Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil

ABOUT THE BOOK

Chief Inspector Bish Ortley of the London Met, divorced and still grieving the death of his son, has been drowning his anger in Scotch. Something has to give, and he’s no sooner suspended from the force than a busload of British students is subject to a deadly bomb attack across the Channel. Bish’s daughter is one of those on board.

Also on the bus is Violette LeBrac. Raised in Australia, Violette has a troubled background. Thirteen years ago her grandfather bombed a London supermarket, killing dozens of people. Her mother, Noor, is serving a life sentence in connection with the incident. But before Violette’s part in the French tragedy can be established she disappears.

Bish, who was involved in Noor LeBrac’s arrest, is now compelled to question everything that happened back then. And the more he delves into the lives of the family he helped put away, the more he realises that truth wears many colours.

Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil is an irresistible novel about human identity, lost children and the nature of real love. With a cast of unforgettable characters and Melina Marchetta’s trademark social insight and wry wit, it’s a cracking fusion of suspense and heart-rending drama.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ALSO BY MELINA MARCHETTA

FOR BIANCA

They call him Scouser Jimmy on the construction site. Everyone has a nickname, so Jimmy takes it in his stride.

‘You remind me of another Jimmy,’ the boss says one day when they’re standing on a plank, high above Brackenham Street. ‘Both of you have the heart of a lion.’

Jimmy read in the Daily Mail months ago that Man United had signed up a Brackenham council estate kid, same age as him. Word on the street is that the other Jimmy has given it his best, all his life. Scouser Jimmy’s becoming a fan, although he’ll be hammered back in Liverpool for admitting it.

He misses home. More than anything he misses his ma and da, sitting with them after dinner in front of the telly, talking about everything and a whole lot of rubbish really. But Jimmy wants to see the world, so he’s in London now, holding down three jobs. Working on construction sites during the week, doing pub work at night, and shucking out the stables at Richmond Park on weekends. If he puts his head down, he’ll have enough to take off within a year. It’s been his dream ever since his parents bought him that atlas with his confirmation money. Jimmy’s ma says that when Da was his age and old enough to sign the papers, he applied for a passport, but he never got to use it.

‘Why don’t you meet me someplace?’ Jimmy asks when he rings one night, just to hear their voices. ‘Maybe Australia?’ Because it was Da who once showed him the images of the red earth there.

Da doesn’t say much, just mumbles a ‘maybe’.

So Jimmy makes a detour and walks down Brackenham Street to St Christopher’s on the corner. He’ll light a candle and make a vow. He’s going to find a way to get Da’s passport stamped. If it’s the last thing he ever does.

Bish dreamt of his son again. It was what woke him. Not that he needed to pinpoint the reason these days. Three am had become his witching hour, and the fears that revealed themselves made him shudder at the thought of all his future three am’s – of what they might produce. Shaking him awake and reminding him of loss and longing and mortality.

He woke again hours later, dragging himself out of bed to the sameness that he’d become used to this past week. A blinding headache. A flat that looked like a university dorm: laundry piled high and a week’s worth of glasses fighting for space on his bedside table. A dead goldfish. That was becoming a ritual now. Another day, another dead fish.

At the front door he collected his post and sat at the breakfast bar sorting it into bills, junk and letters, marvelling at how considerate his postman was, bundling together a deficit to his bank account of five hundred quid in one neat package. Phone bill. Gas bill. Energy bill. Then he came across handwriting. A postcard from Bee: You said to send you a line from Normandy. That was it. No Dear Dad or Miss you heaps. As someone used to spending his days dealing with the scum of the earth, Bish Ortley found no species crueller than the adolescent female. He stared at the cursive, wondering how long he had been waiting for something handwritten, evidence that someone out there had taken the time to reveal the wonders of the world to him.

When his phone interrupted his hangover-induced musings, Bish saw the name of his old boarding school mate. They’d met up only sporadically over the years, usually on Elliot’s initiative. Last Bish knew, he was working for British Rail.

‘Tried you at work but you weren’t there, Ortley.’

Bish wasn’t in the mood for explaining that.

