Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(3)

“Show him a photo of Bee, darling.”

Bish struggled to pull it out of his wallet with shaking hands. Perhaps the truth was etched on his every grimace and wince of pain, because a wordless flick of a thumb indicated that they were in.

Debris lined the road, mostly bits and pieces of the iron gate that led to the camp car park, with what was left of it hanging from one hinge. Beyond was carnage, partly concealed by a canvas being erected around a bus. Bish could see it was split in two, its front section black and smoldering. The back half looked untouched. Some suitcases had found their way into a clustered pile, others were blown apart. A team of forensic techs worked quietly, the eerie silence mocked by birds that chirped a sinister happy tune in the surrounding woodlands. Another ambulance passed them, guided by a uniformed cop who had constructed an access path that would not interfere with evidence. Bish knew there were fatalities. He could see at least two smaller tents pitched close to the half-destroyed bus, and another about a hundred meters away at the steps of a second bus. Three deaths. Bish counted seven other coaches in the car park and recognized a few foreign number plates at a glance. Polish. Italian. Bee’s bus had seemingly been blown up as it approached the exit gate.

A woman in plain clothes approached, questioning them in French.

“Nous sommes anglais,” his mother said, and Bish saw a flash of pity on the woman’s face.

“La salle des jeux,” she said, pointing to the closest building.

Inside the recreation room, paramedics and camp staff were tending to the kids. No one seemed badly injured here, and Bish figured those seriously hurt had already been taken to the closest hospital. Although he hadn’t received an official call about his daughter’s bus being involved, he knew that most of the kids on the tour were from Kent and Sussex, close enough for a worried parent to contemplate crossing the Channel just to be sure. He knew too, from dropping off Bee at the port in Dover, that out of forty-six places, the tour organizers had managed to fill only twenty-three. He did a quick count, wanting to see twenty-three kids and their chaperones. But then he saw Bee and it was all that mattered.

She was sitting on a bedroll against a wall. The moment she saw him she forgot herself and scrambled to her feet, running to Bish and his mother, her arms trembling in their grip. He held back the choke of emotion, welcoming the contact, not wanting to let go because Bee always let go too soon these days. Once upon a time, Bish and Rachel called her their little orangutan because of her clinginess, but three years ago his daughter had stopped believing that her parents could save her from anything.

It was in her grandmother’s arms that Bee began to cry, but not for too long. “I need some air,” she said.

Bish took her to a window, shoved it open, and instantly realized his mistake when he glimpsed the destroyed bus. He tried to guide her away but she stared at the scene outside, transfixed.

“What about the chaperones, Bee?” he asked, searching the hall. A couple of pinball machines and a pool table had been pushed up against one of the walls to make room for the kids, each of them with a bedroll provided by the campsite.

“Mr. McEwan? Is that his name?”

She didn’t respond, except with tears in her dark eyes.

“We’ll get you home,” he said, gathering her to him. “We’ll find Mr. McEwan and work out what’s going on. Do you know where he could be?”

Bee pointed a shaky hand outside, directed towards the tent closest to the smoldering front half of the bus. “Everyone’s saying it’s Mac, because no one’s seen him since…and one of the year eights said they saw brown Jesus sandals under the sheet.” Bee swallowed hard. “It’s what he wore all the time.”

She indicated another tent, cordoned off at the steps of a bus, around which a cluster of police stood. “That’s where the Spanish kids were boarding their bus. There’s a body there as well.”

Bee looked confused, her face crumbling for the second cry, but she controlled it. “My bus was blown into two pieces and I got away without a scratch,” she said, “and someone standing way over there dies just like that.”

Was it a nail bomb? Bish wondered.

“They reckon if our bus had been full, there’d be a string of body bags. Thank God everyone used to fight over the back seats.”

“How many sitting at the front, Honey Bee?” Saffron asked.

“I don’t know. Mr. McEwan, plus about half a dozen. Fionn Sykes was there too. He usually sat at the back, but he was fixing up the luggage.”

She looked stricken for a moment. “There were two others—they were outside, opening the gate. Violette and Eddie.”

Bee looked up at him and Bish saw regret and fear on her face.

“I couldn’t see a thing,” she said. “I didn’t do a thing. I just wanted to get out of there, and then…then I thought I saw Stevie. And I just knew that if I got to him, I’d be safe…But it ended up being Eddie. Eddie Conlon. That’s who I saw outside the bus, except I haven’t seen him since, and I don’t know where she is—Violette.”

Bish pressed a kiss to her brow. “Bee, who’s in charge?” he asked. “Who’s been taking care of you all since it happened?”

“No one, really. Gorman’s running around like a bloody idiot. Reckon he’s speaking to the embassy.”