Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(37)

Charlie Crombie did know his rights and he was talking to no one. His sour-faced expression shifted slightly when Bish entered the holding cell in Guildford. A pathetic attempt at summer facial hair made him look even more pale and puny.

“I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if you apologized to Kennington,” Bish said. It was the best advice he could give. “I’ll talk to his parents, persuade them to drop the charges, and this won’t go on your record.”

“And I think it would be in everyone’s best interest,” Charlie mimicked, “if you were out there looking for my missus.”

“Violette’s your missus, is she? A bit derogatory.”

“She’s been called worse.”

“Give me something on Kennington that could motivate his family to drop the charges, Charlie.”

“He’s a wanker. Literally. Wanks all night long.” Crombie was enjoying himself. “You think that’ll do the trick, Chief Inspector Ortley?”

Bish pushed away fantasies of tearing Crombie’s bum fluff off his chin.

“It’s your life, Charlie,” he said. It wasn’t until he was leaving the cell that Crombie called out to him.

“Kennington’s father reckons they should round up all the Pakis and towel heads and foreigners and set ’em on fire under Marble Arch.”

Bish hesitated. Didn’t want to believe the kid, but there was a hint of disgust in Crombie’s tone.

“Not to mention the queers. His words, not mine.”

There it was. A Grazier comparison. Kennington or Crombie? Who deserved a win today?

Rodney Kennington certainly didn’t look like a winner. His broken nose, swollen lip, and purple eye were proof that for someone so scrawny, Charlie Crombie packed a punch. The Kenningtons were furious. Yes, yes, Bish agreed, Charlie Crombie was a troublemaker, and now he was claiming that the Kenningtons believed the solution to Britain’s problems was to set fire to minorities. Perhaps the media would be interested in just how low Charlie Crombie would stoop to get out of this cowardly act. To tell such lies about the Kenningtons. Hopefully the powers that be at Rodney’s school wouldn’t believe everything they heard. The school had a zero tolerance for racist remarks by students. Bish’s advice was that the Kenningtons go all the way with their charges, to show just what a thug and a liar Charlie Crombie was.

The Kenningtons exchanged an uneasy look.

Perhaps not.



Bish met Crombie’s parents in the foyer, where they were being reunited with their ungrateful sprog. Mr. Crombie, in a Salvation Army uniform, was a silent man in his fifties with a sad smile for his son, as if he had only just realized there were souls to be saved closer to home. Mrs. Crombie was the talker. A robust woman with a no-nonsense manner. They were listening to a harried-looking legal rep.

“The Kenningtons have agreed to drop the charges,” she said, “but they want a restraining order.” Her phone buzzed and she walked away to take the call.

The Crombies looked relieved, and Bish thought he needed to explain the whole restraining order deal to them. He began, “Mr. and Mrs. Crombie—”

“Reverend,” Charlie interrupted, the sneer back on his face.

“Reverend and Mrs. Crombie—”

“Mr. and Reverend Crombie to you, wanker.”

“Charlie,” his mother warned, “let it go.”

“My apologies,” Bish said. “It was stupid of me to presume.”

Charlie muttered something under his breath.

Loud voices were coming down the hall. “The Kenningtons,” Bish explained. Charlie’s parents exchanged a look.

“Tell the Kennington boy you’re sorry, Charlie,” his father said.

“Yet I’m not,” Charlie said, feigning pleasantness. “And if he opens his mouth again,” he shouted to everyone within hearing distance, “I’ll cut out his tongue!”

“Oh, Charlie,” his mother said.





18



That evening, Bish received a text from Grazier. It listed Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, BuzzFeed, reddit, and the words “JOIN/FOLLOW” in capitals. Bish couldn’t deny it was the best way to track down Violette and Eddie, but he was irritated at being forced into something he’d deliberately avoided for years—not because he was a Luddite, but because he didn’t care to embrace the art of ticking mediocrity and keep up with the mundane comings and goings of other people’s lives.

His first Facebook friend request was to his daughter. Bee rang him a moment later.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“You’re friends with Sofi,” he said.

“You’re a copper. How do you think everyone’s going to feel about posting stuff?”

“I want to keep in contact with some of the kids from your trip, Bee. And this is faster than going through their parents.”

“Do you know how creepy you sound? I heard David tell Mum you’re having a nervous breakdown.”

The fact that his ex-wife and her husband discussed Bish in front of his daughter was humiliating. He managed to talk Bee into accepting his request, but it came with a threat that if he did anything to embarrass her he’d be unfriended. He posted on her wall, Thanks Honey Bee, and she posted back, That was your first and last warning.