Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil by Melina Marchetta Page B

between the two.
    Layla’s last encounter with a George Eliot was in high school, where she failed an English literature exam after expressing the view that Middlemarch could have been written in five hundred pages rather than eight hundred-plus. So the hostility she feels towards these two, turning up at ten am without an appointment, is limitless. But one look at them tells her they aren’t here for Silvey and Grayson business.
    ‘Can you bring me the file on the Carrington-King case?’ Layla asks Jemima all the same. Because unknown men in suits means trouble and Layla needs the office spy to reassure the partners that these men are part of everyday business.
    Chances are Jemima will tell Layla to get it herself. On the younger girl’s first day two years ago, Layla told her she wouldn’t be there long. Jemima, misunderstanding, complained, and Layla was called in to explain herself to one of the partners, and to Vera, the head of the admin girls. Layla couldn’t admit that she had meant Jemima would outgrow her typing and filing duties, because Vera was a world-class bitch and would make sure that Layla never got a document typed again. The pity is that Layla liked Jemima instantly. A working-class Hounslow girl, smart and thorough. It was hard shaking a council-estate address when you were working in the city, regardless of your job or your race. But Jemima decided that Layla wasn’t the ally she wanted. The antagonism festered, even though Jemima was the only girl Layla gave work to. Everyone else was lazy and thought they were above it. Rumour had it that Jemima would be in charge of the admin girls one day. Nothing wrong with that. But if Jemima had taken the time to listen, Layla would have told her to get herself a law degree.
    After Jemima leaves the room the two men seat themselves. Gut instinct tells Layla they’re government. Gut instinct has been talking to her since the bombing outside Calais made the front page four days ago.
    ‘Carrington-King?’ the shorter of the two asks, perhaps the Elliot one. Skinny, pale, with a perpetual ‘Who me?’ look on his face, as if he’s in the midst of doing or saying something wrong.
    ‘Two people getting a divorce who don’t concern you,’ she says flatly.
    Jemima returns with the file as well as a quizzical look that can only mean she’s been questioned by one of the partners.
    ‘Will you close the door on your way out?’ Layla says. Jemima leaves and Layla studies the men. ‘What is it you want?’
    There is hesitation, until the other one, a shaggy-dog type with a healthy head of golden-brown hair spliced with grey, stands, sifts through his pocket and hands over a messy business card. Chief Inspector Bish Ortley of the Bethnal Green police station. Now she’s confused. Calais is a long way from Bethnal Green.
    ‘Have you been in touch with Jamal Sarraf lately?’
    But not that far away.
    ‘Last I heard Jamal Sarraf lived somewhere in France.’ She’s pissed off. The men sitting at her desk know she’s pissed off. She presumes both of them have come across many pissed-off women in their lives.
    ‘We’re here out of concern for Sarraf’s niece,’ Ortley says.
    So he’s playing good cop, but there’s something about him. A festering below the surface. The bloodshot eyes and sad teddy bear look. This man comes with a story.
    ‘You desperately care about her, do you?’ she asks. ‘From what I’ve been reading, no one seemed to care about Violette’s reputation when it was smeared before the whole world this week.’
    Ortley gets twitchy at this. ‘We think you may know where she and the boy are,’ he says.
    ‘And why would you think that?’
    ‘Well, let’s start with the fact that you lived next door to Violette’s mother and uncle for almost eighteen years,’ Elliot says.
    ‘I’d like you to leave.’
    ‘Layla,’ Ortley says. ‘Can I call you that? All we need to know is whether Violette has made contact with you. Whether