Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(58)

“So he went to the village that had given his father nightmares over the years, and knocked on every door to tell them the story. Until one day he came across the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, who looked at the watch and wept. It had belonged to her father, who, all those years ago, had died at the hands of this Frenchman’s father.”

When Violette stopped, Bish wanted her to go on. He wanted to know more. Loved the tune of her lisp in the storytelling. “I need a happy ending for this, Violette,” Bish said with honesty.

“How can I possibly give you that? I come from a bloody history, on both sides of my family. That French soldier’s son is my grandfather, Christophe, and the Algerian’s daughter is my Henna Nasrene, and they have loved each other despite everything. It’s why they chose to immigrate to Australia after my father was born. They moved to the newest town in the country. It was a ballot system, the way they got their land. Out where I live, they could be anyone from anywhere, as long as they were willing to work hard. They did it for my dad, so he wouldn’t have to choose between being French or Algerian, Christian or Muslim. They wanted him to be all those things. And my father wore that watch every day of his life from the time he was ten until the day he died. Because history meant everything to him.”

It sounded as if she were crying but he couldn’t be sure. There weren’t stories like this in his family. Just ones of children being taken away from their father by imperialistic relatives who believed that the British knew how to raise their children better than others.

“That’s a good story, Violette. Best I’ve heard for a while.”

“You’re only saying that to make me surrender.”

He felt regret at the sound of fear in her voice. “It wouldn’t be surrender. They’d only want to ask questions, Violette.”

“My family went in for questioning the day after my grandfather blew up that supermarket and look what happened to them.”

“This isn’t the same,” Bish said.

“It’s exactly the same.”

“Your mother confessed, Violette.”

“It was an illegal confession. They got it through torture.”

Bish hesitated. The wrong response now could end the call.

“I’ll only let them question me if my mother or my uncle is in the room,” she said.

“That’s not possible. You know that.”

“Then you’re turning out to be a great disappointment.”

Bish was dismayed to have reached that status in such a short span of time. It used to take people years to work out what a great disappointment he was. “Give me a chance, Violette, and I’ll turn out to be just what you need.”

“Your daughter’s about to run her best race, Chief Inspector. Don’t miss out on that because of me. I’m dealing with enough guilt in my life. We’ll speak later.”

Bish stumbled to his feet, searching the oval and grandstand. She was here?

“Violette!”

But she’d already hung up. He punched Grazier’s number just as the starter’s gun went off. He looked up to see Bee, and she was beautiful to watch. He hung up. He didn’t know for sure what Grazier’s people had in store for Violette, and he didn’t want to be the one to tell Noor LeBrac that he had found her daughter and had no idea if she had been taken to a twelve-foot-square cell in Paddington Green.

Violette had rung him. It was progress. He’d find another way.





26



Layla Bayat walked into a pub and most of the men turned to have a second look. Bish was no exception. She was beautiful. Long, thick, wavy black hair, and a pretty impressive body fitted in a black suit. She slid onto the barstool beside him, and he tried not to stare at the way her skirt rode up, because he was almost twenty years older than her and women like Layla made him feel past his prime.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“The Sangiovese.”

He signaled the guy behind the bar and fought the urge to order a second Scotch. He settled for a tonic water.

“What did I overhear Violette saying to Eddie?” he asked, getting straight to the point.

“You need to talk to Noor about Violette. Not me,” she said.

“Noor and I aren’t exactly on chatty terms, Layla. In fact I’m up there with the top three people she’d prefer to see under the wheel of a bus.”

She studied him suspiciously. “Were you one of the arresting officers?”

“No,” he said, then decided to go for broke. “But I was sent into the cell to take Violette from her that day.”

She looked horrified. “I think I could hate your guts for that too.”

“But then you’d have to remind yourself that no one from the neighborhood went down to the station to collect Violette,” he said. “Didn’t family and friends turn their backs on the Sarrafs?”

Her wine arrived and she took a sip without answering.

“I reckon that’s something Noor and Jamal will never get over,” Bish continued. “They expected it from the government, but not their neighbors.”

She looked away. He could tell it was a sensitive issue for Layla. Perhaps he should have pointed out that she was only seventeen at the time, but he doubted it would make her feel better.