Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(107)

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 f*cking 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.”