Bee looked unconvinced.
“And if you were experimenting with drugs, so be it,” her mother said.
“I was experimenting with drugs when I was fifteen, Rachel. It’s why David called you up to school and you started an affair with him.”
This was the perfect moment for Bish to take over. He was now the favorite parent. “It’ll be pretty low-key,” he said. “We’ll have a legal representative, and Capitaine Attal has insisted there be only one person from French intelligence interviewing. He’s pretty particular about who speaks to his daughter.”
“His daughter?” Bee asked, stunned.
“Don’t worry about what she’s saying, Bee,” Rachel said. “The Home Office is sending one of their best solicitors, and you know that no matter what, I won’t let anything—”
“Do I need to pack a bag?”
39
Bee’s stomach is churning. Driving off the ferry reminds her of that time at the beginning of the tour. When Astrid Copely was taking photographs of the fat bottom of the woman in front of them. It’s what Astrid did all the time—take photos of ridiculous things. Astrid was the one who came up with the idea of taking photos of droolers while they were sleeping. Michael Stanley was the exact opposite. Very intense and quiet, but not in the dreamy way Fionn was quiet. Bee tries to remember Mr. McEwan from that day. Put a motor on it, Fionn. That was his way of telling Fionn to stop staring into space and walk faster. And then the coach arrived to pick them up and everyone said the driver looked like a serial killer. Serge had a strong accent and he would tell them over and over to learn the number plate by heart because the buses all looked the same, and Eddie would do the perfect impersonation. Bee wishes she knew more about Serge and the others who died.
The port of Calais is for Bee about life before the bomb. Before seeing Michael’s dead body. It was her first one. Her parents wouldn’t let her see Stevie’s body, so she feels she never got the chance to say good-bye. But since seeing Michael dead, Stevie is suddenly everywhere. Standing beside Eddie and Violette outside the bus after the explosion, yelling, Run, Bee. Run. There between Violette and Eddie as they wait for her at the bus stop outside Mile End tube station, and then walking alongside Eddie when he crosses the road to buy chewing gum. It’s as if the bomb has resurrected her brother, after Bee has spent these years closing her heart to everything.
The barrister from Home Office is there to meet them outside the police station in Calais. Marie Bonnaire looks like most of the other barristers Bee has come across in her mother’s world. Not exactly one of the Top Twenty-Five Glamorous Female Barristers in the UK as featured online.
Marie holds out a hand for Bee to shake. “Do you go by Sabina?”
“Bee.”
“They’re waiting inside.”
Her stomach churns even more. Her father notices her reluctance and squeezes her hand.
“We’ll be out of here in no time,” he tells her.
How clueless can one man be? As if she gives a shit how long they’re in here.
The three of them walk into an interview room. Capitaine Attal is there, and another creepy-looking man with a Dracula-peak hairline called something Dupont. He’s one of the investigators from French intelligence. And she is there. Marianne Attal.
There’s a lot of talking in French among Marie Bonnaire and the other two men about the driver of the French bus. Bee can tell Capitaine Attal wants to explain to her dad what’s being said but the Dupont guy keeps shutting him down. Dupont tells Marie that the information he’s just revealed is for Downing Street ears only and not for the father of a witness. Bee is pretty particular about who makes her dad look like a fool.
“The driver of the French bus lived in North London in 2002,” she tells her dad.
Now she has everyone’s attention. Dupont isn’t happy. There’s more discussion about secrecy, and not letting the press in on anything. Once or twice the capitaine says something to her dad in the most god-awful English Bee’s ever heard. But then her dad responds in the most god-awful French in existence and Bee can’t avoid Marianne Attal’s eye roll. Whose father is the biggest dickhead of biblical proportions? Violette would ask.