Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(13)

“Can we talk about where you sat on the bus every day, Violette?” Post asked from across the table. He had a harelip scar that made him look angry.

“Front seat, left-hand side,” she said.

Where the bomb was planted, Bish thought, although it seemed to have its most deadly effect on the right-hand side.

“Until yesterday,” Post reminded her. “When Lola Barrett-Parker finally convinced poor Mr. McEwan to let her and Manoshi Bagchi sit where you and Eddie Conlon sat every other day.”

“You weren’t happy with Lola taking your seat, were you?” Braithwaite said.

Violette had a look of bitter amusement on her face. “Yeah, so last night I went back to my cabin and started building myself a bomb to put under Lola’s seat, because where I come from that’s what you do when a thirteen-year-old steals your seat on a school excursion.”

Post opened a folder and Braithwaite removed a photograph, leaning over and placing it in front of Violette. It had been taken outside the police barricade where the uniforms were keeping the press at bay. It was a crowded scene. Reporters, and desperate local parents arriving. This morning they wouldn’t have known it was the British bus that had been blown up. They were all jostling for space, begging to be let in, every parent’s worst fear in their expressions. In the midst of the panic was a man in his early thirties, of Middle Eastern appearance, wearing a beanie. Dark eyes, dark short-cropped beard.

“Is that your uncle, Violette?” Braithwaite asked. “Is that Jamal Sarraf?”

The shrug again.

“I haven’t seen my uncle since I was four years old.”

“You Skype with Jamal Sarraf every couple of days, except for the past fortnight,” Braithwaite said.

“If only they’d give my mother a laptop,” she said, feigning regret. “Then the three of us could be Skyping each other twenty-four/seven and planning bombings all over the world.”

“You think it’s funny, Violette? Do you find these photographs funny as well?”

Braithwaite scattered them before her. Images of the kids taken to hospital. Missing limbs. A girl with half her face wrapped in bandages. Another connected to a life-support machine with burns to most of her body. Bish reached over to shut the folder. Violette pushed his hand out of the way and then scraped her chair back. Braithwaite and Post were on their feet in an instant, but she only placed one foot on the table and indicated the toes of her trainers.

“That’s Manoshi Bagchi’s blood. She came flying through the window and landed at my feet, and I’m kind of sure she was missing a body part. I don’t need to see your photographs. I saw the real thing this morning.”

Her eyes lingered on the photograph of Jamal Sarraf. “And the reason my uncle was out here is probably the same reason this woman and this man and this man were,” she said, pointing. “Because somehow he found out I was here and was desperate to know if I was alive.”

“You came all the way across the world and didn’t tell your uncle, who lives not even half an hour’s drive from here. Why?”

“That’s my business.”

Post sat back down and took over the questioning. “Tell us where you were last night, Violette.”

“Don’t answer it, Violette,” Bish said.

“Do you want us to ask Eddie, Violette?” Post said, ignoring Bish. “We can interview him again. Take him away. Or maybe head down to La Forge Salle de Boxe on Rue Delacroix. Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your uncle Jimmy. But was always impressed with the skill he had with the ball.”

Violette’s hand clenched. “I was with Charlie Crombie,” she finally answered. “He’ll vouch for me.”

Braithwaite gave a small laugh. “Charlie’s got a new interest, Violette. Some of the other students have seen him snogging the girl from Worthing. She’s all pale and pretty. The type of girl he can bring home to the Reverend Crombie.”

“I don’t think our Charlie likes dirty little girls like you, Violette,” Post added.

Bish had had enough. He stood up. “This interview is over,” he told the men. “Let’s go, Violette.”

“Charlie knows all about your family, Violette,” Post said. “He knows you ended up in a prison cell with them that day. Did you know that your family were heard laughing in that cell? Do you want to know what the headlines were the next day, Violette? ‘The Sarraf family share a joke while Brackenham buries its dead.’”

Bish held out a hand to her, but she seemed fixed in her seat, staring at Post.

They heard the heavy footsteps first and then the angry French voices. Attal burst into the room with two of his officers. A fiery exchange took place in French between Attal’s men and the British intelligence duo. Bish imagined it centered on who was going to take Violette away for questioning. That’s when he noticed her tears. Remembered them from another time, thirteen years ago.

“She stays here until proper legal representation arrives,” Bish said.

Braithwaite looked at him. “You’re not in charge here.”

“Why don’t we ask the home secretary who’s in charge here?” Bish said, removing his phone from his pocket and pressing Elliot’s number. “She might want to have a word with the foreign minister. Isn’t that who you answer to?”