When he came to he could see black plumes of smoke above him. Voices were shouting in French. He needed familiarity and it came in the form of Jimmy Sarraf.
“What the fuck, Ortley? I thought you were going to drive that bus to Belgium.”
He tried to sit up. Sarraf was gently pushing him back down.
“Stay there.”
Then a paramedic was replacing Sarraf and asking him questions in French. Bish closed his eyes to shut her out. He didn’t have the strength to tell one more person in this country that he didn’t understand a word they were saying. He pushed her hand away and gingerly got to his feet, miraculously undamaged.
He looked around. A couple of firefighters were dealing with the bus, completely destroyed and smoldering. Bish could smell the sulfur in the air.
“Anyone hurt?” he asked Sarraf.
“Yeah. You broke the bus driver’s wrist. He complained to the coppers that you didn’t have to use so much force.”
The paramedic must have understood, because she chuckled. Laughter. That didn’t happen where death was present. Bish felt as though he could take on the world. Zero body count.
Regardless, the place was chaos. Parents were still arriving in droves, hurrying past the ancient walls. Pushing past police, hysteria in their voices. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and retrieved it. The screen was cracked. His ears were still ringing and it got worse when he answered the phone. Someone was asking if he’d take the call. Then Noor’s voice: “Where are you? All I can hear are sirens.”
“I’m in Calais. There’s been another bomb—”
“What?”
“Jimmy’s here—”
“Oh God!”
“No one’s hurt.”
“You’re slurring your words.”
“I haven’t been drinking.”
“I didn’t say you had.”
He could see her brother being questioned now by a couple of uniforms. He hoped they wouldn’t do something stupid like arrest him.
“Slow down and tell me everything,” she said, her tone gruff. Not hostile. Not tender. But “gruff” belonged to the caring family.
He gave her the shortest version he could. One with an optimistic ending in which he hoped Benoix’s people got caught. “This means Violette and Eddie are safer out there now, and once they realize it, they’ll ask for help,” he said. “And the Home Office will stop sending me to bother you.”
She didn’t respond and he wanted her to.
“My Holloway privileges will be revoked, I’m guessing.”
“A privilege, was it?” she asked.
“A great privilege.”
He thought she was gone and then he heard a ragged breath. “Etienne LeBrac was the love of my life. But some days you make me forget him and I don’t think I can forgive you for that.”
Good. Now he knew what he was up against. The ghost of a man who hadn’t lived long enough to fuck up a marriage. Who would stay eternally perfect in the eyes of the woman and child who adored him.
“When you can forgive me for making you forget, send me a letter. Handwritten. I might just have to give up my Saturday afternoons to see you.”
She didn’t have a response. And for now, Bish was happy with that. “Do you want to talk to your brother?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He waved Sarraf over.
“You know you’re going to faint if you don’t lie down,” Sarraf told him before taking his phone.
“I’m not prone to fainting.”
When he came to again, Attal was standing over him, one eye concealed by a heavy swollen lid, which had bled down his face. A man that ugly didn’t need another scar.
“Benoix,” Bish mumbled.
The captain knelt and gripped his hand. Didn’t let go. Bish could see he was gutted, but there was relief in his eyes. Then the paramedic dared suggest Attal sit down so she could attend to his face, and a shouting match ensued.
Bish eventually learnt from Sarraf that Attal was combing through the Eurostar at Fréthun when he was alerted to their message. It was minutes before the bomb went off. His first instinct was to contact the school, but there had been no answer and at 4:05 he had collapsed to his knees and wept. Then he got the call from Marianne telling him she was safe. So he went after Benoix, arresting him at one of the bars on the Boulevard Jacquard. But not before beating him to a pulp. Benoix managed to get a few in himself, by the looks of things. He was now in the custody of French intelligence and Attal was told to stay away.
“French intelligence want Eddie’s photos,” Sarraf said. “Especially the one with Dussollier.”
Attal was mumbling something to Sarraf while fighting off the paramedic.
“He wants us to come home with him.”
“Tell him it’s not necessary,” Bish said.
“I think we should go,” Sarraf said quietly.
Sarraf pulled up at the capitaine’s home just as Attal and Marianne were getting out of the car. She was silent. Aloof. Her blue eyes filled with angry tears.
“They are dead because of me. The English and the Spanish girl and Monsieur Sagur,” Marianne told Bish when he joined them.