Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(46)

“It’s just a game,” she whispered into her daughter’s ear, so close to Bish’s cheek that he felt the broken whisper of her voice for nights to come. “Daddy will be here soon and you’ll see it’s just a game.”

When news of Noor LeBrac’s confession came through six months later, there was rejoicing at the station. And across the country. Louis Sarraf may have escaped punishment by blowing himself up, but justice had been served.

There was relief that the families of the dead would not be put through a trial. The country had moved on. A memorial hall was built on the Brackenham council estate where the supermarket once stood. It brought together a fractured community where cultural diversity would be celebrated rather than feared. There were music programs for youth and concerts to showcase their talents. Occasional day care for working parents. Weekly meetings about public policies that affected them; they were well attended, mostly for the suppers. PG Tips tea served alongside baklava and basbousa. The wounds had started to heal and no one wanted to look back.

Bish had looked back more than once. On the morning they buried his son he had the clearest memory of Noor LeBrac’s face the day he’d taken Violette from her. Because it reflected his own grief and hopelessness. Over time, the blackouts when he was pissed could make him forget the bleakness. Until a bomb went off on a bus carrying her daughter. His daughter. Violette LeBrac Zidane was personal business for Bish. Removing her from the arms of her family had undone something in his psyche and he knew the only way to restore it was to return Violette.





21



The brutal bashing of two teenagers outside a Bristol skate park made news that Sunday afternoon. The girl was in serious condition with a punctured lung, the boy had had most of his teeth knocked out. Police in Bristol and Greater London made pleas to the social media sites that had been encouraging people to hunt for Violette and Eddie. It was the public’s responsibility to report any sightings, not to search for the pair or take matters into their own hands.

Bee arrived to spend the night. The summer holidays were dragging on, as far as she was concerned. “All this sunshine,” she complained, which Bish could relate to, and her friends at home were being cows and Rachel was in “baby la-la land.” When she went for a run, he phoned Rachel just in case Bee had left without telling her.

“I was about to ring to make sure she arrived safely. She was pretty shaken by those Bristol bashings, and I got a sense she wanted to be with you.”

Bee returned from her run looking as if she had pushed herself hard. He saw tears but she refused to look at him and went straight to the shower. Later, he thought he could entice her out for a quick meal. Just as he was about to knock at her door, his phone rang.

“She’s here and she’ll speak to you, for five minutes,” said Layla Bayat. “Only because the Violette and Eddie look-alikes getting beaten up has freaked her out.”

It took Bish a moment to realize that “she” was Layla’s sister. Before he could ask a question, Layla gave him her address and hung up.

He didn’t like the idea of leaving Bee alone in the flat. It gave him an easier reason to knock on the door.

“We have a little errand,” he said.

She looked up from her iPad. “The way I hear it, you don’t have a job,” she said, “and I’m not going anywhere unless it’s worthwhile.”

His phone rang again, Grazier this time. “You’ve seen the news?”

“Yes. Only good thing that’s come from it is that Jocelyn Shahbazi has agreed to speak to me.”

“I’ll send Elliot.”

“Not if you want this to end well,” Bish said, hanging up.

He was about to go into round two of convincing Bee to come along, but she was already on her feet. “Let’s go,” she said.

Layla’s flat was in Shepherd’s Bush. The traffic across town was wretched and the trip wasn’t helped by Bee’s silence. Bish tried to ask her about the athletics meet coming up in a couple of days, but she wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

He pulled into a street off Uxbridge Road, around the corner from the Brackenham estate. “You stay here,” he told Bee. “It won’t take long. Then we can go somewhere cool and trendy to eat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bish didn’t know which of the two suggestions she thought was ridiculous. Bee was out of the car before he could stop her.

“They were in Hello!,” she told him. When she said Hello! she rolled her eyes. “I want to see how much photoshopping was done on them.”

He pressed the doorbell and Layla buzzed them in without a word. In the foyer he glanced up the central stairwell to see Layla and one of the Shahbazi boys looking down over the banister from the top floor. By the time he got to them he was trying hard to catch his breath.

“Five minutes,” Layla said, eyeing Bee and then Bish. “Are you taking her along on your police work now? First you go through her personal stuff. Now this?”

“He was going to leave me in the car,” Bee said.

Layla looked at him in disgust. “One more strike and I’m reporting you to child protection, Ortley.”

Inside the flat a teary Jocelyn Shahbazi was sitting in a small living room, with the rest of her obscenely good-looking children draped all over her. It was a fragile scene of a family on the brink. Until Layla slapped one of her nephews on the back of his head.