Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(79)

“I’m presuming that was often.”

“Every single day of my life when I was fifteen.”

“Not during your St. Francis of Assisi obsession.”

“No, I abstained that year.”

She had a knowing creeping smile. It began with a twitch.

“Next?” she said, going back to the file. But this time Bish managed to take it from her and she didn’t protest.

“I wish just one person of substance had written something of worth about me,” she said. “Even if it was negative.” She pointed to the file he held. “That’s what I’ve been reduced to? Petty people claiming to be authorities on my life. I wrote an amazing thesis, you know. There were only two copies out there. One with my professor and the other on my computer. My professor chose to publicly burn hers and the police confiscated my computer. So four years of feeling guilt for neglecting my husband and daughter and being seen as the least maternal person to join a mothers’ group amounted to nothing!”

He had opened up an old wound. He’d seen that same wound before in Rachel.

“Not to mention moving my family back into my father’s house so I could complete my PhD. That was right up there with the best decisions I made.”

Bish wondered how often that had plagued her mind over the years.

“What they have on Ahmed Khateb isn’t concrete,” she said suddenly. “It’s the same way they arrested my family. On circumstantial evidence.”

“At the moment he’s the only suspect,” Bish said.

“One with no motive. He’s a suspect because he’s Muslim.”

“We don’t know that. The French may have something on him that they’re not letting on. For now, every lead is important, and you have to face the possibility that Violette was the target.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if that were too much to bear. “Etienne’s mother has very strong ties to a number of Algerian families here and in Le Havre. They looked after Etienne and Violette after I was arrested. So to point a finger at a member of the community, with so little evidence, is an insult to them.”

“Another reason we need to speak to Violette. Find out what she argued with Khateb about.”

“Well, she hasn’t made contact with any adult but you,” Noor said.

“She’s sent you letters.”

“I want to hear her voice!” she cried. “I spoke to her every day until three weeks ago, and something’s happened to distance her from me. All she had to do was give you a number I could contact her on and she didn’t.”

Cruel teenage children were cruel teenage children regardless of who their parents were. Slowly he sat up, positioning his back against the wall, and he took a chance.

“She isn’t contacting you because she had sex with Charlie Crombie.”

“She told you that?”

He couldn’t quite lie. Shrugged reluctantly. “She thinks you’re disappointed.”

“I am disappointed. Violette knows how I feel about smart girls turning into needy sex objects for dumb boys.”

“Maybe she’s too smart to be serious about him,” he tried.

Noor retrieved a photo from her pocket. The one of Bee, Violette, and Eddie. She pointed to a corner and Bish saw something he had missed before. “She’s serious about this person,” Noor said. “It can only be Crombie.”

One of Violette’s fingers was entwined with another finger, its owner out of frame. It was a tiny detail that spoke of a great intimacy. Not a fumble of adolescent groping—just two fingers linked.

“How can you be so sure?” he asked.

“Because Violette’s never had a boyfriend, so what are the chances that within seven days she’s going to have sex with one boy and hold hands with another?”

“How do you know she’s never had a boyfriend? They do lie, you know.”

Noor sent him a look that said she knew what she was talking about.

Bish thought back to the interview that day with Braithwaite and Post. After a bomb and carnage and being locked in a cupboard and threatened, it was mention of Charlie Crombie kissing the girl from Worthing that had made Violette weep.

He tried to lighten the mood. “Anything else, Sherlock?” he asked.

She pointed to his daughter. Bee was staring into the lens, looking luminous.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Can’t you see? She’s in love with whoever’s taking the photograph.”

Bish heard the buzz of the door and Gray was there.

“The acting governor wants you back in your cell,” he ordered Noor, before turning his attention to Bish. “And Mummy with the BBC voice is downstairs waiting for you,” he mocked. “We’re just getting you a wheelchair.”

After a moment Noor held down her hand to Bish and, greedy needy fool that he was, he let her help him up, his fingers lingering in hers like those of the two adolescents in Violette’s photograph. He chanced a look at her and saw the flare of something in her eyes. A salve to the emptiness that sometimes threatened to suffocate him.





36



Friday morning, Layla steps into Algiers Street Food, inhaling the smell of coffee and baked eggs. Bilal is behind the espresso machine talking to a customer. He looks up and his eyes send her to the door leading to the kitchen.