Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(5)

Bish watched Attal exchange a word with one of his officers, who was labeling items around the bomb site. Suddenly the two were staring in Bish’s direction.

Even across this distance he knew he was under scrutiny, so he faced the inevitable and made his way towards them.

“L’inspecteur en chef?” Attal asked with more than a hint of hostility.

Before Bish could introduce himself, Attal cut him off.

“Not need d’inspecteur en chef anglais.”

Bish shook his head. Pointed back to the hall. “My fille. Sabina.”

“Passport?” the man demanded.

Bish bristled but retrieved his passport from his pocket and handed it to Attal, who studied it.

“Bashir Ortley.”

Bish wasn’t interested in explaining his family history right now.

The capitaine pointed back to the bomb site. “Vous connaissez les noms?”

Bish shook his head, confused. He had a very basic understanding of French. Didn’t know what the man was asking, and contemplated a search for Saffron, who could translate.

“Les morts?”

Dead. Did Bish know who the dead were? He was about to shake his head but remembered the list in his pocket. He handed it to Attal, pointing to the names beside “Unaccountable” and then showing him the roughly sketched seating plan.

The capitaine studied the page and pointed to two names, their ages, their genders. Bish had to congratulate the scribe, whoever it was, for going into such detail. Attal was making a match. Two males. One aged in his thirties, the other fifteen. A student named Michael Stanley and a teacher named Julius McEwan. Bish’s heart sank. With their names came the thought of family, friends, schoolmates, colleagues, teammates, neighbors…

Bish saw Attal stiffen as he scanned further down the list.

“Merde.”

That word Bish did understand, and he knew exactly what Attal was referring to. Couldn’t agree more. Bee’s tour of Normandy had included the granddaughter of Louis Sarraf, the man responsible for killing twenty-three people, and himself, in the Brackenham bombing over thirteen years ago. Violette LeBrac Zidane’s mother, Noor LeBrac, confessed to making the bomb and was now serving a life sentence.

“Où est-elle?” Attal pointed to the name. Repeated the question.

Bish shrugged. A universal gesture. He had no idea where she was, but as a copper he understood what Attal was thinking. Violette Zidane could have been the intended target of this morning’s carnage. The girl needed to be found sooner rather than later. Bish and Attal struggled through their language barrier for a couple more minutes, until they both gave up. The only fact Bish was able to comprehend was that the body at the steps of the other bus belonged to a Spanish girl.

Bish went in search of Gorman or Lucy Gilies, hoping they could reveal the whereabouts of Violette Zidane. He knew that one of them would have to identify the bodies of Michael Stanley and Julius McEwan, and that once the embassy staff arrived, the families of the dead could be notified. He hoped this would all happen before those families came looking for their loved ones. Among the parents who had already turned up, one couple had been sent to the Boulogne hospital where their injured son had been taken. Still, better that than Attal’s temporary headquarters on site and waiting for the right person to tell them the devastating truth.

Bish glimpsed his mother, sneaking a fag behind one of the cabins.

“I can’t believe you’re still smoking,” he said, taking the packet of cigarettes from her and removing one to light up. He could see that the day had taken its toll on her. With one chaperone dead and the other two unreliable, Saffron had made it her job to meet and greet any parent arriving from across the Channel. It was what she was accustomed to. Saffron Ortley was an old hand at taking care of households and dire situations in foreign countries. She’d just been rubbish at looking after her teenage son.

“You should rest,” he said.

Saffron shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave parents at the mercy of Gorman. Have you met him? Can I quote Bee and call him an idiot?”

“Feel free.”

“You’ve got to do something, Bish. These people are distraught. They want to take their children home.”

“The authorities here need to collect as much information now as possible,” he said. “If they let everyone go, they’ll never get to the bottom of what happened this morning.”

Saffron nudged him and pointed in the direction of the recreation hall. “Lucy Gilies.”

The young chaperone was sobbing hysterically in the arms of a girl no more than fourteen. The poor kid was looking around, lost and confused.

Bish and his mother approached and sent the girl back inside, leading Lucy away to the pool. Attal had just begun to allow some of the press in, and Bish didn’t want the world media reporting that the British chaperone was a basket case.

“Lucy, can you tell me about Violette Zidane?” Bish asked.

Her crying intensified. Lucy knew exactly who Violette was.

“Russell—Mr. Gorman—came searching for the passports that were in my backpack. Someone must have grabbed it on the bus, because it was there in the recreation hall. I don’t remember taking it. I don’t remember much after the explosion.”

“So you didn’t record the names and details on the list that did the rounds?”