Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(23)
Jamal swallowed hard. He felt a twist in his gut. His brother-in-law had come into their lives when Jamal was five years old. Easygoing Etienne LeBrac, the complete opposite to Noor in so many ways. Even after all these years, Jamal still couldn’t believe he was dead. And he’d never accept that Etienne had taken his own life, leaving Violette alone up on that cove at Malham.
“But why come here, Violette? Without telling anyone?”
“To do part of what Papy Christophe wants. But not for me, though.”
Right then the boy was finally toppled by the bag. He let out a laugh and Jamal turned to see him on his arse, sending a toothy grin towards Violette, his gangster sunglasses flying across the floor. Jamal couldn’t help staring. Couldn’t trust what he was seeing. He walked over, needing a good look at him, and Violette was there, clutching Jamal’s hand.
“Isn’t he beautiful, Jimmy?” she said. “Isn’t he the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”
Jamal stood before the kid and removed the beanie from the boy’s head. And like a punch in the gut, the truth sank in.
“Oh Violette. What have you done?”
10
Bish decided to make the most of the trip and drove out to the hospital at Boulogne-sur-Mer. He told himself it was in order to give an update to the parents, but he knew it was more than that. Lola Barrett-Parker and Manoshi Bagchi had sat close to Violette and Eddie for most of the trip. Bish hoped they might have heard something that could shed light on where the two would be heading.
On the front lawn of the hospital, waiting for a story, was a cross section of the world’s media. Sky. CNN. BFMTV. There were no kids left out at the campsite, so the only possibility for a sound bite was the families of the injured. One or two journalists recognized Bish from the day of the bombing, and before he could make it to the entrance, microphones were thrust at his face and cameras blocked his path.
He succeeded in ignoring them, but inside was a different set of problems. A strong police presence stopped him in the foyer. According to the hostile receptionist, who at least spoke English, the list of people allowed up to the third floor didn’t include media or troublemakers. Bish tried anyway. Explained that he was the father of one of the British kids and he just wanted to check on those injured. He thought it best not to mention that he was a police inspector because he had no badge to prove it. He also suspected that unauthorized British law enforcement came under the category of troublemaker. The receptionist dismissed him.
Next he tried the cop stationed at the lift, politely asking in slow English how it was possible to get onto the third-floor list. The cop snapped back in fast French. Bish was about to walk away when he heard a familiar voice behind him. He turned. Attal. No sleep, little food, and a whole lot of grief were taking their toll on the French captain. Attal exchanged a few words with the officer before acknowledging Bish with a sound that perhaps meant “Hello” or “Fuck off.” Whatever the case, Bish found himself on the list.
Outside Lola’s room he encountered her father berating an orderly. Ian Parker was a member of Parliament. He came from wealth, had married into wealth, and his public rhetoric reeked of xenophobia and Britain’s decay.
When he was finished, Bish introduced himself.
“Ortley?” said Parker. “Aren’t you with Scotland Yard?”
Bish shook his head. “I’m here as—”
“I’m fed up with you people and your inane questions,” Parker barked. “Make yourself useful. Get out there and find that LeBrac bitch or I’ll have someone do it for you, and there’ll be nothing left of her to put on trial.”
His much younger wife put a cautionary hand on his arm. “Ian,” was all she said, softly. Down the corridor, a doctor exited a ward and headed for the lift. Parker went after her, leaving Bish with the insipid Katherine Barrett-Parker. Moments later, they could hear Parker yelling at the doctor down the corridor.
“Lola is his youngest, and the only one of his children who gives him the time of day,” Katherine finally said. “Arrogance is one thing. Mixed with heartbreak it’s lethal.”
Not quite insipid. Just grief-stricken.
“Can you do something about the press?” she asked. “Sometimes my husband and I need fresh air. Apparently the Pakistani mother is frightened to step outside as well.”
Bish was going to point out that the Bagchi family were originally from Bangladesh, but decided not to make an enemy of Katherine Barrett-Parker. When her husband’s shouting grew worse, she excused herself and went to rescue the doctor.
Two rooms and another world away were Manoshi and her mother. Manoshi had qualified for one of the travel grants the Bengali community in Spitalfields provided for their youngest and brightest in public housing. Her mother was inconsolable as they took Manoshi away for another set of tests. The girl’s hair was half shaved, her face bruised, her arm bandaged, the hand missing. Bagchi told Bish she’d spent the past three nights on a stretcher bed in her daughter’s room, weeping.
But your child’s alive, he wanted to say to her. He asked about her husband instead.
“We have four other children at home. He needs to be with them. He needs to work.” Her Bengali accent sang him a sad tune. Of something more than pain for her daughter.
“It was my pride,” she said bitterly. “I demanded that my husband let her go to France. He is very protective, but I shamed him. ‘Do you want our clever daughter selling cucumbers at the markets like her clever father?’ I asked him.”