Deception on His Mind (39 page)

“Could've been. But he could've been German, Danish, Swedish. Maybe even Norwegian. I don't know. But he wasn't a coloured, that's for sure.”

“And Querashi knew you'd seen him?”

“Yes and no. He saw me but he didn't know I'd watched him pull this other bloke. It was only when he wanted to give me the sack that I told him I seen the whole thing.” Trevor shoved the spider book back where he'd taken it from. “I thought I'd have something to hold over him, see? Like he wouldn't sack me if he knew I might give the word to old Akram that his future son-in-law was buggering white boys in a public convenience. But he denied the whole thing, Querashi did. All he said was that I'd better not hope to keep my job at the factory by spreading the nasties about him. Akram wouldn't believe them, he said, and I'd end up without my job at Malik's and without the new spot at the pier as well. I needed the pier job, so I shut my gob. End of story.”

“You told no one else? Not Mr. Malik? Not Muhannad? Not Sahlah?” Who would, Barbara believed, doubtless be horrified to know that her intended husband was betraying her and threatening the family's sense of honour. And it
would
be an honour issue for the Asians, wouldn't it? She needed to explore this issue with Azhar.

“It was my word against his, wasn't it?” Trevor said. “It's not like he was caught in the act by the rozzers or anything.”

“So even you don't know for sure what he was doing in the toilets that day.”

“I didn't go in to check it out personally, if that's what you're saying. But I'm not daft, am I? Those toilets are used for cottaging all the time, and everyone knows it. So if two blokes go in there and don't come out in the time it takes to pee … Well, you figure it out.”

“What about Mr. Shaw at the pier. Did you tell him?”

“Like I said. I didn't tell no one.”

“What'd this other bloke look like, then?” Barbara asked.

“Dunno. Just a bloke. Real tanned. Wearing a black baseball cap backwards. Not a big bloke, y'know, but not exactly a poufter-type either. I mean, not to look at. Oh yeah, one other thing. He had a ring through his lip. A little gold hoop.” Trevor shuddered. “Jesus,” he said without a trace of irony, fingertips resting against the spider on his neck, “what some blokes'll do to their appearance.”

“HOMOSEXUALITY?” EMILY BARLOW
said. Her voice heightened sharply with interest.

Barbara had found her in the incident room of the old police station, where she held her daily meetings with the investigation's team of detective constables. She'd been penning names and activities onto a china board.

Barbara saw that since Emily's visit to the factory, two DCs had been assigned to Malik's Mustards and were already in the process of conducting interviews there with all the employees. They would be seeking information that could lead them to an enemy of Haytham Querashi.

This new detail about the dead man would be invaluable to them, and the DCI didn't waste any time before striding to the door and giving the order to pass the information along to the constables post haste. “Page them first,” she directed WPC Belinda Warner, who was working at the computer in the next room. “When they phone in, give them the word, but for Christ's sake, tell them to play their cards close.”

Then she turned back to the conference room, recapping her felt-tip pen smartly and setting it on the china board's tray. Barbara had reported on her entire day's activities: from her conversation with Connie and Rachel Winfield to her failed attempts to corroborate Sahlah Malik's story about tossing the gold bracelet from the pier. Emily had nodded and continued to make her entries on the china board. It was only when the issue of Querashi's putative homosexuality came up that she'd reacted.

“How the Muslims feel about homosexuality.” She made the phrase sound like a category that she was setting up mentally in the investigation.

“I haven't a clue how they feel about it,” Barbara replied. “But the more I thought about the question of homosexuality on my drive back here, the less I could attach it to Querashi's murder.”

“Why's that?” Emily went to one of the bulletin boards which lined the walls. Copies of photographs of the victim had been posted there, and she studied them earnestly, as if by this she could somehow get verification of Querashi's sexual proclivities.

“Because it seemed more likely that if one of the Maliks found out that Querashi was cottaging, they'd just call off the marriage and give him the boot back to Karachi. They sure as hell wouldn't kill him, would they? Why go to the bother?”

“They're Asians. They wouldn't want to lose face,” Emily stated. “And they sure as hell wouldn't be able to—how did Muhannad put it?—hold their heads up with pride if the word got out that Querashi was playing them for fools.”

