort to be scared by anyone or anything. ‘Your only suspects are teenagers missing from their cabins?’ Bish asked him.

‘I don’t recall saying Violette or the kids were suspects,’ Grazier said. ‘I simply want to know where they were the night before the bomb. Could you find that out for me, Chief Inspector Ortley, you being one of the fathers?’

Bish bit his tongue. He didn’t want to admit the next fact out loud. Not in front of Elliot.

‘I’m probably not the right person to be playing Chief Inspector right now.’

‘We’re not Scotland Yard,’ Grazier said. ‘We don’t give a rat’s arse what your suspension was about. All I’m saying is that we’d be happy for you to go out there and continue being who you were in France.’

Bish presumed ‘No thanks’ wasn’t an option. Grazier was eyeing him with that look he had. Elliot was wolfing down his eggs and bacon, one arm protectively around his plate. The boarding school fear that someone was going to steal your food.

‘You and I share a few theories,’ Grazier said. ‘If Violette does have a target on her back, it just got a bit bigger, thanks to the media and that moron who locked her in a cupboard. Those kids are running from us. We’d better find them alive.’

‘Then what’s stopping you?’

‘The parents we’ve spoken to are pissed off at the embassy staff for taking their time getting to the campsite. They believe Downing Street should have sent someone as soon as it happened. They’re not exactly being chatty with anyone who works for the government. Most of them claim that the only person who did anything was Chief Inspector Bish Ortley. We want you talking to those families. One of the kids on that tour might have a clue to where Violette and Eddie are heading.’

‘So I came here this morning for you to give me permission to be everyone’s friend?’

‘No, Ortley, you’re here because I was dying to meet you,’ Grazier said.

‘Really?’

‘No.’ Grazier’s tone was blunt. ‘But someone else is. The acting governor of Holloway contacted us last night. Noor LeBrac has asked for you specifically. She wants to talk. The Home Secretary would like you to go and see what she knows about these kids, and this bombing. You just seem to be everyone’s favourite father at the moment.’

Bish doubted he was Noor LeBrac’s favourite anything, although he was certain she’d remember him over everyone else from that day her family was arrested.

Grazier handed him a file. ‘This is what we know about her since she’s been in prison.’

Bish had no choice but to take the file. ‘Can we call it quits after that?’ he asked, staring at Elliot.

‘I’m genuinely hurt,’ Elliot said. ‘We’ve been friends all these years.’ He turned to Grazier. ‘He was Ron Weasley to my Harry Potter.’

‘Don’t talk to the press, Ortley,’ Grazier said. ‘Don’t talk to any of your colleagues. And whenever you’re talking to the students and parents, remember you’re there as a father.’

‘So I’m going undercover as myself?’

Grazier liked the sound of it. He stood and handed Bish a business card that identified him as Samuel Grazier and contained only a mobile number.

‘Ring if there are any issues with Holloway. Clearance comes through Elliot or me. No one else.’

Holloway prison was on the Piccadilly line, so at least Bish didn’t have to travel far. He got off at Caledonian Road and waited for the shuttle bus that would take him to one of the country’s most polarising women. While he waited, Bish flicked through the file. Noor LeBrac had been arrested alongside her mother, brother and uncle for their part in the Brackenham supermarket bombing. They were referred to as the Brackenham Four. Six months later, LeBrac confessed to having built the bomb, claiming she’d been the only person in her family involved, other than her father, who died in the blast. She was thirty-three at the time, the mother of a four-year-old daughter. Cambridge-educated, having just handed in a doctoral thesis in molecular biology. Married for twelve years to Etienne LeBrac, an Australian of French and Algerian parentage. He had been visiting his parents in rural New South Wales at the time.

The file included a clipping of a newspaper article dated March 2010. A journalist who had followed the case from the outset re-interviewed LeBrac when there was talk that she would try to get an appeal off the ground. Her first attempt had been in 2005. The journalist commented that jail seemed to have broken her spirit, and LeBrac’s response was quoted at length: ‘My father filled the boot of my car with explosives, dropped my daughter off at preschool, drove to work and murdered twenty-three innocent people. My mother died of stomach cancer in a hospice without her family around her. My brother lives in exile, unable to travel. My Uncle Joseph, the patriarch of the Sarraf family, has chronic kidney damage from the beatings he received when he was wrongly imprisoned. My husband’s death has been so lied about that people actually believe he left his daughter alone on those dales, in the middle of a brutal Yorkshire winter. And my daughter has nightmares from the fear of not being able to speak to me at nine pm her time, ten am London time. All this has broken my spirit. Not jail.’