Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(64)

“Jamal,” Bish prodded, and saw beads of sweat on Sarraf’s brow, the strange pallor of his skin. He looked as though he was about to have a meltdown. Was it the memory of having been here all those years ago and being told he wasn’t allowed back into his country?

When Sarraf finally handed over his passport it drew another raised eyebrow. This time the officer beckoned a senior operative in the next lane, who was giving a carload of lads a hard time over their duty-free booze allowance. Bish and Sarraf were now under double scrutiny. Then the senior officer walked away and made a phone call. Bish saw plenty of nods. A resigned sigh. More staring in their direction.

“Welcome back,” was all the man said upon his return. Having been out of the country for approximately fifty minutes, Bish figured he wasn’t the one being addressed.

Sarraf swallowed hard as Bish started the ignition.

“You’re working for Home Office,” Sarraf said.

“What makes you think that?”

“Visa and immigration answer to them. I should know.”

“I’m not working for anyone,” Bish said as he drove onto the ferry.



On the A2, his passenger seemed to be in his own world and Bish didn’t attempt much conversation. When they reached London, he wondered what was going through Sarraf’s head. The working-class pockets of the city had been so different all those years ago. While many argued that gentrification had brought about much-needed improvement to some boroughs, others believed it had destroyed communities, especially those of the immigrants who could no longer afford to live in the areas they had been forced into on arrival so many years ago. As they drove through Shepherd’s Bush, though, Bish heard a sound of disgust.

“It’s Westfield shopping mall,” Bish said. “Biggest in the northern hemisphere.”

“What the f*ck?”



At Holloway, Sarraf stared at the walls around him as they walked through the gates. He was only a bit older than Bee when he was arrested. One month shy of his eighteenth birthday. Which was how he ended up in Belmarsh and not a place for young offenders. Bish could see the memory of it on his face now.

“I should have brought her something,” Sarraf said quietly.

“They won’t let you bring anything in, and I’m thinking she won’t notice anything but you.” Bish was hoping Grazier had carried out his other instructions and that they weren’t about to have another confrontation with Gray and his lot.

Bish went into the interview room first, without Sarraf. There was more of a guard presence today. One outside, one inside. By the looks of things, a reunion between Noor and her brother was treated as a security risk. She was seated, as usual, but handcuffed. She made no eye contact this time. Handcuffs on her wrists had changed her composure. Her countenance.

“Have you got a key to those things?” Bish asked the guard. He was young. Bish had seen him once before, with Gray. His name tag identified him as Farrington.

“I don’t have the authority to remove them,” Farrington said.

“Then can you ask your friend outside to find someone who does?”

The guard walked to the door and poked his head out. Bish could hear the talk between the two guards.

“What’s going on?” Noor asked, looking at him at last.

“Your brother’s outside. You two need to talk and work out how to bring Violette in.”

He saw the disbelief first. Then the tears that sprang to her eyes, contained, as if she dared not hope too much.

The guard finally returned and removed her cuffs while Bish went to get Sarraf. When her brother entered the room, Noor stood and walked into his arms. There was no talking. No theatrics, just their bodies racked with quiet sobs. They had talked on the phone and exchanged letters but had not felt the beat of the other’s heart.

After a long while, Sarraf let out a breath. “You’ve shrunk,” he said, standing back to look at his sister.

She gave a throaty laugh. “And you haven’t.”

The guard was hovering. “That’s enough, now,” he said.

Bish would have given them a couple of minutes more.

LeBrac led her brother to the table and they sat holding hands tightly. She cupped his face and Bish could see he was overwhelmed.

“No more touching,” the guard said, and when Noor spoke to Sarraf in Arabic, Bish said, “No Arabic.”

She glanced at him and the mixture of savagery and joy in her expression quickened his pulse. He looked away. Couldn’t bear the idea of feeling anything for her. She began to speak in French. Sarraf thought that was funny.

“English,” Bish warned. “Or we leave.”

“Did you know his name was Bashir?” she said to her brother, a quirk of a smile on her face.

“Bollocks.”

“What did Yimi used to say? All roads lead back to Alexandria.”

Sarraf was unimpressed. “We’d better not be related to him.”

LeBrac removed something from inside the pages of the book she had brought with her, and Bish saw they were Bee’s photographs. Sarraf pointed to Eddie but LeBrac wordlessly pushed his hand away. A warning not to talk about the boy, as if Bish hadn’t worked it out yet.

“Fuck, she’s gorgeous, Noor. But you don’t want to cross her. She’s Yimi and Khalti Sadie mixed together, you know.”