Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil (25 page)

He couldn’t buy that. There was more to Noor LeBrac than loving a man.

Layla finished her drink and stood. ‘If I cross the Channel to see him, the people I work for, the same ones I want to impress enough to give me a junior partnership, will find out. I can’t let the rest of my life be controlled by the misfortunes of the Sarrafs.’

She was crying now.

‘It pains me – it
shames
me – to say that. So please don’t ask me again.’

From the pub he headed south for Rye, where Rachel had discovered that the retired Dr Walden was running the Red Goose B&B. If Bish wanted to reduce himself to quoting Violette, then being at the mercy of holiday-makers clogging up the A229 was what he would describe as a nightmare of biblical proportions.

He arrived in Rye an hour after his GPS promised and drove through the narrow town wall gate, clipping his side mirror in the process, before parking his car on a steep lane that petered out in what looked to be a courtyard shared between the village church and a cottage. Heading off on foot in search of the B&B, he passed the same pub patrons at least five times before one of them pointed him in the direction of the Red Goose. Dr Walden was out for the evening, which meant that Bish was forced to spend the night in a room too small for someone not born in the seventeenth century and stunted by famine.

Next morning, Dr Walden’s wife proved to be like most B&B hosts he’d come across by giving him an excess of local information.

‘. . . and then I’d finish on Winchelsea Beach. Glorious in this sunshine. Let me get you a couple of maps.’

Bish smiled politely. ‘And would you tell Dr Walden I’d like to say hello?’ he said.

She looked at him with curiosity. ‘Then you know Owen?’

‘A mutual friend whose baby he delivered at St Therese’s told me to look him up here.’

‘Of course,’ she said, and left to get his maps, while he pocketed a few of the marmalade samples.

When Owen Walden finally stood before Bish after the breakfast rush he was wary. Bish felt studied, judged, dismissed, then reluctantly studied all over again.

‘I’ve seen you on the telly,’ the doctor said.

‘You may well have. My daughter was on that bus in France,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Bish Ortley. I’ve been sort of dragged in as a spokesperson for the parents.’

‘The media seem to be reporting a whole lot of nonsense,’ Walden said. And when Bish agreed, the man added, ‘Emma mentioned we have a mutual friend whose baby I delivered.’

‘Yes, at St Therese’s. Noor LeBrac.’

At the mention of the name, Bish could see that Owen Walden had a story to tell but wasn’t quite sure whether Bish was a man to trust.

‘I’ve been waiting for this moment. No one’s ever come asking about her. Until now, with those kids off all over the place.’

‘Her kids?’ Bish prompted.

Walden took a moment to reply. ‘I’m presuming you’re in contact with people who know all the answers, so why come to me?’

‘Because I have a feeling you’ll give me the straight-out truth and they won’t,’ he said.

Owen Walden seemed to like the response. He sat down.

‘You knew something the rest of the world didn’t,’ Bish said. ‘Did it ever worry you?’

The doctor dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘I don’t think it was top secret. She may have been in solitary confinement but there would have been a handful of people who knew she was pregnant. Granted, the authorities didn’t want people to know. It would have earned her sympathy, and someone had to pay for what happened. True?’

‘Is that what you believe?’

‘I believed a lot of things before I heard her confession.’

‘So you can vouch that there was one?’

‘Oh, there certainly was.’

A pity, Bish thought, and was surprised at himself. Perhaps Rachel and Violette’s conviction had started to make a dent in his head.

‘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 tell them the truth. The most damaging truth for Noor LeBrac was that her husband was dead. I was there when they told her that Etienne LeBrac had thrown himself off a clliff at Malham Cove and left their daughter on her own. Then, a reminder that her mother was rotting in jail with stage four 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 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 labour?’

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 judgemental.

‘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 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 rumours 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 own mobile rang, Grazier’s name showed 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.’

