At that moment a young boy emerged from the dining hall next door. Dark eyes, thick curly black hair, olive skin. The same sort of foreign. This must be Eddie Conlon. Bish thought he’d stopped comparing every kid out there to Stevie. Saffron’s Egyptian roots had never really been acknowledged by her family. It had been strange to hear her mention them earlier to Lucy. The only thing that could be said to give away her Arab blood was her once dark hair, now streaked with silver. The rest was all English rose, as his father loved to say. But when Bish and Rachel had kids, it was his grandfather’s coloring and features that were prominent. Rachel was a redhead, Bish’s coloring nondescript. Bee’s beautiful olive skin and dark eyes were a surprise to them both, but they were prepared for Stevie. “Let’s call him Omar,” Rachel had joked. They spent years explaining to people that they hadn’t adopted from the Middle East.
Eddie Conlon was fidgeting, not out of nervousness, but from a whole lot of excess energy.
“Can I talk to her?” he asked Lucy. “Violette, I mean. Because I can get to the bottom of all this with her—I swear I can, because it’s not true, everything they’re saying about her and the bomb. It’s all rubbish, if you know what I mean.”
Bish studied him. The way his eyes shifted away when he said Violette’s name. He was hiding something.
“Tell them, Lucy,” the boy pleaded. “How Violette and me were pretty tight. She’ll talk to me.”
There was an endearing musicality to the way he spoke and moved. Bish hoped this kid hadn’t been unwittingly dragged into a mess of a situation.
“What’s everyone saying about Violette and the bomb, Eddie?” Bish asked.
Lucy introduced him. “This is Sabina Ballyntine-Ortley’s father, Eddie.”
But Eddie refused to look at Bish. “Just stuff,” he mumbled.
“Eddie, did you know Violette’s registration letter was a fake?” Bish watched the kid nervously tap a beat on his thigh. “The embassy’s made contact with her grandparents in Australia. They think she’s on a Duke of Edinburgh hike in Tasmania, out of range.”
“Are they upset?” he asked quietly.
“What do you think? She lied to them.”
“Then I’ll ask her why she lied,” Eddie said. “She’s in there on her own and I can’t get her out and I’m scared she can’t breathe.”
“In where, Eddie?” Bish was confused.
Eddie pointed to the dining hall. Lucy began blubbering again. Bish was so close to owning the misogyny accusation and telling her to pull herself together.
“Mr. Gorman said he’d take care of Violette but he didn’t mean take care in a good way,” said Eddie. “He said foreigners stuff things up, like they did with Madeleine McCann.” Eddie was talking a mile a minute, his fidgeting worse than ever. “He’s gone and locked her up, you know. In a cupboard in the kitchen at the back of the dining hall. He said it was for all our good, didn’t he, Lucy? But it’s not, and if Mac was here he wouldn’t have let it happen.”
“Then let’s find Mr. Gorman and get her out of there,” he said.
Rage didn’t come to Bish with much of a warning. It came to him only rarely, but when it did there were repercussions. His nickname at boarding school was the Hulk, not because of his size or his ability to fight but because he was mild-mannered until someone pushed the wrong buttons. It had happened a week ago at work, and it all came down to stupid people. Not uneducated or slow. Just willfully stupid. Gorman was one of them.
Bish found him outside, hovering around the canvas barrier that concealed the blown-up bus. Gorman was trying to “catch a word” with Attal, who clearly had no time for him. Bish waited for the Frenchman to disappear behind the barrier, not wanting to make anything obvious to the locals.
“Where the fuck is the key to that cupboard?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
Gorman looked stunned for a moment, but his surprise didn’t last long.
“I’ve made contact with MI6,” he said with a sense of self-importance. “They’re on the grounds now and they’ll want her in British custody.”
Too long a day. Too long without a drink. Bish grabbed Gorman by the arm and half dragged him to the rear of the dining hall, out of sight of the press and French officials. Gorman tried to pull free, tripping over a piece of tire rubber, and they both went down with the finesse of the unfit, the middle-class, and the middle-aged.
Winning the tussle, Bish was able to retrieve a key from Gorman’s pocket, accessible by the string attached to it. A flicker of movement made him look up, to see his daughter staring down at him from the recreation hall window. Beside her were Crombie, Kennington, and a few of the others. Charlie Crombie smirked something into Bee’s ear, but she shrugged him off and moved away from the window.
In the kitchen at the back of the dining room, Bish unlocked the storage cupboard. It was dark and smelt of damp. He felt the wall for a light switch. Nothing there. Finally he found it outside the door and the storeroom was illuminated. Violette LeBrac Zidane sat on the ground before him, in the only space available to sit, her arms wrapped around her legs. Surrounding her were shelves of tinned food, paper plates, stacked chairs. When she looked up he saw a flash of fear, but it was quickly gone. She had what appeared to be a broken nose from old. She’d inherited her mother’s olive skin and dark eyes, which contrasted strangely with the woolly fair hair that covered a scalp of a darker shade. It could have been something that came out of a bottle, but Bish remembered four-year-old Violette with the same dark-rooted fair hair.
He wasn’t sure how long she had been in the cupboard, but she was perspiring. Half a minute in there and so was he. She got to her feet, looking past him, and a quick emotion crossed her face.