“So how was a confession obtained from a woman who just the day before had written a letter claiming she was innocent?”
A wry smile. “In the movies, the way to get a confession out of a guilty person is to tell them lies and trick them,” Dr. Walden said. “But the way to get a confession out of an innocent person is to tell them the truth. The most damaging truth for Noor LeBrac was that her husband was dead. I was there when they told her Etienne LeBrac had thrown himself off a cliff at Malham Cove and left their daughter on her own. Then, a reminder that her mother was rotting in jail with Stage IV cancer. And that her uncle, the proud patriarch of the Sarraf family, was reduced to cleaning the shit off the toilets in Lewes Prison. They taunted her with the fact that her eighteen-year-old brother was being raped in Belmarsh Prison. They convinced her that only she could make things right for her family, and that by refusing to admit her guilt she was causing them insurmountable pain.”
Bish fought the images conjured up by all this.
“And what did she say to that?” he asked. He knew that Owen Walden’s response was going to challenge everything he had come to believe for the past thirteen years.
The doctor didn’t reply for a long time.
“If you were there for the confession, Dr. Walden, you would have witnessed her reaction?” Bish pressed, trying to control the shake of his hand under the careful scrutiny of the other man.
“I was a bit busy,” the doctor said softly. “I was delivering a baby, Chief Inspector Ortley.”
Bish felt the next breath catch in his throat. “She confessed during labor?”
Walden nodded, and Bish chose his next words carefully.
“Do you believe she was coerced?”
“Is there a difference between belief and certainty?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Bish nodded all the same.
“Then no, I don’t believe she was coerced. I’m certain of it.”
When Owen Walden walked him to his car, he removed the parking fine from under the wipers and handed it to Bish without a word.
“Why is it that you didn’t reveal what you know before now?” Bish asked, hoping he didn’t sound judgmental.
“Because I was a coward. Wasn’t frightened for my life, of course. But I had no doubt that if I went on a Noor LeBrac campaign they wouldn’t hesitate to trump up a bogus malpractice suit.” He was pensive a moment. “I did go and see her a couple of years later and convinced her that if she went for an appeal, I’d testify. She was grateful. Excited. A few ambitious QCs had expressed interest in taking it on.” The old doctor shook his head in regret. “Bad timing. It was July 2005.”
The London bombings. An appeal at that moment would not have stood a chance. Bish unlocked his car door and extended a hand. “I appreciate your time,” he said.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there’s a journalist asking about rumors of a Noor LeBrac pregnancy thirteen years ago,” Walden said. “A Sarah something from one of those dreadful rags.”
“What sort of questions?”
“‘We’re running a story about Eddie Conlon’s connection to Violette LeBrac,’ were her exact words. ‘Is it true you delivered babies at Foston Hall?’”
Bish felt an uncontrollable need to smash something. The doctor gave a sympathetic grimace. “I think of those people often,” Walden said. “Noor LeBrac. The handler. The Conlons. All of them. It’ll be a pity if Eddie Conlon’s connection to Noor is revealed. Noor LeBrac’s children were raised apart to protect the boy’s identity. It will all have been for nothing. A cruel, cruel pity.”
On his way back to London, Bish tried Violette’s number at different intervals, but the phone was switched off and he figured it no longer existed. When his mobile rang he hoped it was her, but instead Grazier’s name showed up on the display.
“That little cheating fucker Crombie is back behind bars,” he said without preamble. “Just got himself arrested for assaulting Russell Gorman. Jumped him outside Strood railway station last night.”
It took a moment for Bish to register the victim’s name. “The chaperone?” he asked. He was a bit annoyed that he hadn’t thought of jumping Gorman outside Strood railway station himself.
“At the moment the only kids on that bus getting good press are those who are dead or injured,” Grazier said. “Crombie’s association with Violette LeBrac is going to get him fried at that hearing. I’m not making threats here, Ortley, but the media will drag anyone linked to her into this mess. Including Bee.”
“Why are you telling me this, Grazier?”
“The Reverend and Mr. Crombie have taken a liking to you. I think they’d appreciate a bit of hand-holding at the bail hearing tomorrow. Anyway, an old schoolmate of yours will be a judge on the case, so you may want to catch up.”
“Then send Elliot.”