Deception on His Mind (16 page)

“And he was supposed to marry the Malik daughter, wasn't he?”

“Yeah. One of those take-away marriages, all boxed up pretty by Mummy and Dad. You know what I mean.”

“So perhaps there were problems with that. She didn't ring his chimes. He didn't ring hers. She wanted out, but he wanted to immigrate, and she was his ticket. The whole situation ended up getting settled permanently.”

“Neck breaking's an extreme measure for ending an engagement,” Emily noted. “Anyway, Akram Malik's been part of this community for years, and from everything I know about him, he treasures his daughter. If she hadn't wanted to marry Querashi, I can't think her father would have forced her.”

Barbara mulled this over and went in a new direction. “They still use dowries, don't they? What was the daughter's? Could Querashi have been a little too ungrateful for what the family saw as generosity?”

“So they eliminated him?” Emily stretched out her long legs and cradled the brandy between her palms. “I suppose that's a possibility. It's completely out of character for Akram Malik, but for Muhannad …? I wouldn't put violence past that bloke. But that doesn't address the problem of the car.”

“Was there an indication that something had been taken?”

“It was completely torn apart.”

“And had the body been searched?”

“Definitely. We found the keys to the car in a patch of samphire growing on the cliff. I doubt Querashi would have tossed them there.”

“Was anything left on the body when he was found?”

“Ten pounds and three condoms.”

“No identification?” And when Emily shook her head, “Then how did you know who the victim was?”

Emily sighed and closed her eyes. Barbara had the impression that they'd finally come to the meaty part, the part she'd so far managed to withhold from everyone outside of the investigation.

“He was found yesterday morning by a bloke called Ian Armstrong,” Emily said. “And Ian Armstrong knew who he was by sight.”

“An Englishman,” Barbara said.

“The
Englishman,” Emily said grimly.

Barbara immediately saw the direction in which Emily was heading. “Armstrong has a motive?”

“Oh yes.” Emily opened her eyes and turned her head to Barbara. “Ian Armstrong worked for Malik's Mustards. He lost his job six weeks ago.”

“Did Haytham Querashi sack him, or something?”

“It's worse than that, although it's vastly better from Muhannad's point of view, considering what he'll probably do with the information if it leaks out to him that Armstrong found the body.”

“Why? What's the story?”

“Revenge. Manipulation. Necessity. Desperation. Whatever you like. Haytham Querashi replaced Ian Armstrong at the factory, Barb. And the minute Haytham Querashi died, Ian Armstrong got his old job back. How's that for a motive from heaven?”

HAT COULD BE DICEY,” BARBARA ADMITTED
. “But wouldn't Armstrong have had an even stronger motive to kill whoever gave him the sack?”

“In some circumstances, yes. If he was after revenge.”

“But in these circumstances?”

“Armstrong had apparently been doing a spot-on job. The only reason he was let go was to make room for Querashi in the family business.”

“Bloody hell,” Barbara said with devotion. “Has Armstrong an alibi?”

“Claims he was home with the wife and a five-year-old. With a flaming ear ache—that's the kid, not Armstrong.”

“And the wife would corroborate that, right?”

“He's the main breadwinner and she knows what side her slice is buttered on.” Emily restlessly played her fingers along the curve of a peach in the fruit bowl. “Armstrong said he'd gone to the Nez for an early morning walk. He said he'd been taking early morning walks on both days at the weekend for some time now, getting away from the missus for a few quiet hours. He doesn't know if anyone's seen him on these walks, but even if they have done, he could have used a normal weekend activity as a form of alibi.”

Barbara knew what she was thinking: It wasn't that rare an occurrence that a killer made a pretence of stumbling onto a corpse after the fact, the better to direct the spotlight of guilt onto someone else. Yet something Emily had earlier noted prodded Barbara to take a different tack. “Forget the car for a moment. You said Querashi had three condoms and ten pounds on him. Could he have gone to the Nez to meet someone for sex? To meet a prostitute, perhaps? If he was about to marry, perhaps he wouldn't have wanted to risk being seen by someone who'd report his liaison back to his future father-in-law.”

“What prostitute do you know who'd give it a go for ten pounds, Barb?”

“A young one. A desperate one. Perhaps a beginner.” When Emily shook her head, Barbara said, “Then perhaps he was meeting a woman who'd otherwise be unavailable to him, a married woman. The husband caught on and did him in. Is there any indication that Querashi knew Armstrong's wife?”

“We're looking for connections,” Emily said, “with everyone's wife.”

“This Muhannad bloke,” Barbara said. “Is he married, Em?”

“Oh yes,” Emily said quietly. “Oh yes indeed. He had his own boxed-up marriage some three years ago.”

“A happy marriage?”

“You tell me. Your parents inform you that they've matched you up with a mate for life. You meet this person and the next thing you know, you're locked into marriage. Does that sound like a recipe for happiness to you?”

“Not really. But they've been doing it for centuries, so it can't be all bad. Can it?”

Emily cast her a glance that was eloquent in its wordlessness. They sat in silence, listening to the nightingale's song. In her mind, Barbara rearranged the facts that Emily had been laying before her. The body, the car, the keys in the bushes, the pillbox on the beach, a broken neck.

She finally said, “You know, if someone in Balford has an agenda for racial trouble, it doesn't really matter who you arrest, does it?”

“Why's that?”

