“Fuck your job, Ortley. Just resign without fanfare. That’s what the Met wants, by the sound of things.”
Bish had always imagined this moment feeling like a Band-Aid being ripped off his hairy leg, but he suddenly realized he’d been slowly peeling it off since he was suspended. The bomb and Noor LeBrac and her kids and her brother had changed everything. But he would miss his job. And he wished he could have walked away on his terms.
“I’ll be in touch,” Grazier said.
Bish shook his head. “Don’t. Be in touch, I mean. Don’t offer me work.”
Grazier gave him a questioning look.
“Because there’s this woman and it’s complicated and I don’t think you people will approve of where she lives.”
Grazier muttered something as he hurried off after the Crombie entourage.
“His woman’s ex-IRA,” Elliot said. “I’d say he understands complicated.”
54
Bish started the car with Bee in the passenger seat. He heard a knock at the window and saw Violette’s solemn face staring at him. He wound down the window, and before he could ask what she wanted she leaned in and kissed his cheek. And walked away.
He pulled out of the car park and a moment later Bee’s phone beeped. “Anyone I know?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s Violette saying good-bye.”
“Why didn’t she say that just now?”
“Dad, stop asking stupid questions.”
A moment later there was another beep, and Bee made a scoffing sound after reading the text. “Shahbazi’s already hysterical.”
“You have her number?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I thought you two were enemies.”
“Violette told her what Mum said about Violette and me being two Mesopotamian sisters, and of course Gigi had to be the third. Except now we’re apparently three Persian princesses.”
Bish tooted at the Salvation Army van being driven by Charlie. Grazier, of the one facial expression, was riding shotgun. The Crombie Smart car was close behind.
“I’m going to tell you something else now, and you can’t get hurt,” Bee said.
“I can’t promise that.” And he actually couldn’t.
“Okay, then I’ll say it anyway.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to unfriend you on Facebook.”
Bish was crushed. Tried hard not to show it.
“I’ve encouraged all my friends to do the same,” she said, digging the knife in deeper. “Don’t take offense, Dad. We can’t say stuff and muck around with you checking us out.”
“That’s cold, Bee. Really cold.”
“Violette’s started a Free Noor LeBrac page and she says if you want you can join that.”
Little crumbs.
“And I need to tell you one more thing…”
“There’s more? Couldn’t we just stop at you not wanting to be my friend?”
She studied him a moment. “You make Mum laugh,” she said softly. “But David makes her happy.”
She had the iPad in her hand now. Soon it would be four hours of silence after a day of babble. He didn’t want the conversation to end there.
“Can you promise me something now?” he said.
“As long as it’s not something really stupid.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you’ve got that look on your face. Stevie used to call it your he’s-going-to-say-something-stupid face. Remember?”
“Trust me, there’s nothing stupid about what I want you to promise.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“That you’ll never accept Charlie Crombie’s sperm to make my grandchild.”
She laughed. “You’re an idiot.” She put her iPad in her bag and sat back and laughed some more.
By the time he’d driven all the way down to Ashford and then back to London, he was beat. He went to the supermarket to grab some dinner, tempted himself with a look at the off-license, but picked up the Evening Standard instead. For once in his life he liked the front-page news. They were laughing. Violette and Bee and Eddie and Charlie and Fionn and Lola and Manoshi. THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT, ran the headline. It had to count for something.
Inside his quiet flat he collected a week’s post; marveled at the life force of this particular fish; checked his email; was the fourth to join the Free Noor LeBrac group; and sifted through his mail. Bills. Bills. Bills.
Handwritten envelope.
He stared at it, saw it had been opened and then sticky-taped shut, but he didn’t care. And he began to read.
Dear Bashir…
He’d have to get himself a stationery set.
Epilogue