Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil

by Melina Marchetta

  “Perhaps a cup of tea,” Bish suggested to all three.

  Manoshi’s mother shook her head but Saffron would have none of it.

  “Let’s go, Sadia,” she said firmly. “You’re going to be no help to your daughter if you’re dead on your feet. You too, Katherine.”

  Bish peered into Manoshi’s room. She was lying on her side, facing the window. He was about to walk out when he noticed the same pathetic cluster of flowers in the glass on her bedside table. Much like those in Lola’s room—not from a florist, or placed there by a nurse. A nurse would have put them in a vase.

  He walked around to the other side of her bed and saw that she was awake. “Manoshi, it’s Mr. Ortley. Bee’s dad. Who gave you these flowers?” he asked.

  She looked at them vacantly and managed a shrug. “While I was sleeping.”

  Fionn Sykes was on his new iPhone when Bish poked his head round the door. And there were the flowers. When he casually asked about them, the boy mumbled, “One of the nurses, I think.”

  Bish knew he was lying.

  “Fionn, have Violette and Eddie come to visit?”

  “Violette Zidane? Here?” Fionn tried to sound shocked, but there would be no BAFTA award for him.

  “What did she say, Fionn? Where is she heading?”

  Fionn closed his eyes. “Can you tell the nurse I’m in pain?”

  Whether he was lying or not, Bish left him and went for the nurse.

  “Are you sitting down?” Bish asked Grazier over his mobile. He was standing outside the cafeteria, watching through the glass doors as Saffron and the other two women drank tea. Katherine and Sadia were talking with an animation he could only attribute to Saffron, given their flat moods earlier.

  “Just spit it out, Ortley.”

  “Violette and Eddie have managed to cross the Channel.”

  Silence, and then: “All right, I’m sitting down now. How?”

  How indeed. Channel security had been heightened since the bombing. “Have no idea, but I’m almost sure they’ve done the rounds at Buckland Hospital.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Do you want me to get hospital security to check their CCTV?”

  “No, I’ll get Elliot onto it,” Grazier muttered. “The French aren’t going to be happy if they let those kids slip through their fingers. They’re not having much luck with suspects either.”

  “Did you find out anything about the driver of the French bus?” Bish asked.

  “Some of our people are talking with the CNI in Spain, and one or two of their kids claimed they saw the driver of the French bus arguing with the driver of the British bus.”

  “Could that make Serge Sagur the target?”

  “Theories?”

  “Well, they both drove a big enough vehicle, so what if they had a people-smuggling business on the side?”

  “They’d be risking a two-thousand-pound-per-person fine for anyone found in their cars or trucks,” Grazier said.

  “What do the French have to say about any other suspects?” Bish asked.

  “They’re too offended about the kids being transferred to be taking our call. Pity we don’t have Attal anymore.”

  Bish was tempted to point out that he—not Elliot or Grazier—did have Attal. Attal was his. “Tell me about that phone call between Violette and her grandparents,” he said instead. “What is it that the home secretary doesn’t want the public to know?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Listen, if you want me out there looking for Violette, or talking to Ian Parker and the other parents, then I need to know what she’s been saying to people.” What Bish really wanted to know was whether Violette had made mention of Bee.

  Grazier’s sigh seemed never-ending. “The day after the bombing, Violette rang them because she knew they had been contacted. Nasrene LeBrac told her they were getting on the first plane to Paris. Violette informed her grandmother that if they left her pony and dog for the dickhead next door to look after, she’d never forgive them.”

  Oh Violette. God love you.

  “The tabloids’ top teenage terror suspect is worried about a pony named Tickles and a dog named Booboo, and if that gets out the public are going to love this kid. One we failed to protect.”

  “How are the grandparents coping?” Bish asked.

  “Elliot’s been talking to them.”

  “Elliot?”

  “Yes, Elliot,” Grazier said with another sigh. “He’s rubbish with everyone else, but give him a tragic elderly couple who have lost a child and he becomes their surrogate son. You’d know why better than anyone else. Doesn’t it all stem from his childhood?”

