“You should go with him,” Crozier said in English. “There is something wrong here. I’ll take care of Monsieur Khateb.”
By the time Bish was inside the station proper, he knew Crozier was right. The place was in full frenetic alert. There were phones ringing, shouts across the room; every landline, mobile, and computer was in use. It was constructive chaos and seemed to have nothing to do with Khateb or Sarraf walking through the front doors. Bish followed Attal into his unsurprisingly cluttered office. Once inside, through the glass door he could see a group standing before a massive map of the area projected onto a white wall.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
Attal put on a pair of latex gloves to open a plastic evidence bag and take out an envelope with the words Capitaine Olivier Attal scrawled on the front. He withdrew a single sheet of paper and held it out to show Bish.
Lundi 16.05. Bombe numéro deux.
Bish didn’t need a translator for that. Attal pointed to the mobile phone in Bish’s hand. Ring your people was the silent instruction.
“There’s been a bomb threat,” Bish told Grazier moments later.
“Where?”
“Calais.”
He heard a commotion on the other end and figured Grazier was multitasking his own staff into action.
“Did they give a time?”
“This afternoon at 4:05. A letter addressed to Attal at his station. Postmarked Calais. Probably means it’ll happen here.”
“Facts, Ortley. Not presumptions.”
“The letter says ‘Bomb number two.’”
“Does Attal think it could be another British target?”
Now it was presumption time?
He watched an agitated Attal light up a cigarette. A thumping sounded at the glass door and Bish saw a woman wagging her finger. Attal ground out his cigarette with a curse.
“I’m presuming he showed it to me and wanted you to know for that precise reason,” Bish said. “I’m presuming that Bombe numéro deux suggests that it’s the same bomber, which could mean the same targets. British kids.”
“Summer tours are over,” Grazier said. “The Boulogne campground is still closed for business. Can’t imagine it being there. Think, Bish.”
Attal was listening attentively, but Bish could tell he understood little of what had been said.
“What about the driver of the French bus?” Grazier asked.
“We’ve got him here. They’ll question him, but I’m almost certain he’s not the one.”
“‘We’?”
“Long story.” Bish thought of the scene along the port. “This town is turning into one big refugee camp and it could be someone trying to make a political statement. They’re pretty pissed off at our government.”
Some of those words Attal certainly did understand because he was nodding.
“So they kill British kids?” Grazier asked. “I’m not buying the evil madman thing.”
“Why not? Louis Sarraf walked into a supermarket and blew up twenty-three people because he couldn’t stand his supervisor.”
“Louis Sarraf probably only had one victim in mind, but the bomb went off too early and too close to a couple of gas cylinders,” Grazier said. “Less intent than the bus bomb, but more fatalities.”
“That sounds like a presumption, Grazier, rather than a fact.”
“A presumption that is not going to bring those people back, so it doesn’t need to be explored.”
“Yes, well, it does when someone’s rotting in prison because of it!”
“Control your stonker for LeBrac, Bish, and concentrate on working out where this bomb is!”
“We got it wrong back then and you know it,” Bish said with a quiet fury. Attal was watching carefully. Bish turned away a little, as if that could stop Attal overhearing. “It’s why you and the home secretary have been desperate to get this right. Because you know deep down, whether it was Blair’s people or yours, we got it wrong.”
“Concentrate on making sure that we don’t get it wrong today, Ortley. We still don’t know where Violette and Eddie are. As far as I’m concerned, that means they’re still in danger.”
“Any more sightings?” Bish asked.
“Not since Margate. Should we have a tail on Crombie?”
“I doubt he’ll get up to much driving a Salvation Army minibus around on community service, but it’s worth getting the local police to check in on him today. Violette and Eddie may return there.”
“Keep me posted on any developments,” Grazier said before ringing off.
Bish followed Attal out of the office to where his team was studying a wall covered in hundreds upon hundreds of photos. Bish recognized some from his trawling on Instagram. Photos taken by kids and teachers from every bus at the campsite the night before the bombing. Here, he was getting the bigger picture. It’s what he hadn’t noticed in his cynicism. That the United Nations of youth having fun on Instagram looked all the same in the end. Happy and safe. He recognized those he had sent through. Shots of the shadowed man lurking in the woodlands. Bird-watcher or murderer?
48