“No,” he said. “They’re dead because of Benoix.”
The woman who opened the door to them held Marianne wordlessly and Bish could see her hands trembling. When she let go, she ushered them all inside.
The Attals lived in a cramped apartment. There were two other kids, a boy of fifteen or so and another of six, both talking at once. They threw themselves onto their father as soon as they saw him, and Bish heard him suppress a groan of pain. For the next few hours Bish spoke through Sarraf and Marianne, who managed to keep texting as she translated, while her mother sewed up her father’s brow with rough, furious fingers. She was a nurse, Bish was told, and she pointed a finger at him, so he knew he was next.
The family were big talkers. It sounded to Bish that they were shouting half the time, except when eating. Halfway through dinner, two lads, twins of about twenty, burst into the house, shouting even louder. One of them dragged his sister out of her seat and all but choked her while hugging her. The other was crying.
“Any more?” Bish asked Marianne, trying to make light of all the emotion.
She shook her head and gleefully made a scissor with two fingers, pointing to her father. Attal had had the snip. Who could blame him after five kids?
Then the bottle of Brenne came out and Bish knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. He was tired and homesick for Bee. And strangely also for Noor. It made him feel like a fool—not because of feeling this way about a convicted terrorist, but because she was a woman he couldn’t possibly be with. He’d have this drink to forget the fool he was. He had tried the sober thing for days now, but anyone would understand.
Just as he was about to take the glass of Scotch held out to him, he noticed a photo on the mantelpiece. Marianne standing on a podium holding a gold medal. Goteborg Sverige. Beside her, holding the silver, was Bee. Bish caught Marianne’s eye. Bee and Marianne knew each other from Gothenburg? And at that moment Bish knew with certainty who had taken the photo of Bee, Eddie, and Violette. Marianne Attal had put that look in his daughter’s eyes. Oh Bee, of all the girls in the world, you pick the daughter of a copper?
When it was time to say good-bye there was a lot of kissing on both cheeks with all of them. Except Attal’s wife, who held Bish in a robust embrace. “Merci, Bashir. Merci.” And it felt strange but familiar to hear her use his proper name.
Attal grunted something to him and Sarraf interpreted. “He says, ‘Learn French and I’ll take you fishing.’”
The capitaine held out a hand to Sarraf and said something in such earnest rapid-fire French that Bish figured it was personal and didn’t ask him to translate.
Outside, on the sort of night when the wind speaks cruelly of summer’s end, Bish couldn’t help sighing with regret. “I speak one language,” he said as they got into the car. “Should have learnt more. You can conquer the world that way.”
“My sister and I speak quite a few and we’re not exactly ruling the world,” Sarraf said. He started the engine. “You can crash on the sofa,” he offered.
Bish didn’t argue, though he knew the ferries ran all night.
They drove in silence until they neared the flat above the gym. “I’ve drawn you up a fitness plan,” Sarraf said.
“Really?”
“You’re a heart attack waiting to happen, Ortley. You need to get yourself fixed up here.” He pointed to his own head. “Make your goals reasonable. You’re never going to have a six-pack again so don’t aim for that.”
“Never had one in the first place.”
“You’re good at what you do, Ortley. Ask them for your job back. You’re not the first copper to get pissed on the job.”
“Yes, but I’m probably the first to stick a gun down a colleague’s throat.”
Inside, Sarraf grabbed a couple of blankets from a closet and threw them on the sofa. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, moving to his side of the room.
“Jimmy?” Bish called. He’d remembered something Noor had told him about the Sarraf family’s guilt.
“It was a twelve-seater bus today. Twelve kids. Twenty-four parents. Thirty or so siblings. Forty-eight grandparents. All those people and I haven’t even counted friends. Tonight, be a mathematician for the living and not the dead.”
50
Bish was still on a high next morning on the ferry heading back to Dover. The Guardian reported the arrest of Benoix and the bomb on the Calais bus. Also that Jamal Sarraf had been working with the police and was being hailed as a hero. Two students were interviewed about the terrifying moment. “Monsieur Sarraf, he says, ‘Rentrez! Rentrez!’ Go back!”