“We’ll talk in a moment,” the chaperone whispered, before hurrying to introduce himself to the newly arrived parents.
Bish went back to the handwritten sheet. He didn’t want to look further down the page. Didn’t want to see a phone number penciled beside an unaccountable because then he’d feel obliged to ring a parent. But he did look, committing the names to memory. And there on the list he saw one he couldn’t easily forget. It seemed unfathomable. It stunned him, but he dared not let himself think it was anything more than sheer coincidence.
Violette LeBrac Zidane.
2
The moment Bish stepped outside, it was easy to see who was in charge: Capitaine Olivier Attal. The French police captain looked like a prizefighter. Ugly as one. A nose broken too many times to count, from the looks of things. A bear of a man in both shape and facial hair. Attal had insisted that all the anglais stay until he’d interviewed everyone who’d been on board the bus, even if it took all night.
More parents had arrived from across the Channel, at first hysterical, then relieved, and then guilty at their relief. The rumor was that Julius McEwan was dead. He was a history teacher at a school in Dover and the chaperone the kids most relied on. They seemed indifferent to their youngest shap, Lucy Gilies, a twentysomething reading history at Cambridge. Bee claimed Lucy was prone to hysterics and had to be sedated after the bomb went off, which made Bish question whether she’d written the list of names after all. That had left the kids at the mercy of their least favorite shap, Gorman, who’d earned the nickname Vermin. Since the blast, he’d spent most of his time on the phone with the embassy, and this was known because all he seemed to say was, “I’m on the phone with the embassy.”
Bish watched Attal exchange a word with one of his officers, who was labeling items around the bomb site. Suddenly the two were staring in Bish’s direction.
Even across this distance he knew he was under scrutiny, so he faced the inevitable and made his way towards them.
“L’inspecteur en chef?” Attal asked with more than a hint of hostility.
Before Bish could introduce himself, Attal cut him off.
“Not need d’inspecteur en chef anglais.”
Bish shook his head. Pointed back to the hall. “My fille. Sabina.”
“Passport?” the man demanded.
Bish bristled but retrieved his passport from his pocket and handed it to Attal, who studied it.
“Bashir Ortley.”
Bish wasn’t interested in explaining his family history right now.
The capitaine pointed back to the bomb site. “Vous connaissez les noms?”
Bish shook his head, confused. He had a very basic understanding of French. Didn’t know what the man was asking, and contemplated a search for Saffron, who could translate.
“Les morts?”
Dead. Did Bish know who the dead were? He was about to shake his head but remembered the list in his pocket. He handed it to Attal, pointing to the names beside “Unaccountable” and then showing him the roughly sketched seating plan.
The capitaine studied the page and pointed to two names, their ages, their genders. Bish had to congratulate the scribe, whoever it was, for going into such detail. Attal was making a match. Two males. One aged in his thirties, the other fifteen. A student named Michael Stanley and a teacher named Julius McEwan. Bish’s heart sank. With their names came the thought of family, friends, schoolmates, colleagues, teammates, neighbors…
Bish saw Attal stiffen as he scanned further down the list.
“Merde.”
That word Bish did understand, and he knew exactly what Attal was referring to. Couldn’t agree more. Bee’s tour of Normandy had included the granddaughter of Louis Sarraf, the man responsible for killing twenty-three people, and himself, in the Brackenham bombing over thirteen years ago. Violette LeBrac Zidane’s mother, Noor LeBrac, confessed to making the bomb and was now serving a life sentence.
“Où est-elle?” Attal pointed to the name. Repeated the question.
Bish shrugged. A universal gesture. He had no idea where she was, but as a copper he understood what Attal was thinking. Violette Zidane could have been the intended target of this morning’s carnage. The girl needed to be found sooner rather than later. Bish and Attal struggled through their language barrier for a couple more minutes, until they both gave up. The only fact Bish was able to comprehend was that the body at the steps of the other bus belonged to a Spanish girl.