Elliot agreed. “And Gorman will make a media fuss if you let the kid off the hook.”
“Gorman reminds me of that bastard who used to thrash us raw in geography,” Walsh said.
He stood up and walked to the cabinet in the corner of his office. Unlike Elliot and Bish, Anthony Walsh hadn’t aged disgracefully. He had never done anything disgracefully. He’d always been ahead of his time, the first openly gay head prefect at his school.
“Are you two an item?” he said, looking back at Bish and Elliot. “The marriage wasn’t a cover-up, was it, Ortley?”
Bish tried not to look offended in case Walsh believed it was a homophobic reaction rather than an Elliot-phobic one.
“It’s what we all thought back in fifth form,” Walsh said. “You two hung out at each other’s homes for the hols quite a lot. What was the attraction, then?”
“His Italian exchange student,” Bish said.
“His mother,” Elliot said.
Walsh looked slightly amused as he took out a bottle of Johnnie Walker from his cabinet and held up a glass to them.
Yes. Please. Would love to.
Bish shook his head to the drink. Elliot’s phone rang and he walked out to take the call.
“What’s this business about your suspension from the Met?” Walsh asked when they were alone.
Bish was back at school and his head prefect was about to tell him off. “Lost my temper, sir,” he said, feigning humility.
Walsh laughed. “Fuck off.” He sat down and took a sip of Scotch. “What was your nickname back then, Ortley? The Hulk? Mr. Meek and Mild until someone set you off.”
“Did I do that much? Don’t remember.”
“Fourth form. Study hall with Thomas Simpson from Plymouth. It still gets mentioned once or twice at reunions. The ones you refuse to turn up to.”
Bish couldn’t think of anything worse than a high school reunion.
“I was gutted when I heard about your son,” the judge said quietly. “I lost a brother the same way.”
Bish remembered the Walsh family tragedy back when they were fourteen. It had happened in Spain on a family holiday.
“Better see what Elliot’s getting up to,” he said, standing and extending a hand just as a knock sounded on the door. Walsh’s clerk came in with an envelope.
“Little cunt,” Walsh muttered after reading the apology note, then handed it to Bish.
I’d rather rot in jail than apologize to those fuckers!
It wasn’t the words that surprised Bish but the handwriting. He recognized it, knew it by heart, because it was from the one document that had provided information on the day of the bombing and beyond. Regardless of everything, Charlie Crombie had managed to do what the two surviving chaperones had failed to. He had also made sure that most of the kids spoke to their parents on his phone. Fionn Sykes had said it. Charlie Crombie took care of his minions.
“I think I’m it,” Bish said. “Charlie Crombie’s referee.”
They spoke about Charlie and the list a little while longer, and when Bish went to leave again he couldn’t resist asking, “What did you think of the Brackenham Four case?”
Walsh was pensive. “I would have liked to see it presented in a courtroom with a jury.”
“I think—”
“Don’t!” Walsh said. “I’m about to be tapped for the federal court, Ortley. I can’t afford a drama.”
In first form, when Elliot was getting thrashed by the prefects, Bish hadn’t had the guts to stick up for him. But he did write a note and put it in Anthony Walsh’s locker. Elliot was never touched again. Walsh’s idealism had always outweighed his ambition.
“Just five more minutes?” Bish said.
Reluctantly, Walsh sat back down, and Bish started talking, knowing full well that someone else would be waking at 3 a.m. with Noor LeBrac in his head.
It felt good to be spreading the insomnia around.
32
Jamal can hear her moving around in the bathroom next morning. Would she want him in her home in the cold light of day? Would she worry about him being alone in her flat while she was at work? Layla, who trusted him with her getting-the-fuck-out-of-Brackenham money back when they were fifteen. She was planning to run away all the years he has known her, yet here she is, in the same neighborhood.
She walks into the living room dressed for work. Jamal’s never been impressed with suits until he sees Layla in one. She’s been avoiding him ever since he arrived last night. Avoiding the inevitable. Layla and he are unfinished business.
“Can we talk?” he asks, but she’s disappeared into her study.
“I can’t find my keys,” she calls.
He assumes that means a big fat no to the sort of talk he wants to have.
In the kitchenette he puts on the kettle. “Do you want a cup of tea?” he asks when she comes in.
She puts her briefcase on the table, which he takes as a yes. “I was wondering if I could use your computer today. Thought I’d get on Facebook.”
“You? On Facebook?”
He likes that she knows he’s not on Facebook. Perhaps she’s searched him out over the years.