Fearing that Grazier or French intelligence would somehow discover a more intimate connection between his daughter and the missing kids, Bish drove to Gravesend late that afternoon to see Bee. The house had been in the family for generations. A three-acre property that was ridiculously too big for a woman living on her own, but it was home. Saffron had spent the past fifty years traveling for his father’s work, “to some of the most tedious parts of the world, darling.” His father had never made it high enough up in the service to have preference regarding where to be sent next. The Worthingtons had commented more than once that lack of ambition ran in the Ortley line. It’s what some people believed when a cop chose not to become a detective.
When Bish pulled up at the former coach house on Church Lane, his mother was pruning roses in the front garden. He watched her work and realized that regardless of her beauty, Stevie’s death had aged her. It had aged them all.
“Rachel rang,” she said when he crouched beside her.
“Does Bee know I’m coming over?”
They looked up to see Bee staring down at them from her window.
“Well, she obviously does now.”
Inside the house Bish climbed the stairs and waited awhile at Bee’s door before knocking, then entering. It had been his room once, and now it was Bee’s whenever she came to stay. He was pleased to see that she hadn’t thrown out his posters. Bauhaus. Joy Division. Siouxsie and the Banshees. He had Elliot to thank for his postpunk obsession.
Bee was lying on the bed with her headphones on. She removed them and shook her head bitterly when he handed her the photos he’d printed out.
“You have no right looking at my personal stuff.” A tremble of fury in her voice.
Bish sat down on her bed. “We’re worried about you, Bee. You’ve been so cagey—even before Calais. What’s this about you dropping out of martial arts? Where did you go every Saturday morning?”
“It’s none of your business,” she said.
“Well, actually it is, sweetie.”
Bee got off the bed and pulled on a pair of runners. “Let’s make a deal, Bish. I won’t ask why you’ve been suspended and you don’t pry into my life.”
“Tell me about the photos,” he said, not giving in. “You said Violette wasn’t a friend.”
“I’ve got photos with everyone!”
“No you haven’t.”
Bish had never seen a photograph of Bee with friends. She slipped in and out of friendship groups with little fanfare. It didn’t worry Rachel, who claimed that not many people still hung out with their school friends; Bee would find her tribe one day. Were Violette and Eddie part of her tribe now? Violette LeBrac’s arm had hugged Bee to her in an almost sisterly way.
“Bee, I need you to tell me the truth. The French equivalent to MI5 is in charge of this investigation now and I don’t want them on your doorstep. Do you know where Violette and Eddie are?”
“She’s a scummy terrorist’s spawn and I hope she rots in hell. That’s all you need to know.”
Bish thought it best not to ask the question that was hovering. Was she in a relationship with Violette? Was his daughter secretly in love with Noor LeBrac’s daughter?
Saffron insisted he stay the night. Bee made a brief appearance at dinner—for her sake, Bish presumed. Bee never extended her surliness to his mother. When Bish’s phone rang after the meal and Elliot’s name showed on the screen, he was tempted to ignore it, and then he remembered that Grazier and whoever he worked for had a tape of a conversation between Violette and her grandmother. Had there been mention of Bee? He took the call.
“Is there a reason you don’t answer your phone?” Elliot asked.
“Yes. I rarely want to speak to you.”
“Grazier thinks the kids on the bus know more than they’re letting on,” Elliot said.
“Why would he think that?”
“Because one of Grazier’s contacts is a journalist who was at the campground, and he overheard a girl talking about the night before the bombing. Said she saw something. When Grazier tried to set up an interview with the family he was told to go away.”
“Who is she?”
“The girl from Chichester.”
“Greta,” Bish said.
“Can you look into it, seeing you’re on first-name terms with these kids?”
“I’m not,” Bish said. “It’s common courtesy to know their names. You know, referring to her as the girl from Chichester doesn’t exactly invite a relationship with the girl from Chichester’s parents.”
“Then can you have a chat with Greta and find out if she saw or heard something the night before the bombing?”
Bish wanted something in return. He tried to sound casual about it. “By the way, did Grazier get that conversation translated? Violette and her grandmother?”
“He did, and we’re trying to work out how to deal with it. We don’t want some of this stuff getting out.”