‘I will, but I want you there as well. There’ll be a media presence and we don’t want Elliot talking to them. He’s not very good with the uncivilised. I’ll send you the details.’ When Bish didn’t respond, Grazier said, ‘Tomorrow, two-thirty.’

Bish was about to turn onto the M20 for London when he found himself following the signs to Dover instead.

‘What if I told you I could bring in Violette and Eddie by the end of the week?’

‘I’d tell you that you’d be making the Home Secretary very happy.’

‘Well, if she wants to be happy she has to be willing to pull a few strings. Big strings. Some may say Big Impossible Strings. Are you listening?’

He heard the trademark irritated sigh, but he knew Grazier was listening.

Two hours later he entered La Forge Salle de Boxe on Rue Delacroix. Jamal Sarraf was taping the hands of a kid a little older than Eddie Conlon. Bish wondered if Sarraf saw himself in these younger lads. That fidgeting desire to get into a boxing ring or onto a football pitch. An immigrant boy’s next step to a better life. England’s cricketers always seemed so much more composed, walking calmly on and off the field, not as if their whole lives depended on it. Perhaps it was why Bish cared little for the game of cricket. He could see the skill and brilliance, but no feral hunger pulsing through the players’ veins.

Sarraf was alerted to his presence by one of the old guys, and Bish saw fear cross his face. He knew it wasn’t fear of him, but of what he might have to tell him about his niece. And nephew.

‘Violette and Eddie are fine,’ he said straight away. ‘She rang yesterday.’

Sarraf wasn’t going to express thanks for the news, but he looked relieved all the same.

‘Has she contacted you?’ Bish asked.

‘I’ve had my phones tapped by your people for the past week and a half. If she had rung me, you’d know about it.’

‘No, you’ve probably had your phones tapped by the French,’ Bish said. ‘I can’t imagine them letting the Brits in for a listen.’

‘Thanks for correcting that assumption,’ Sarraf said.

‘Those kids have managed to stay hidden this long but I don’t know how much longer their luck will hold out.’

‘Luck?’ Sarraf’s laugh had little to do with humour. ‘My niece is the daughter of two incredibly smart people. That’s why no one’s found them yet.’

‘Can we talk somewhere private?’ Bish asked.

‘No we can’t.’

‘Even if it’s in Violette’s best interest that we do?’

‘I don’t trust that you have Violette’s best interest at heart.’

‘But Violette does, so you’re going to have to accept that the daughter of two incredibly smart people chose me to trust.’

Somewhere private was a bar on Rue du Duc de Guise. Sarraf wasn’t going to let Bish into his flat above the gym. The barman placed a pot of tea in front of Sarraf and gestured at Bish with a raised chin and a look at Sarraf that meant either ‘What does he want?’ or ‘Who is he?’ Bish insisted on ordering his own coffee in his best French, which didn’t seem to impress anyone.

Once or twice someone clapped Sarraf on the back as they passed him by and there was a brief exchange of handshaking and small talk. Those who stood at the bar for their coffee were out within minutes. Others sat and were served wordlessly. Familiarity: Bish missed it. He missed being known. He had spent the past three years avoiding the sort of regularity that invited conversation. Had gone from having one local pub to a few, so as not to draw attention to being rat-arsed every second night.

‘I want you to speak to your sister,’ he said after he’d finished his coffee. ‘You need to put your heads together to bring these kids in.’

‘Five-minute conversations on two-pound phone cards don’t exactly allow for a shitload of communication between Noor and me.’

‘I’ll give you half an hour with her,’ Bish said. ‘Face to face.’

Sarraf stiffened. He stared at Bish in disbelief. Or was it fury?

‘What are you playing at, Ortley?’

‘Go get your passport,’ Bish said. He put five pounds on the counter and heard an irritated sound from the barman. Sarraf swapped the pounds for euros and gave him back some change.

‘This better not be a joke,’ Sarraf said.

‘Lost my sense of humour when someone put a bomb on my daughter’s bus.’