Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(47)

“Get your grubby feet off my couch and go play in my room,” she said.

“Your room’s a cupboard!” the curly-haired youngest whinged. “We can’t fit in there.”

“You’ve got ants in your pants,” Layla grumbled. “That’s your problem.”

The boy got to his feet and started doing pelvic thrust dance moves.

“Go!” Layla ordered.

The girl stayed. Georgette Shahbazi seemed to be suffering the most from the upheaval Bish and Elliot had introduced into their lives the day before.

Jocelyn’s phone started ringing but she didn’t answer. “I honestly don’t know where Violette and Eddie are,” she said. “I wish I did. I’m sick to my stomach thinking of them out there.”

Bish was disheartened because he believed her. “Then give me names,” he said, taking out his notebook. “Anyone Violette knows here. The authorities are in contact with the boy’s father every day and he’s heard nothing. Violette has to know someone in this city, Jocelyn. Can I call you that?”

“I’m sorry you had to witness what you did in my home, Mr. Ortley, but Ali’s family has always been uncomfortable about our name being dragged down with the Sarrafs.”

“Yet you see Noor LeBrac every month,” he said.

“I’m not apologizing for my behavior,” she said. “I’m apologizing for his.”

Georgette was sniffling into a tissue.

“Where did you get that T-shirt?” Bee asked her abruptly.

Georgette gave her a hostile look. “Where did you get that skirt?”

Bish had no idea what this exchange was about, but he kept his attention on Jocelyn. “I don’t want to disrupt your family any more than they have been,” he said. “And I’m not passing judgment on your phone calls or visits to Noor LeBrac or Jamal Sarraf. I just want to bring in Violette and the boy safe and sound.”

Layla was staring at her sister. “You visit him?”

“Don’t start, Layla. You told me never to mention his name, so I haven’t mentioned his name.”

“How could you, Joss?”

“I promised Aziza I’d keep an eye on him and I promised Noor,” Jocelyn snapped. “That’s all I’m saying on the matter.” Her mobile started ringing again.

“Just answer it, Joss,” Layla said, irritated.

“Daddy’s being an arsehole of biblical proportions,” Georgette sniffed.

“Gigi, we don’t use language like that,” said Jocelyn, and Bish felt his daughter pinch him in the side.

Yes, yes. The Ortley family used language like that all the time.

“She knows,” Bee whispered.

Bish gave her a warning look but Bee persisted in the whispering, and Georgette Shahbazi watched. “You’re being rude,” Georgette accused.

“Then I won’t whisper, Beirut Barbie,” Bee said loudly.

There was a collective gasp.

“Sabina!”

“And you’re a dyke!” Georgette shouted at Bee.

Another collective gasp.

“Gigi!”

Bish was livid, but Bee was unperturbed by the name-calling. “She’s only trying to distract us by calling me that,” she said. “She knows where they are, Bish.” Georgette was horrified at the accusation. Bee was nodding with certainty. “The only person who calls anyone ‘arseholes of biblical proportions’ is Violette,” Bee argued. “So where are you hiding her?”

Bish would have been sure Bee had it wrong if not for the look on Layla’s and Jocelyn’s faces. Stunned. Then furious. Not at Bee, but at Georgette.

The girl burst into tears. She had a delicate way of crying.

“Gigi, cut the crocodile tears,” her mother said.

“Do you know where Violette is?” Layla demanded. “Did she ring? Text? Email? Anything?”

When no one seemed to be buying Georgette’s tears, she stopped. “They only stayed a night,” Georgette said defensively. “I don’t know where they are now.”

There was a moment’s silence, then everyone was speaking at once.

“Geej!”

“In our home?”

“How could you not know you were hiding two runaways in your house?” Bish asked Jocelyn, incredulous.

“I don’t like your tone,” Jocelyn said. “Don’t you dare judge me.”

“Yeah,” Georgette said. “You’re the one who smuggled them over the Channel.” Nothing delicate about her now. Beirut Barbie was all attitude.

“Bee was hardly in a position to smuggle anyone across the Channel,” Bish said patiently, “because she didn’t drive herself over the Channel. I did and—”

Bish stared at his daughter, stunned. “Bee?”

She refused to look at him. Surely he hadn’t driven Violette LeBrac and Eddie Conlon onto the ferry? He thought back to that day, and Bee’s constant disappearances, her stalling at the campsite, the sobbing at immigration.

There was a long, guilty, uncomfortable silence.

“Where are they heading?” he finally asked Georgette, hoping Bee didn’t think she was getting off scot-free.

“I don’t know.” She sent her mother a pitiful look. “I think she just wants to lie low so no one arrests her for something she didn’t do.”