“She’ll want to see you. My mother.”
There was always a complicated but profound relationship between their mothers. Especially at the end.
Layla walks past him into the kitchenette to dump the groceries she picked up on her way home.
“I know who Eddie is,” she says, sensing him close behind her, and when he doesn’t respond she figures that if he didn’t trust her enough to tell her about Noor’s pregnancy all those years ago, then he wouldn’t want to speak of it now.
“Do you want a drink?” She’s desperate for another herself.
“I don’t drink.”
To the point. She feels judged. “The couch turns into a bed,” she says, and without a second thought walks out of her flat.
She flags a taxi and tells the driver to take her to St. John’s Wood. Jocelyn phoned earlier that day. “School’s starting soon, the kids need to be home,” she said. “And Mum was driving me insane.”
When Jocelyn opens the door she doesn’t ask any questions. Gigi’s the only one of the kids still up. Sulking.
“She didn’t come home until an hour after I told her to,” Jocelyn says. “She’s angry because I checked in on her a couple of times last night.”
“You think Violette and Eddie are hiding in her closet?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” Jocelyn is watching her closely. “Is he staying with you?”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Good,” Jocelyn says. “You can stay up with Ali and smoke your lungs out. He doesn’t want to talk to me either. I’m going to bed.”
“You don’t have to be so judgmental!”
“What do you want me to say, Layla? Go home. Deal with Jimmy so you can get on with your life.”
Layla ends up on the back balcony with Ali, smoking a couple of cigarettes and arguing about Jocelyn.
“She shouldn’t have lied to me.”
“She shouldn’t have had to, Ali.”
“My business will survive this. So will the family name. But do you honestly think that Jocelyn is going to be everyone’s favorite fund-raiser, or playdate mum?”
Layla grinds out the cigarette. “You’re going to lose her if you’re a dick about it, Ali. Fix this up before she packs her bags for good.”
31
Saffron rang him on Thursday. Not a particularly good morning for Bish. He had gone from cutting down to just one drink a day to going cold turkey. It introduced the shakes. It introduced the reality of a drinking problem.
“Are you there, darling? Did you know that Anthony Walsh is the district judge on the Charlie Crombie case? Remember him from school?”
A. J. Walsh and Bish had never traveled in the same circles. Walsh had been a demigod back in those days, while Bish was awkward in his own skin, his personality a deterrent to the well-adjusted and well-connected. Being friends with Elliot hadn’t helped. The same Elliot who met Bish outside the Strood courthouse, his crumpled suit marked with food stains.
“Aren’t you supposed to be babysitting Sarraf?” Elliot asked.
“It’s not a babysitting job.”
“Really? I understood you’re not supposed to let him out of your sight until you’ve found Violette and Eddie.”
“I know what I’m doing, Elliot.”
Elliot studied him. “Don’t piss off Grazier.”
“Why? Because he’ll make sure I never work in this town again?”
“This is personal for Grazier, so you don’t want to piss him off.”
“Personal in what way?”
“In a none-of-your-business way,” Elliot said.
“I’d say my daughter being on that bus makes it my business.”
“Did you hear A.J. was running the show today?” Elliot asked, changing the topic.
Bish found himself under the scrutiny of a young journalist he recognized from the campground and the Boulogne hospital. She’d been outside Buckland as well. She walked over and offered him her business card: Sarah Griffith. He didn’t take it.
“Let’s talk about Eddie Conlon sooner rather than later,” she said. Owen Walden had got it wrong. Sarah Griffith didn’t work for one of the rags, but for an online news and entertainment paper. Not that it made a difference. The confident woman standing in front of him was no different from the hacks he’d come across over the years. Age was irrelevant when it came to integrity. And for the life of him, Bish couldn’t find a wisp of integrity in revealing Eddie Conlon’s identity.
Elliot, still beside him, reached across to take her business card. “Sarah Griffith?” he said.
“Yes.”
He handed back the card. “Just committing your name to memory.”
In the foyer, Bish saw Crombie’s parents and reintroduced himself. Arthur Crombie was holding a suit for his son. They seemed relieved to see Bish.
“The barrister has managed to get us a few minutes with him,” the reverend said. “Apart from that, she’s not making much sense to us.”
“Unlike the Kenningtons, Russell Gorman has chosen not to drop the charges,” Bish explained. “So this hearing is to determine whether bail will be set.”
“And if it’s denied?” Crombie’s father asked.