Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(35)

16



The overgrown teddy bear is coming Layla’s way just as she’s walking into the towers on Fetter Lane during the peak-hour morning shuffle. She doesn’t know whether it’s pure bulk or overindulgent padding, but he’s a big guy.

“Can we talk, Layla? Can I call you that?”

“No, we can’t. And no, you can’t.”

She steps into the revolving doors, hoping to shake him off. There’s no way she wants him following her to the tenth floor. But he’s already waiting inside, having taken the other door, so she revolves herself right back outside and faces off with him on the street.

“Where’s bad cop?” she asks, looking around.

“He’s not a cop,” Ortley says. “And this is something separate from the other day.”

She isn’t in the mood for bullshit. “Don’t follow me in,” she says, walking back into the revolving door. But he’s instantly there behind her and now she’s truly irritated because they’re trapped in the same small space.

“It’s bad etiquette getting into a revolving door with someone who hasn’t given you permission.”

“Haven’t actually read the handbook on revolving-door etiquette,” he says. “I need a favor, Layla.”

“I don’t give out favors,” she says, about to step into the busy foyer for the second time.

“I need you to translate a comment in Arabic that Violette LeBrac made to the boy she’s with.”

Layla finds herself out on the street again. She doesn’t know what game this guy is playing, and she wants him nowhere near her office.

“Last I heard, Scotland Yard had Arabic translators, Chief Inspector Ortley. Not to mention Google. So I think you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not with Scotland Yard, and Google has a problem with the way I spell.”

“Then who are you with?”

He doesn’t respond. Just retrieves a piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out to her.

“There’s something written here that I don’t trust anyone else with,” he says.

“But you trust me?” she asks, disbelieving. “Someone you’ve met once, who you interrogated because I f*cked a Sarraf?”

He winces. So does she, a little, inside.

“Your friend’s words, Chief Inspector.”

“But not mine,” he says, still holding up the paper. “I trust anyone who cares for Violette. It’s why I’m not handing it over to just any translator.”

She tells herself to walk away. Junior partner, she reminds herself. It would make up for all the wrongs in her life.

“Two minutes,” she says. “Talk.”

He looks relieved. “My daughter was assigned a room with Violette on the Normandy trip. They were supposedly enemies. But my ex-wife found photos of B—my daughter—with Violette and the boy, clowning around together. So for some reason, my daughter is lying.”

Layla puts up two hands to stop him. “The moment I get to my computer,” she says, “I’m going to google you and find out everything about you, including your daughter’s name, so you can just go ahead and use it.”

That makes him grimace. He would have been good-looking in his youth, Layla thinks. For girls who are into older men, he probably still is. There’s a bloodshot quality to his eyes that could be attributed to the fact that his daughter’s just been in a bomb attack, but she suspects it’s more than that.

“Bee,” he says finally. “Short for Sabina.”

“And you’re scared she’s going to get dragged into this?”

“To be honest, yes. But I also want Violette and the boy safe.” He gestures again with the slip of paper. “Violette spoke these words to the boy in Arabic. I know it mentions love. That much I understand.”

Layla refuses to take it, which seems to anger him.

“People are dead, Layla. Kids are dead. The right wing both here and in France are riling up racist scum. Violette and the boy’s lives are at risk. Do you honestly think I want those kids hurt?”

“You’ll do anything to protect your daughter,” she says. “Including sacrificing Violette. My sister and Noor were best friends for most of their lives. My sister would never forgive me if I put Noor’s child at risk. I would never forgive myself.”

Layla is finished here. “Please don’t follow me up. If your daughter showed you the photographs, then I’m sure she’ll trust you with the truth.”

“Bee didn’t show us the photos. My ex-wife found them on her iPad.”

Layla can’t believe what she’s hearing. “You snooped on her life? What kind of people are you? Teenage privacy is important. Very.”

“Please,” Ortley says.

She looks down at the paper. It appears to be gibberish.

“I’ll wait out here,” he says.

From the corner of her eye she sees one of the partners in the foyer.

“No, you won’t,” she says, keeping her voice low. “I’ll ring you when I get to it.”

She pockets the paper as Frank Silvey walks to the lift. She means to follow, but stops. Can’t resist.

“Did you see him?”