I’m outside your flat.
He went to the door.
“How are things, Bish?”
Bish figured that a personal visit, and no longer being referred to as Ortley, meant either something was wrong or Grazier was about to ask him to do something he didn’t want to do. He felt bone-tired. He’d covered more mileage in a few days than he had in a year. He wanted a drink, but wanted more desperately to resist having one. An order from Grazier would send him over the edge.
“Things are no different from two hours ago,” Bish said. “When Elliot filled you in on the bail hearing.”
“Can we talk inside?”
He didn’t want Grazier in his home. It revealed too much about him and his state of mind. But Grazier wasn’t going anywhere and Bish didn’t have a choice.
“Love the high ceilings on these postwar restorations,” Grazier said as they made their way down the hallway into the kitchen.
Bish had never noticed, or cared to notice. “I think I’ve got something,” he said before Grazier could make any demands. He turned his laptop around and showed him the image.
“I can take it in to the experts but we’re going to need something clearer than this,” Grazier said, studying it. “What’s to say it’s not someone from the campsite going for a walk?”
“What’s to say it’s not someone on their way to the campsite to plant a bomb?”
Grazier shrugged. “Email it to me. We’re looking at everything. Whose photo is this?”
“The twins from Ramsgate.”
“Whose parents never return my calls. So what’s the Ortley secret ingredient?”
“Apart from looking after uniformed cops and talking to the community about Guy Fawkes celebrations, Grazier, it’s what I do,” Bish said. “It’s my job. So why don’t you talk to the powers that be and get me back to work? I can do all of this better with access to information.”
“You stuck a gun down the throat of a senior detective, Bish. Do you honestly think they’re going to want you back?”
He wondered how long Grazier had known that. And whether the home secretary and the rest of the world knew too. “I’m regretting that I haven’t done the same to you and Elliot.”
“I think the home secretary would give you a medal for sticking a gun down Elliot’s throat.” Grazier tried to smile. Couldn’t pull it off. He made himself comfortable at the breakfast bar. Bish didn’t. Sitting down meant an invitation to stay. Grazier knew that.
“Talk,” Bish said.
Grazier sighed. “Well, let’s start with the easy part and introduce the country to these brave kids. Everyone’s wanting a human interest story now, and Fionn, Manoshi, Lola, and the other kids on that bus are it.”
The easy part? “I don’t think they’re feeling particularly brave at the moment,” Bish said.
“The home secretary wants the public to—”
“Those kids aren’t here to make the public feel good,” Bish interrupted.
“It’s to take the focus off the deaths, now that the funerals are over. Attention off Violette and Eddie too,” Grazier said. “That’s all we’re suggesting.”
“So we’re going to pretend the dead no longer exist? Out of sight, out of mind?”
“I didn’t say that,” Grazier said in an icy tone. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“They’re not ready,” Bish argued. “The kids in hospital are depressed. Charlie Crombie’s being assessed for post-traumatic stress. The others are barely coping. I speak to the parents, Grazier, so I know our little tour of teenagers is falling apart. Thirteen-year-olds getting pissed on alcopops. Getting into fights. Locking themselves in their rooms. Cutting themselves. Bawling all day and night. Not getting out of bed. Taking pills. Screaming in their sleep. Glued to social media for a sighting of Violette and Eddie. Praying that some fucking lunatic isn’t going to bash the shit out of two innocent kids who sat beside them for seven days.” His head was hammering. Too much shouting in his brain. In his heart. He poured a glass of water and downed it. “So on behalf of the parents, can you tell the home secretary that our kids are a bit on the sad side and not up to being next week’s feel-good story?”
Grazier was studying him with one of those looks Bish could never read.
“Why are you really here, Grazier?” he asked. “Now that we’ve got the easy part out of the way.”
Grazier removed a file from his backpack. “This is what we’ve got,” he said. “French intelligence are fixated on Ahmed Khateb as the main suspect. The Algerian driver of the French bus. They want access to Noor LeBrac.”
“No!”
“Let me finish.”
“What’s their strategy?” Bish demanded. “Get into the head of a terrorist by interrogating a so-called terrorist? We’ll lose Noor and any chance of finding Violette and Eddie.”
“A ‘so-called terrorist’?” Grazier asked. “Is that how you’re seeing Noor these days?”