  “What are the LeBracs saying to him?” Bish asked, evading the question.

  “They say England took their son Etienne from them and now they fear for Violette’s life. Look, where do you think those kids are heading, Ortley? Hazard a guess.”

  “I’m sure Fionn Sykes knows something, but he’s not talking.”

  “Then push him harder.”

  “He’s just had half his leg blown off, Grazier. Give him a bit of time with this.”

  “We don’t have time,” Grazier snapped. “Those kids are at risk. I want them off the street.”

  What had Layla said to Bish? My sister would never forgive me if I put Noor’s child at risk. “Jocelyn Shahbazi. She’ll know where they are.”

  “Doubt it,” Grazier said. “The Shahbazi family don’t like fuss, and front-page Violette is a whole lot of fuss.”

  “Ali Shahbazi doesn’t want fuss,” Bish corrected. “His wife could be a different story.”

  Bish hung up and joined the women for tea. Katherine and Sadia were discussing their daughters as they had been before the bombing. Manoshi, it seemed, was a vivacious, acid-tongued girl with a quick wit. It made Bish wince to compare that description with the girl he’d just seen.

  “The doctors have suggested a day out,” Sadia told him, “but Manoshi doesn’t want to know about it. I think she’s frightened of the world outside now.”

  According to Katherine, Lola’s moods now swung between extremes: one moment listless, the next bordering on hysteria.

  “Does she get picked on at school?” Bish asked, remembering Lola’s earlier comment.

  “Bitchy little high school girls,” Katherine said. “Slumber parties every second weekend and she is never invited. They make it seem as if the worst thing someone can offer the world is unbridled joy.” She shook her head in bitterness. “My punishment. I was one of those catty girls at her age.”

  “I do not believe punishment works that way,” Sadia said.

  The moment he stepped outside with Saffron, they were surrounded. Cameras and microphones were thrust at their faces, questions barked at them. The press pack had a vicious energy about it. The media presence had tripled now that the kids were in Dover, the hometown of Julius McEwan.

  “Chief Inspector Ortley, do the parents care that the French are offended by the transfer?”

  Any other question and he would have continued walking in silence, but he stopped. “The care and compassion shown by the medical staff in Boulogne will not be forgotten,” he said. Bish had no idea if that was the truth, but it’s what he’d want to hear if he were French. “The transfer across the Channel comes down to one thing and one thing only: the commute has been difficult for the families, who are desperate to see their children whenever possible.”

  Weak, but better than nothing.

  “Do you know anything more about Violette LeBrac and her companion?” the journalist persisted.

  “I’m just here as a father of one of the students on board the bus. I’m not privy to talk about the investigation.”

  “Not even about the fugitive suspects?” another journalist asked.

  “Well, I’d hardly call them fugitive suspects,” Bish said. “They are persons of interest.”

  He went to lead his mother away, but it was not going to be that easy.

  “What wa
s Violette’s relationship with the other students?”

  “Does your daughter believe Violette’s a terrorist, Chief Inspector Ortley?”

  “Are you able to offer advice to the families of the dead, having experienced it yourself?”

  He stiffened, clenched his fist. Advice on how to deal with your child’s death? The next question involving his family would result in his second assault charge for the month.

  “This is a difficult time for the families involved,” Saffron said, taking his hand. “They’ve expressed their gratitude for all the well-wishes, but they’ve also emphatically asked that you give them space. That’s the advice I’d give on how to deal with families who have lost so much.”

  19

  Bish’s hunch about Jocelyn Shahbazi had paid off. While scouring CCTV that afternoon, Elliot caught a glimpse of Violette and Eddie coming out of St. John’s Wood tube station, a couple of minutes’ walk from the Shahbazi home. It confirmed that the two hadn’t just arrived from France. The footage was four days old.

  Jocelyn’s husband was the son of a Tehran-born banker. The story was that Ali Shahbazi saw Jocelyn Bayat at the wedding of his housekeeper’s son and went courting the very next day. He was considered the simpleton of his family, the one most likely to be tied to his father’s purse strings, but a few shrewd investments soon had him running his own show. Some said it had to do with an ambitious wife who had come from nothing, without whose consent Ali never made a decision. If true, Jocelyn’s influence had made him wealthier now than his parents had ever been.

