Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(7)

“SIS will no doubt be there,” Carmody said. “I hope our people arrive first. Intelligence aren’t exactly personable.”

Bish couldn’t imagine Attal escorting British intelligence around, but figured they’d find their way in. He hung up just as they reached the veranda of the recreation hall, where a cluster of older teenagers stood.

Lucy nudged him. “Charlie Crombie,” she murmured.

“Is it true what they’re saying about Violette?” asked a beefy rugby type. A bit of a stupid look on his face. Bish was disappointed that Bee was part of something that had put this Crombie character in charge.

A journalist from Sky News was hovering too close, desperate for any morsel. Someone had no doubt leaked Violette Zidane’s identity.

“You’re worried about her, are you?” Bish said to the boy. He couldn’t help himself.

“She was a slag,” the blockhead said. “I wasn’t going to have Crombie’s crumbs.” He elbowed the boy standing beside him, who didn’t react.

Bish was surprised. This was Charlie Crombie? When Bish was at school, thugs had looked like thugs. Not like this scrawny little bastard with ginger hair that needed a good wash. There was something vacant about Crombie’s stare. Insidious. Over the years Bee had hinted that she might not be interested in boys. Ever. Staring at these lads, all Bish could think was, Thank Christ.

“That’s an ugly word, Mr. Kennington,” Lucy Gilies said to the first boy, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice. “If I ever hear you refer to a girl in such a way again, your parents will be hearing from me.”

“My parents would be calling her a slag too.”

The others around him laughed nervously. But not Crombie. “Is it true what they’re saying about Violette?” he demanded. “Who she is?”

“So Violette didn’t tell you anything about herself?” Bish said.

Crombie shrugged. “Why would she? We were just shagging.”

The girl standing beside Crombie shifted to drape herself over him. Charlie had already moved on. Nothing like a rumor of being a terror suspect to kill a relationship.

Gorman stepped out from inside the recreation hall. The man seemed to be in his element. Bish had met his type before. Disasters gave them purpose, and Gorman wasn’t quite finished playing his part in this tragedy.

“Could you assist me in a matter, Chief Inspector Ortley?”

Charlie Crombie disengaged himself from the girl’s tongue in his ear, his eyes fixed on Bish.

“You’re Ballyntine-Ortley’s father?”

A rhetorical question. Crombie looked away, muttering. Bish heard the words “useless f*cker.”

Gorman’s phone rang and he answered it. “The embassy,” he mouthed, as if Bish had asked. “I’ll be a minute.” He walked back inside.

“Does anyone know where Violette’s been taken?” Bish asked the group. She wasn’t at the hospital, according to Carmody, and her disappearance didn’t sit right with him.

“Ask Gorman,” Charlie Crombie said. There was a suppressed rage about the kid.

The last thing Bish wanted was another conversation with the chaperone. But he went after him.

Inside, the parents made a beeline for Bish. Saffron was there, holding out a tea for him.

“Are you going to speak to the parents?” She tucked two digestive biscuits into his hand. “They’ll be relieved to know our police are involved.”

“But our police aren’t involved,” he said.

“They don’t need to know that. Just flash your badge. Everyone wants reassurance.”

Bish wasn’t really in a position to flash anything these days. He’d been asked to leave his badge behind a week ago. But his job with the Met hadn’t been out on the streets. He was the man back at the station taking care of the uniforms. He was also the liaison guy with the community, and that was the part he’d miss the most if they didn’t let him return. He knew how to distribute information and answer questions and keep the peace.

He ushered the adults into a small room at the back of the hall used to store gym equipment. He could hear the words “police inspector” whispered among the dozen or so people surrounding him.

“Is everyone’s child accounted for?” he asked.

A show of hands and nods. Thankfully no one belonging to Michael Stanley or Julius McEwan had turned up in the past half hour.

“I’m one of the fathers too,” he said, “so I’m not here as the police. I know exactly how you’re all feeling: frustrated and tired and emotional, and all I want to do is take my daughter home.”

“Where are our embassy people?” one of the women asked.

“They’ve been dealing with the injured at the hospital,” Bish said. “Someone will be here soon, though.”

“The French say they won’t let us go home until the kids have been questioned,” a man said. “Except they haven’t even started yet, have they? We could be here for days.”

This thought caused a ripple of distress among the rest of the parents.

“They need to do all they can to piece together what happened today, so we have to be patient,” Bish insisted.

“My girls are beside themselves,” the mother of the twins said. “One of their friends is listed as unaccountable.”