“Layla?”
“I’m not answering personal questions about Noor. Not at this time of the night and not over the phone. Someone’s probably tapping us now like everyone’s tapping phones these days. So can I say, Fuck off to you all and I hope none of you ever get a good night’s sleep again!”
Layla hung up.
A thought suddenly came to him. Bee had used his phone more than once at the campsite. Had she used it to set up contact points with Violette? He scrolled urgently through his calls, back to the day after the bombing. He went through the list of everyone he had rung then, until he came across a number he couldn’t identify. He called it, and after a few rings someone picked up without speaking.
“Violette?” he said.
Silence.
“Violette, listen, it’s Bee’s father. Please trust me. I’d never let anything happen to Eddie. You know that.”
He was disconnected. Bish tried again, but this time an automated voice recording told him that the phone was switched off. He tried three more times before he fell asleep, cursing himself for being so slow on the uptake. A link to Violette had been right there all along, in his hands.
The next morning he was surprised to see that Layla had finally accepted him as a Facebook friend. She’d accompanied her acceptance with a message. Short and to the point. Princess Victoria. Uxbridge Road. Noon.
25
Watching his daughter run a race was one of the few pleasures left in Bish’s life. He had always been in awe of his children’s accomplishments, but was particularly astounded by the idea that any such talent might have come from his half of the genes. Bee wasn’t just fast: she had grace. Ever since she had won a ribbon in the twenty-five meters at the age of four, Bish had gone to most of her track meets. He’d been watching her run up north on the day Stevie died on a beach in Newquay, learning to surf. It was bad enough that Bish would never forgive himself for not being there, but now Noor LeBrac’s words were in his head. It killed him more than a little inside to learn why Bee had stopped competing. He knew it was due to Stevie’s death but hadn’t known she was cutting herself. He and Rachel had both been happily surprised when she started training again this year. She easily made the junior British Athletics team sent to Gothenburg for the European titles and had come home with a gold and a silver.
Early on Tuesday morning he stood watching Bee warm up for the two hundred meters at a London club that was putting on a summer comp. It was her strength and it was Bish’s favorite race to watch, whether it was his daughter or an Olympic runner. It was the race of champions. He liked the fact that Bee had chosen it, rather than the length choosing her.
His phone rang. A blocked number. He ignored it. Twice. Accepted the call reluctantly the third time.
“I will ring you back,” he said, “and for the record, if someone doesn’t pick it up the first time, Elliot, they don’t want to speak to you.”
“But you eventually did pick up, Chief Inspector Ortley, so it must have worked.”
A calm voice. Practical-sounding. A girl with a slight lisp.
“Where’s Eddie, Violette?”
“Safe.”
“He needs to be home with his father.”
“John Conlon had his chance and stuffed up. No more talk of Eddie or I’ll hang up.”
Their accents may have differed, one private school educated, the other broad country Australian, but Violette and Noor LeBrac shared the same tone.
“Where are you, Violette?”
“Why would I tell you that, Chief Inspector Ortley? I’m a suspect and you’re a cop.”
“There’s never been talk about you being a suspect,” he said. “We all just want you and Eddie safe.”
“How do you know everyone wants me and Eddie safe? Have you been following Twitter lately?”
“Okay, so how about we limit it to Bee and I want you both safe. She’d love to see you and Eddie.”
“You reckon? I think she’s angry because I didn’t tell her who I was on the tour.”
“Yes, but you asked her for quite a big favor and she helped you out, regardless.”
“She was still pissed off.”
“Bee’s a bit pissed off with everyone.”
“Well, so am I,” she said, irritated. “Look, I just need you to tell my mum I’m okay.”
“What are you angry about, Violette?”
“Nothing! Everything. Just shut up and promise you’ll tell my mum I’m okay.”
He did part of what she asked and shut up. Knew she was still there.
“I’m sorry,” she said moments later. “That was rude.”
She had manners. Who would have thought?
“Do you know what pisses me off the most?” she asked. “My father was proud of being a LeBrac and my mother still is. I hated not sharing something that belonged to my parents. For all these years I’ve been Violette Zidane, but now you go and take even that away from me.”
“Tell me the story of the watch,” he said.