Bish wondered if all the students had also seen Monsieur Ortley have a fainting spell. But he was too happy to care. Until he saw Eddie Conlon’s face on the TV screen in the lounge. Had that journalist done exactly as she’d threatened? Or was it something worse? Don’t let him be dead. Bish strained to listen, as if he might understand by sheer force of will. His phone rang and for once he was glad to see it was Elliot.
“Eddie Conlon?” Bish said.
“Then you’ve seen it. Sarah what’s-her-face ran with the story and it’s gone fucking viral.”
The cruelty of it. Just when the boy was out of danger he was exposed as the grandson of a terrorist. Bish watched footage of the media camped outside a cottage. The graffiti on the stone wall read Eddie Bin Lardin leaves hear. All the sacrifices made to keep Eddie from this sort of hate. All for nothing.
The segment crossed to Layla Bayat walking out of the Holloway grounds, closely followed by a press pack.
“Why is the press after Layla Bayat?” he asked Elliot.
“Asking whether it’s true she was asked to leave Silvey and Grayson because of her links to a terrorist cell.”
Bish swore under his breath, moving closer to the screen.
“What’s Noor saying about her children, Layla?”
He watched as Layla stopped walking, and for a moment he thought she was going to have a meltdown on live TV. But only for a moment.
“We’ll deal with the treatment of Violette and Eddie soon enough,” she said to the first microphone poked in her face. “For now, I’m here because Noor LeBrac’s confession thirteen years ago was obtained illegally, by coercion. Her imprisonment is unlawful. Louis Sarraf acted on his own and my client is innocent.”
Bish felt his heart somersault.
His phone beeped a message.
Can you make sure nothing happens to her? Please.
Jimmy. Helplessly watching the girl he loved from across the Channel.
51
Layla’s phone rings all morning. Interviews. A death threat. Her mother. A death threat. Phillip Grayson wanting her to “pop into the office for a talk.” And yet another death threat. She sits on the stairs outside her flat door. She can hear her home phone ringing nonstop inside.
If the truth be told, Layla’s petrified. Not just because of the death threats, but because there’s no turning back now. She’ll have to make a list of all the things she needs. Office space. A barrister. A paralegal. God Almighty, she’ll have to sell her flat and move back in with her parents.
Her mobile rings and she sees her sister’s name.
“If you’re going to speak to the press, Layla, you need to look like a million pounds or they’ll make out that you’re nothing but a council flat girl who has no idea,” Jocelyn says.
“A million isn’t that much these days.”
“Two million, then. So two suits. I’m taking you shopping.”
Jocelyn’s crying. Everyone seems to be these days.
“And if Ali offers you an overdraft, Layla, take it.”
“Well, I’ll think about it, but I may have another way.”
“Layla, do not move back in with Mummy and Baba.”
“Keep telling me that,” Layla says. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She returns Phillip Grayson’s call.
“Come in and let’s talk, Layla,” he says. “If you win this, LeBrac and the Sarrafs will go for compensation. You can’t go after those responsible on your own.”
Can she really still be naive enough to feel surprised? It was always going to be about money for the Graysons of the world.
“Remember when you used to send me out to see the ‘Arab clients,’ as you liked to call them, Phillip?” she says. “Because most of them were old-fashioned and preferred to meet with one of their own kind? So what if they find out that it was you who told the press I was sacked because of my so-called links to a terrorist? I have a feeling they’re going to want to start looking for different legal representation. A firm that doesn’t reek of racism.”
He makes an impatient noise. “Then why call me back, Layla?”
“I want you to swap the word ‘sacked’ for ‘made redundant’ and I want a package. I’ll get back to you with the details. And for your information, Noor LeBrac and the Sarrafs would never go for compensation. Out of respect for the people Louis Sarraf killed.” Layla wishes she had one of those old phones she could slam in his ear.
She hears the sound of the front door opening on the ground floor and tentative footsteps walking towards the stairs.
“Layla?”
Surprised, she peers down the staircase and sees Jemima.
“They’re wasting your time,” Layla calls out. “I’ve already told Grayson what I want.”
Jemima reaches her, holding a takeaway coffee. “Everyone says you’d be a fool not to take the job back.”
“Why, when I can get a redundancy package instead?”
“Enough to pay a paralegal?” Jemima asks.
Layla can’t hide her surprise.
“Offer me a job or you’ll end up with someone like that crap paralegal from Leeds who couldn’t understand your writing.”
Jemima holds out the coffee. “Latte with half a sugar?”
Layla can’t help a smile.
“What else do we need?” Jemima asks.
We. Paralegal. Tick.
Her phone beeps again. “If you’re going to work for me, start by reading this.” She hands the phone to Jemima. “And if it’s a threat, delete it.”
Jemima studies the screen. “Sounds more like a come-on than a threat.”
“Jimmy?”