  Jocelyn Shahbazi was wary when she saw Bish and Elliot at her front door. “My husband will be home any minute and I’d advise you to be gone by then.”

  She went to shut the door, but Elliot was too fast and held it open with the flat of his hand. “If you don’t let us in, Mrs. Shahbazi, we’ll come back with a search warrant.”

  “Really? Because if a police car so much as drives up to my gate I will call our lawyer. I will call The Guardian. I will call anyone interested in your practice of interrogating people based on their race.”

  Bish removed Elliot’s hand from the door. “Mrs. Shahbazi,” he said, “my daughter was on that bus in Calais. Her name is Bee and she’s worried sick. What’s happened to Violette and the boy is affecting more people than you think. We’re not here to cause trouble.”

  That last statement was more of a warning to Elliot than a promise to Jocelyn. She stared at Bish, still suspicious. “Two minutes.”

  Bish had done his research before the visit. Noor LeBrac’s former best friend was stunning, her children picture-perfect, her house on Avenue Road tasteful. And she had the Hello! photographs to prove it. Jocelyn’s daughter was Bee’s age, and the photographs from the magazine had the girl in a white dress identical to her mother’s, contrasting with their rich black hair. Good genes, his mother would say. Bish was surprised by the friendship between Jocelyn Bayat and Noor Sarraf. Where Noor was brilliant, Jocelyn was slightly superficial. Bish knew this from her responses in Hello! But he supposed she wasn’t given too much opportunity to convey her smarts when someone was asking about bathroom accessories and the possibility of cosmetic surgery in the future.

  She led them into the drawing room, where Bish saw a Chagall which he assumed was an original. He tried not to be impressed.

  “Layla had the good sense to warn me,” she said coolly as she sat down.

  “Warn you about what?” Elliot asked.

  “A visit from an idiot and a slob. My sister’s always had a great eye for detail. So, ask what you need to ask.”

  “Where are they?” Elliot asked. “That’s all we need to know.”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Violette and the boy were caught on CCTV coming out of the tube station down the road. We can’t think of any reason why she’d be in this area if not to see you.”

  She gave them both a look of disbelief. “You’re lying.”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “You ask that of someone who watched what you people did to that family.”

  “When was the last time you saw Noor LeBrac, Mrs. Shahbazi?” Elliot asked.

  There was a sound of keys opening the front door, a number of voices and footsteps in the foyer.

  “Could you invite your husband in here to speak to us?” Elliot asked, getting to his feet.

  “My husband won’t want to get involved in this.”

  But Ali Shahbazi was standing at the door with his four children, ranging from age five to seventeen. “What’s going on?” he asked. He was looking at Bish and Elliot but his question was directed to his wife.

  “They’re here to ask about Violette Zidane,” Jocelyn said.

  A flash of fury crossed Shahbazi’s face. “My family has nothing to do with the Sarrafs or the LeBracs. Do not come to my home making trouble.”

  “Nothing to do with them?” Elliot asked, in a tone Bish recognized. It meant Elliot knew something to the contrary. Which he had failed to pass on.

  “Then you’ve never visited Jamal Sarraf in Calais, Mrs. Shahbazi? Or Joseph Sarraf in Alexandria? He was one of the Brackenham Four, wasn’t he? Louis Sarraf’s brother?”

  “We have friends in Alexandria,” Jocelyn said in a bored tone. “And if I visit Calais, it’s for quick duty-free.”

  “In 2010 you made a trip to Australia with your daughter.”

  Ali Shahbazi made a sound of irritation. “My wife has family there.”

  “In the Riverina?” Elliot asked. “A town called Coleambally? Violette LeBrac’s hometown?”

  Neither Jocelyn nor Ali had a response for that.

  “Because we do have evidence of you being there, Mrs. Shahbazi,” Elliot continued. “Not to mention your visits to Holloway every month under your maiden name.”

