Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(61)

On his way back to London, Bish tried Violette’s number at different intervals, but the phone was switched off and he figured it no longer existed. When his mobile rang he hoped it was her, but instead Grazier’s name showed up on the display.

“That little cheating f*cker Crombie is back behind bars,” he said without preamble. “Just got himself arrested for assaulting Russell Gorman. Jumped him outside Strood railway station last night.”

It took a moment for Bish to register the victim’s name. “The chaperone?” he asked. He was a bit annoyed that he hadn’t thought of jumping Gorman outside Strood railway station himself.

“At the moment the only kids on that bus getting good press are those who are dead or injured,” Grazier said. “Crombie’s association with Violette LeBrac is going to get him fried at that hearing. I’m not making threats here, Ortley, but the media will drag anyone linked to her into this mess. Including Bee.”

“Why are you telling me this, Grazier?”

“The Reverend and Mr. Crombie have taken a liking to you. I think they’d appreciate a bit of hand-holding at the bail hearing tomorrow. Anyway, an old schoolmate of yours will be a judge on the case, so you may want to catch up.”

“Then send Elliot.”

“I will, but I want you there as well. There’ll be a media presence and we don’t want Elliot talking to them. He’s not very good with the uncivilized. I’ll send you the details.” When Bish didn’t respond, Grazier said, “Tomorrow, two thirty.”

Bish was about to turn onto the M20 for London when he found himself following the signs to Dover instead.

“What if I told you I could bring in Violette and Eddie by the end of the week?”

“I’d tell you that you’d be making the home secretary very happy.”

“Well, if she wants to be happy she has to be willing to pull a few strings. Big strings. Some may say big, impossible strings. Are you listening?”

He heard the trademark irritated sigh, but he knew Grazier was listening.



Two hours later he entered La Forge Salle de Boxe on Rue Delacroix. Jamal Sarraf was taping the hands of a kid a little older than Eddie Conlon. Bish wondered if Sarraf saw himself in these younger lads. That fidgeting desire to get into a boxing ring or onto a football pitch. An immigrant boy’s next step to a better life. England’s cricketers always seemed so much more composed, walking calmly on and off the field. As if their whole lives didn’t depend on it. Perhaps it was why Bish cared little for the game of cricket. He could see the skill and brilliance, but not the feral hunger pulsing through the players’ veins.

Sarraf was alerted to his presence by one of the old guys, and Bish saw fear cross his face. He knew it wasn’t fear of him, but of what he might have to tell him about his niece. And nephew.

“Violette and Eddie are fine,” he said straightaway. “She rang yesterday.”

Sarraf wasn’t going to express thanks for the news, but he looked relieved all the same.

“Has she contacted you?” Bish asked.

“I’ve had my phones tapped by your people for the past week and a half. If she had rung me, you’d know about it.”

“No, you’ve probably had your phones tapped by the French,” Bish said. “I can’t imagine them letting the Brits in for a listen.”

“Thanks for correcting that assumption,” Sarraf said.

“Those kids have managed to stay hidden this long, but I don’t know how much longer their luck will hold out.”

“Luck?” Sarraf’s laugh had little to do with humor. “My niece is the daughter of two incredibly smart people. That’s why no one’s found them yet.”

“Can we talk somewhere private?” Bish asked.

“No we can’t.”

“Even if it’s in Violette’s best interest that we do?”

“I don’t trust that you have Violette’s best interest at heart.”

“But Violette does, so you’re going to have to accept that the daughter of two incredibly smart people chose me to trust.”

“Somewhere private” was a bar on Rue du Duc de Guise. Sarraf wasn’t going to let Bish into his flat above the gym. The barman placed a pot of tea in front of Sarraf and gestured at Bish with a raised chin and a look at Sarraf that meant either “What does he want?” or “Who is he?” Bish insisted on ordering his own coffee in his best French, which didn’t seem to impress anyone.

Once or twice someone clapped Sarraf on the back as they passed him by, and there was a brief exchange of handshaking and small talk. Those who stood at the bar for their coffee were out within minutes. Others sat and were served wordlessly. Familiarity: Bish missed it. He missed being known. He had spent the past three years avoiding the sort of regularity that invited conversation. Had gone from having one local pub to a few, so as not to draw attention to being rat-arsed every second night.

“I want you to speak to your sister,” he said after he finished his coffee. “You need to put your heads together to bring these kids in.”

“Five-minute conversations on two-pound phone cards don’t exactly allow for a shitload of communication between Noor and me.”

“I’ll give you half an hour with her,” Bish said. “Face-to-face.”