Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(41)

“Perhaps a cup of tea,” Bish suggested to all three.

Manoshi’s mother shook her head but Saffron would have none of it.

“Let’s go, Sadia,” she said firmly. “You’re going to be no help to your daughter if you’re dead on your feet. You too, Katherine.”

Bish peered into Manoshi’s room. She was lying on her side, facing the window. He was about to walk out when he noticed the same pathetic cluster of flowers in the glass on her bedside table. Much like those in Lola’s room—not from a florist, or placed there by a nurse. A nurse would have put them in a vase.

He walked around to the other side of her bed and saw that she was awake. “Manoshi, it’s Mr. Ortley. Bee’s dad. Who gave you these flowers?” he asked.

She looked at them vacantly and managed a shrug. “While I was sleeping.”

Fionn Sykes was on his new iPhone when Bish poked his head round the door. And there were the flowers. When he casually asked about them, the boy mumbled, “One of the nurses, I think.”

Bish knew he was lying.

“Fionn, have Violette and Eddie come to visit?”

“Violette Zidane? Here?” Fionn tried to sound shocked, but there would be no BAFTA award for him.

“What did she say, Fionn? Where is she heading?”

Fionn closed his eyes. “Can you tell the nurse I’m in pain?”

Whether he was lying or not, Bish left him and went for the nurse.



“Are you sitting down?” Bish asked Grazier over his mobile. He was standing outside the cafeteria, watching through the glass doors as Saffron and the other two women drank tea. Katherine and Sadia were talking with an animation he could only attribute to Saffron, given their flat moods earlier.

“Just spit it out, Ortley.”

“Violette and Eddie have managed to cross the Channel.”

Silence, and then: “All right, I’m sitting down now. How?”

How indeed. Channel security had been heightened since the bombing. “Have no idea, but I’m almost sure they’ve done the rounds at Buckland Hospital.”

“Jesus.”

“Do you want me to get hospital security to check their CCTV?”

“No, I’ll get Elliot onto it,” Grazier muttered. “The French aren’t going to be happy if they let those kids slip through their fingers. They’re not having much luck with suspects either.”

“Did you find out anything about the driver of the French bus?” Bish asked.

“Some of our people are talking with the CNI in Spain, and one or two of their kids claimed they saw the driver of the French bus arguing with the driver of the British bus.”

“Could that make Serge Sagur the target?”

“Theories?”

“Well, they both drove a big enough vehicle, so what if they had a people-smuggling business on the side?”

“They’d be risking a two-thousand-pound-per-person fine for anyone found in their cars or trucks,” Grazier said.

“What do the French have to say about any other suspects?” Bish asked.

“They’re too offended about the kids being transferred to be taking our call. Pity we don’t have Attal anymore.”

Bish was tempted to point out that he—not Elliot or Grazier—did have Attal. Attal was his. “Tell me about that phone call between Violette and her grandparents,” he said instead. “What is it that the home secretary doesn’t want the public to know?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Listen, if you want me out there looking for Violette, or talking to Ian Parker and the other parents, then I need to know what she’s been saying to people.” What Bish really wanted to know was whether Violette had made mention of Bee.

Grazier’s sigh seemed never-ending. “The day after the bombing, Violette rang them because she knew they had been contacted. Nasrene LeBrac told her they were getting on the first plane to Paris. Violette informed her grandmother that if they left her pony and dog for the dickhead next door to look after, she’d never forgive them.”

Oh Violette. God love you.

“The tabloids’ top teenage terror suspect is worried about a pony named Tickles and a dog named Booboo, and if that gets out the public are going to love this kid. One we failed to protect.”

“How are the grandparents coping?” Bish asked.

“Elliot’s been talking to them.”

“Elliot?”

“Yes, Elliot,” Grazier said with another sigh. “He’s rubbish with everyone else, but give him a tragic elderly couple who have lost a child and he becomes their surrogate son. You’d know why better than anyone else. Doesn’t it all stem from his childhood?”

“What are the LeBracs saying to him?” Bish asked, evading the question.

“They say England took their son Etienne from them and now they fear for Violette’s life. Look, where do you think those kids are heading, Ortley? Hazard a guess.”

“I’m sure Fionn Sykes knows something, but he’s not talking.”

“Then push him harder.”

“He’s just had half his leg blown off, Grazier. Give him a bit of time with this.”

“We don’t have time,” Grazier snapped. “Those kids are at risk. I want them off the street.”