Layla puts up two hands to stop him. “The moment I get to my computer,” she says, “I’m going to google you and find out everything about you, including your daughter’s name, so you can just go ahead and use it.”
That makes him grimace. He would have been good-looking in his youth, Layla thinks. For girls who are into older men, he probably still is. There’s a bloodshot quality to his eyes that could be attributed to the fact that his daughter’s just been in a bomb attack, but she suspects it’s more than that.
“Bee,” he says finally. “Short for Sabina.”
“And you’re scared she’s going to get dragged into this?”
“To be honest, yes. But I also want Violette and the boy safe.” He gestures again with the slip of paper. “Violette spoke these words to the boy in Arabic. I know it mentions love. That much I understand.”
Layla refuses to take it, which seems to anger him.
“People are dead, Layla. Kids are dead. The right wing both here and in France are riling up racist scum. Violette and the boy’s lives are at risk. Do you honestly think I want those kids hurt?”
“You’ll do anything to protect your daughter,” she says. “Including sacrificing Violette. My sister and Noor were best friends for most of their lives. My sister would never forgive me if I put Noor’s child at risk. I would never forgive myself.”
Layla is finished here. “Please don’t follow me up. If your daughter showed you the photographs, then I’m sure she’ll trust you with the truth.”
“Bee didn’t show us the photos. My ex-wife found them on her iPad.”
Layla can’t believe what she’s hearing. “You snooped on her life? What kind of people are you? Teenage privacy is important. Very.”
“Please,” Ortley says.
She looks down at the paper. It appears to be gibberish.
“I’ll wait out here,” he says.
From the corner of her eye she sees one of the partners in the foyer.
“No, you won’t,” she says, keeping her voice low. “I’ll ring you when I get to it.”
She pockets the paper as Frank Silvey walks to the lift. She means to follow, but stops. Can’t resist.
“Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“Jimmy Sarraf? Did you see him in Calais?”
He nods.
Layla badly wants to ask how he was, but doesn’t. She can’t make junior partner with the Sarraf noose around her neck.
“Don’t call me,” she says. “I’ll call you.”
17
The soup ladle had found a new purpose: scooping dead fish out of the tank. It was getting to Bish now, because he was following all the rules. Don’t overfeed. Make sure the tank is filtered and cleaned. He was even thinking of filling the tank with bottled water. Didn’t drink bottled water himself, but he’d do anything to keep a fish alive these days.
The phone rang and he saw it was Grazier. Bish had finally added him as a contact, because getting five phone calls a day really seemed to invite the inclusion.
“Charlie Crombie?” Grazier said. No salutation. Sometimes he’d come on the line midsentence.
“Hmm?” Bish concentrated on keeping the fish in the ladle as he took it to the bathroom for its final rites.
“I’m presuming that name rings a bell?”
“Responsible for Violette Zidane’s less-than-pure reputation with our tabloid-reading friends.”
“We believe there’s more,” Grazier said.
Bish thought it best not to flush the fish down the toilet in case Grazier drew the wrong conclusion.
“Why?”
“He beat up that kid from Guildford. Tried to do it incognito, wearing a Chelsea beanie. Apparently Crombie’s a Tottenham fan.”
“Kennington?” Bish asked.
“That’s right. I’ve spoken to the chief constable of the Surrey police and she’ll make sure the Guildford lot are expecting you. The other family’s pressing charges.”
Of all the parents Bish had met at the campgrounds, the Kenningtons were the only ones who hadn’t responded to his calls. They’d been the bigmouths with the press. And Bish didn’t know who he liked least: Crombie or Kennington.
“I’m not a copper here, Grazier. So what the hell am I doing? Either arrange for me to go back to work or stop sending me off to do Elliot’s.”
“We’ve got nothing to do with the Met. You answer to the home secretary for the time being, Ortley. She’s not too happy with the way that nutter Gorman handled things, and she’s less than impressed that the foreign minister, our intelligence, and French intelligence are revealing nothing.”
“Because it didn’t happen here?”
“That’s what they’re telling us. To butt out. But the home secretary has to answer to people here, and the way she sees it, the kids on that bus are ours. Anything they get up to on home ground has to be investigated.”
“And who am I down in Surrey?” Bish asked.
“I’ve told you before. Your being one of the fathers is the closest we’ll come to getting people talking. Find out if Crombie and Kennington know something.”
Bish flushed the toilet anyway because he no longer cared if Grazier thought he was taking a dump while talking to him.