‘Listen . . . things are sketchy, but I thought you needed to know,’ Elliot said. ‘One of the communications people here has picked up talk of a bombing. At a campsite between Calais and Boulogne-sur-Mer. They’re suggesting it could be a busload of British kids on a tour of Normandy. Bumped into your mother last weekend and she mentioned Bee —’

Bish hung up. Heart thumping, pressing Bee’s number with a shaking finger, waiting. Heard the ring first, then her voice.

Obviously not here. Or obviously avoiding you. Pick the reason. Leave a message.

His ex-wife had once warned him that the key to dealing with Bee was not to beg. She was extra cruel when Bish or Rachel pleaded. But he’d trade a lifetime of that cruelty to hear her voice right now.

‘Sweetheart, ring as soon as you get this. Even if you’re angry with me, just ring. I need to know you’re okay.’

He rang Elliot back.

‘What does your coms person know?’

‘Not much. Just that it happened about twenty minutes ago. Someone at the campsite tweeted that the bus had French numberplates, but they’re saying it was carrying British kids. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s hers.’

Bish’s mouth was dry and he didn’t know where he found the word, but it was there. It had formed on his tongue the moment Elliot had said ‘Bee’ and ‘bombing’ together.

‘Fatalities?’

‘Nothing clear yet. But some online images are coming through now. It doesn’t look good. Ambulances, helicopters. Definitely kids being taken away. The French will lock out the press and may jam mobile phone signals if there’s a threat of another device going off. If it were my kid, I’d go now. Can’t imagine the French letting anyone else but parents in.’

Bish didn’t need to be told twice. He’d have to let Rachel know, and he wasn’t sure how. His ex-wife was eight months pregnant, and if Calais came across on some news feed she was following, it wouldn’t be good. But a phone call from Bish while their daughter was away would alarm her. He knew he had to do the right thing, regardless of the fact that the man who’d replaced him was the last person Bish wanted to speak to. He rang before he could change his mind.

‘It’s Bish.’

There was a moment’s hesitation.

‘What’s wrong?’

Good. No pleasantries.

‘Listen, you need to prepare Rachel. There’s been a bombing outside Calais. A tour bus of British kids.’

‘Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck! ’

Maybe not such a good idea to tell the second husband.

‘I haven’t heard from Bee yet,’ Bish said. ‘Tell Rachel to keep off her phone. Bee may try to ring her. Tell her I’m driving there now and I’ll ring the moment I’m at the campground.’

‘Bee doesn’t cope with the tunnel,’ Maynard said. ‘So drive her back on the ferry.’

Bish hung up. His daughter. His claustrophobia she’d inherited, thank you very much. He couldn’t think of anything worse than going through the Channel tunnel, but he didn’t need to hear that from the man who stole his family.

Twenty minutes later he was on the M20 heading to Dover. He’d exhausted every radio station, all regurgitating the same facts or predicting the worst. August in France meant the campsites were packed with kids on tours and families on holidays. He turned down the volume when the talk switched to how many British kids travelled to Europe each year. Next they’d be calculating possible death tolls.

His phone rang and he fumbled to see whose name appeared on the screen. His heart sank.

‘Bish darling, do you know anything?’

His mother had never been much of an alarmist but he could hear the fear in her voice now.

‘I’m on my way there,’ he said.

‘If you haven’t passed the turn-off, let me come with you.’

Saffron Ortley lived forty minutes out of London and en route to Dover. Bish was tempted to lie, say he was long past the turn-off, but his head felt like jelly and lying took effort.

‘Please, Bish. I don’t want you going there alone.’

Three hours later they were sitting on the ferry, sailing towards a nightmare of uncertainty. Saffron, though, had the look of cool practicality that came from years of being a diplomat’s wife. She was the person people noticed when she entered a room, and now, in the ferry lounge, two elderly sisters on their way to visit a niece in Bruges asked her if she’d be a dear and get them a pot of tea. She had already rearranged the seating between them and a couple of backpackers who thought their packs needed a seat of their own. All without a fuss.

‘Who could stomach a beer on a Channel crossing?’ one of the sisters said, watching the activity at the bar where Saffron was buying the teas and shortbread.

Bish could. He could stomach a drink anytime.

Rachel rang just as they were about to drive off the ferry. ‘I spoke to Bee a minute ago,’ she said.

