Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(108)

“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 weren’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.