Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(106)

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 f*ck 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.