  Ali Shahbazi stared dumbfounded at his wife. “What’s he talking about, Joss?”

  “Daddy!” The cry came from the daughter.

  “Go upstairs,” Jocelyn ordered her kids. “Now.”

  None of them moved.

  “Jocelyn?” Her husband pressed for a response.

  “I don’t know where Violette is!” she said. The kids were staring from one parent to the other, and Bish was imagining the next Hello! photo shoot: Jocelyn Shahbazi bringing up her kids on her own. Had this been a contentious issue throughout their marriage?

  “Do you honestly think I’d keep Violette’s whereabouts from Noor?” she asked her husband.

  “You’ve been in contact with her all these years?” he asked. “What the fuck, Joss?”

  The youngest child was crying now and Jocelyn stood up. “You’re scaring the kids, Ali,” she hissed. “Take care of these idiots. I’m going to my mother’s.”

  “Mrs. Shahbazi—”

  “Go do your job and find them,” she shouted, ushering her children out of the room.

  That night Bish took a call from another blocked number.

  “A twenty-year marriage with not a sniff of infidelity and from what I know, they’re still having sex at least twice a week, and you’ve managed to ruin it.”

  Layla Bayat.

  “Well, it can’t be that great a marriage if she’s lying to him and he’s telling her what to do.”

  “What’s this CCTV bollocks?”

  “Truth. Those kids were there. Let me talk to your sister, Layla. Is she there?”

  “She’s at my mother’s. The kids are hysterical. Do you know how scary divorce is to them? My niece Gigi fainted. Fainted. She’s petrified.”

  Bish felt grateful for his stoic daughter. There’d been no fainting from Bee when she heard about his and Rachel’s divorce.

  “Look, if you let me see Jocelyn, I’ll keep Elliot and the Home Office out of this.”

  “I’m going to really believe you now,” she said.

  “Was I the idiot or the slob?”

  Layla Bayat hung up on him.

  20

  Violette and Eddie’s visit t
o Buckland had worse repercussions than Bish imagined. The CCTV footage was forwarded to Elliot by the hospital security company, and also to the Dover police. From there it was leaked, and the image of Violette and Eddie was all over the media. For a minute, Eddie’s identity was kept safe because of the code of practice that stopped the media from naming a minor. Until someone from his village outside Tonbridge tweeted that “the kid with Violette LeBrac goes to my school,” which was followed by “yeah, that looks like Eddie Conlon.” That led to “Eddie Conlon & Violette LeBrac are the Calais bombers.”

  “How did this happen?” Bish asked Elliot when he rang.

  “It goes viral, and no one’s accountable. The press still don’t have permission to release his name, but that means nothing when over a million people have already seen an image of Eddie and know his full name.”

  Bish heard shouting in the background. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “In the office. Grazier isn’t taking it well. He’s paying a visit to the Dover police and then heading out to Tonbridge to have a word with a few of the locals.”

  “There’s not much he can do about them,” Bish said.

  “Oh but he’ll try. He wants you to visit LeBrac again. Violette used to speak to her mother every day, so who better to know her whereabouts, or at least her plans?”

  “Pick that woman’s brain,” Grazier shouted, replacing Elliot on the line. “I want those kids brought in. I want them in a safe house. What part of that don’t these people understand?”

  “The part where they don’t feel particularly comfortable being reassured by the police or the government,” Bish said.

  “You’re beginning to piss me off, Ortley.”

  “It took you this long?”

  Bish’s reading that night was the rest of the file Grazier had given him a few days ago. He started again from the beginning, looking for anything in the Sarraf and LeBrac family histories that could shed light on how best to persuade Noor to open up. Most of the media articles were based solely on opinion. There was nothing on Jamal Sarraf post his arrest, but a great deal prior to it, when Man United signed him up. Young Sarraf spoke obsessively about his old coach from the Brackenham council estate, and his mates there who’d watched his back, no matter what. His favorite topic was his girlfriend, Layla, but it was the reverence he showed for his mother and sister that was most profound.