“Because if they want to use an arrest to stir trouble, they're going to use an arrest to stir trouble. Put an Englishman in the nick, and they riot because the murder's an issue of racial violence. Arrest a Pakistani, and the arrest's an issue of police prejudice. The prism's just turned a bit. What they're examining through the prism remains the same.”

Emily stopped fingering the peach. She examined Barbara. When she next spoke, it seemed she'd reached a sudden and adroit conclusion. “Of
course”
she said. “How are you on committees, Barb?”

“What?”

“You said earlier you were ready to help. Well, I've a need for an officer with a talent for committee work and I think you're that officer. How are you at dealing with Asians? I could use another hand in all this, if only to swat my guv off my back.”

Before Barbara could riffle through her life history and produce an answer, Emily continued. She'd agreed to regular meetings with members of the Pakistani community during the course of the investigation. She needed an officer to serve that group. Barbara, if she agreed, would be that officer.

“You'll have to deal with Muhannad Malik,” Emily said, “and he'll be hot to push you as hard and as far as he can, so keeping your wits about you is crucial. But there's another Asian, a bloke from London called Something Azhar, and he appears to be able to keep a collar on Muhannad, so you'll get some help from him whether he realises he's helping or not.”

Barbara could only imagine how Taymullarh Azhar would react to seeing her bruise-battered face at the first meeting between the Asians and the local rozzers. She said, “I don't know. Committees aren't exactly my thing.”

“Nonsense.” Emily brushed her objections aside. “You'll be brilliant. Most people see reason when the facts are laid in front of them in the proper order. I'll work with you to decide what the proper order is.”

“And it'll be my neck if things come to a crisis?” Barbara asked shrewdly.

“Things won't come to a crisis,” Emily countered. “I know you can handle whatever comes up. And even if that weren't the case, who could be better than Scotland Yard to assure the Asians they're getting the red carpet treatment? Will you do it?”

That was the question, all right. But she
would
be of service, Barbara realised. Not only to Emily, but to Azhar. Who indeed could better navigate the waters of the Asians’ hostility than someone acquainted with one of the Asians? “All right,” she said.

“Brilliant.” Emily held her wrist up to the dim light from the street-lamp. She said, “Hell. It's late. Where're you staying, Barb?”

“I haven't booked anywhere yet,” Barbara said, and she hurried forward lest Emily think she was hinting for an invitation to share the dubious comforts of her gentrification project. “I thought I'd try for a room along the seafront. If there's going to be a cool breeze within the next twenty-four hours, I'd like to be the first to know.”

“Even better,” Emily said. “Inspired, in fact.” Before Barbara could question what was so inspired about longing for a breeze to cool the stifling air, Emily went on. The Burnt House Hotel would be perfect for her needs, she said. It had no immediate access to the strand, but it sat at the north end of the town above the sea, with nothing to impede a breeze should one decide to blow in its direction. Since it had no immediate access to sand and water, it was always the last hotel to book up once the tourist season—such as it was these days in Balford-le-Nez—began. And even if that weren't the case, there was one other point about the Burnt House that made it a desirable domicile for New Scotland Yard's Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers during her sojourn in Balford.

“What's that?” Barbara asked.

The murdered man had stayed there, Emily told her. “So you can help me out with some nosing round.”

R
ACHEL WINFIELD OFTEN
wondered where normal girls went for advice when the larger moral questions in life loomed in front of them demanding answers. Her fantasy was that normal girls went to their normal mothers. What happened was this: The normal girls and their normal mothers sat together in the kitchen and they shared a pot of tea. What went with the tea was conversation, and the normal daughters and their normal mothers chatted companionably about whatever subject was near and dear to their hearts. That was the key: hearts in the plural. The communication between them was a two-way street, with mother listening to daughter's concerns and then giving daughter the benefit of her own experience.

In Rachel's case, had mother even considered giving daughter the benefit of her own experience, that experience would have been of little use in the present situation. What good was listening to the tales of a middle-aged—however successful—competitive dancer if competitive dancing was not what was on one's mind? If what was on one's mind was murder, then hearing a spirited account of an elimination competition danced to the manic measures of “The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B” wouldn't be much of a help.

Rachel's mother, Connie, had on this very evening been deserted by her regular dancing partner—left at the metaphorical altar, which was disturbingly reminiscent of having been left at the real altar not once but twice by men too repugnant even to be named—and this desertion had taken place not twenty minutes before the competition. “His
stomach,”
Connie had announced bitterly upon arriving home with a small but nonetheless shining third place trophy on which two dancers contorted impossibly in bouffant skirt and form-fitting trousers. “He spent the evening in the loo doing his business and screaming about his flaming bowels. I'd've had first place if I hadn't had to dance with Seamus O'Callahan. Thinks he's Rudolph Bloody Valentino—”

Nureyev, Rachel corrected her silently.

“—and it's all I can do, isn't it, to keep him from squashing my feet to bits when he leaps about. Swing dancing is
not
about leaping, I keep telling him, don't I, Rache? But does that make a difference to Seamus O'C? Would that ever make a difference to a bloke who sweats like an overcooked turkey in the oven? Ha! Not bloody likely.”

Connie placed her trophy on one of the metal, designed-to-look-like-wood shelves of the unit fitted to the lounge wall. She fixed its position among the two dozen awards already displayed there. The smallest of them was a pewter shot glass engraved with a man and a woman at arm's length from each other and in full swing. The largest was a silver plated bowl—with
FIRST PLACE SOUTHEND SWINGTIME
scrolled on it—whose plating was wearing off from too much dedicated polishing.