The relief made him dizzy and he rested his head against the steering wheel, waiting for the spinning to stop. He felt his mother’s hand on his.

‘Bee’s okay,’ he told Saffron.

‘She’s pretty shaken, but not hurt.’ Rachel’s voice sounded small. ‘Who’s with you?’

‘Mum,’ he said. ‘So was it Bee’s bus?’

He couldn’t hear her reply. Could hear only her crying, so he figured the answer was yes.

There had been a moment of absolute clarity on the M20, between Maidstone and Ashford: if his daughter was dead Bish would end it all. He’d already identified the body of one of his children. He couldn’t do that twice in his lifetime.

‘I’ll ring you the moment I see her,’ he said. ‘I’m putting Saffron on.’

His mother took the phone and pointed to the other side of the road. ‘Darling, we’re in France now. Hug the right.’

The campsite was thirty minutes’ drive from the port, just outside Boulogne-sur-Mer. It was set within a hundred hectares of wooded land. On a non-heinous day, when a bus carrying teenagers hadn’t been blown up and helicopters weren’t hovering overhead, it would have been a perfect place for quietude. But with no CCTV and no eyewitness on every corner, Bish knew the investigation would be a painstaking one. Halfway down a gravel road that would barely allow the girth of a bus, it already looked like a single-file car park, packed with press vans, police cars, paramedics and desperate local parents. Bish pulled over, knowing it was futile to drive any further.

Walking down the track, they could see a large crowd of journalists ahead. Arguments with police were already breaking out, cameras were held overhead in an attempt to catch a glimpse of anything. At the barricades two young uniforms weren’t letting anyone through. Bish grabbed his mother’s hand and pushed through all the same, finding his way to the front. There must have been a different sort of desperation on both their faces, because one of the French uniforms gave them the time of day. Saffron spoke to them in French and managed to get a slight gesture from the younger of the pair.

‘Show him a photo of Bee, darling.’

Bish struggled to pull it out of his wallet with shaking hands. Perhaps the truth was etched on his every grimace and wince of pain, because a wordless flick of a thumb indicated they were in.

Debris lined the road, mostly bits and pieces of the iron gate that led to the camp car park, with what was left of it hanging from one hinge. Beyond was carnage, partly concealed by a canvas being erected around a bus. Bish could see it was split in two, its front section black and smouldering. The back half looked untouched. Some suitcases had found their way into a clustered pile, others were blown apart. A team of forensic techs worked quietly, the eerie silence mocked by birds that chirped a sinister-happy tune in the surrounding woodlands. Another ambulance passed them, guided by a uniformed cop who had constructed an access path that would not interfere with evidence.

Bish knew there were fatalities. He could see at least two smaller tents pitched close to the half-destroyed bus, and another about a hundred metres away at the steps of a second bus. Three deaths. Bish counted seven other coaches in the car park and recognised a few foreign numberplates at a glance. Polish. Italian. Bee’s bus had seemingly been blown up as it approached the exit gate.

A woman in plain-clothes approached, questioning them in French.

‘Nous sommes anglais,’ his mother said, and Bish saw a flash of pity on the woman’s face.

‘La salle des jeux,’ she said, pointing to the closest building.

Inside the recreation room, paramedics and camp staff were tending to the kids. No one seemed badly injured here, and Bish figured those seriously hurt had already been taken to the closest hospital. Although he hadn’t received an official call about his daughter’s bus being involved, he knew that most of the kids on the tour were from Kent and Sussex, close enough for a worried parent to contemplate crossing the Channel just to be sure. He knew, too, from dropping off Bee at the port in Dover, that out of forty-six places, the tour organisers had managed to fill only twenty-three. He did a quick count, wanting to see twenty-three kids and their chaperones. But then he saw Bee and it was all that mattered.

She was sitting on a bedroll against a wall. The moment she saw him she forgot herself and scrambled to her feet, running to Bish and his mother, her arms trembling in their grip. He held back the choke of emotion, not wanting to let go, because Bee always let go too soon these days. Once upon a time, Bish and Rachel called her their little orangutan because of her clinginess, but three years ago his daughter had stopped believing that her parents could save her from anything.