Barbara thought about what Emily was suggesting. Something seemed slightly out of joint. She said, “So one of them killed him? Hell, Em, that's taking ethnic pride to the extreme. It seems to me that Querashi'd be likely to go after anyone who knew his secret, rather than someone going after Querashi because he
had
a secret. If homosexuality's at the root of this, doesn't it make more sense to see Querashi as the killer and not as the victim?”

“Not if an Asian, outraged by the knowledge that a man was planning to use Sahlah Malik as a cover for his homosexual lifestyle, went after Querashi.”

“If that's what Querashi was planning,” Barbara said.

Emily picked up a small plastic bag that was lying on top of one of the room's computer terminals. She untwisted its wire tie and dug out four carrot sticks. Seeing this, Barbara tried not to look guilty about her previously consumed whitebait and rock—not to mention her cigarettes—as the DCI began to munch virtuously. “Which Asian comes to mind when you think of someone being driven to murder in order to revenge that sort of arrangement?”

“I know where you're heading,” Barbara said. “But I thought Muhannad was supposed to be a man of his people. If he isn't and if he offed Querashi, then why's he raising hell about the murder?”

“To paint himself in a saintly light.
Jihad:
the holy war against the infidels. He shouts for justice and directs the spotlight of guilt onto an English killer. And, coincidentally, off himself.”

“But, Em, that's no different to what Armstrong may be doing with the tossed car. A different approach, but the same intent.”

“Armstrong has an alibi.”

“What about Muhannad's? Did you find this Rakin Khan in Colchester?”

“Oh, I found him all right. He was holding court in a private room of his father's restaurant, with half a dozen others of his ilk. In a suit by Armani, slip-ons by Bally, wrist watch by Rolex, and a diamond signet ring from Burlington Arcade. He was an old friend of Malik's, he claimed, from their days at university.”

“What did he say?”

“He confirmed everything, Chapter and verse. He said the two of them had dinner that evening. They began at eight and went on till midnight.”

“A four hour dinner? Where? A restaurant? That restaurant?”

“Wouldn't that be lovely for our side? But no, this dinner took place, he said, at his own home.
And
he cooked the entire meal himself, which is what took so long. He likes to cook, loves to cook, cooked all the time for Muhannad at university, he said, because they neither of them have ever been able to abide English food. He even recited the menu for me.”

“Can anyone confirm the story?”

“Oh yes. Because, conveniently, they weren't alone. Another foreign bloke—and intriguing, isn't it, that everyone's foreign?—was there as well. Also a mate from their university days. Khan said it was a little reunion.”

“Well,” Barbara said, “if they both confirm …”

“Bullshit.” Emily crossed her arms. “Muhannad Malik had plenty of time before I got to Colchester to phone Rakin Khan and tell him to corroborate his story.”

“For that matter,” Barbara said, “Ian Armstrong's had plenty of time to ask his in-laws to do the same. Have you spoken to them?”

Emily made no response.

Barbara went on. “He's got a solid motive, Ian Armstrong. What's Muhannad got that's holding your interest?”

“He protests too much,” Emily said.

“P'rhaps he's got something to protest about,” Barbara pointed out. “Look, I agree he comes off like a lag in the making. And this Rakin Khan may be just as bad. But you're leaving out some details that you can't tie to Muhannad. Think of just three of them: You said Querashi's car was tossed. His body was moved. His car keys were thrown into the brush. If Muhannad killed Querashi for the honour of his family, then why toss the car and why move the body? Why put neon lights round what otherwise might have been taken for an accident?”

“Because he didn't want it to be taken for an accident,” Emily said. “Because he wanted just what he's got: an incident that he can rally his people round. He meets two ends at once this way: He evens the score with Querashi for blackening the family name and he cements his position in the Asian community.”

“Okay. Perhaps,” Barbara said. “But on the other hand, why should we believe Trevor Ruddock about this homosexuality thing in the first place? He's got a motive as well. Okay, he didn't get his job back like Armstrong did, but he didn't seem the type to say no to a decent spot of revenge if he had the chance to get it.”

“You said he has an alibi as well.”

“Bloody hell! They
all
have flaming alibis, Em! Someone's got to be lying somewhere.”

“Which, Sergeant Havers, is
exactly
my point.” Emily's voice was quite even. But there was a steely quality to it that reminded Barbara once again of two facts: that not only was Emily her superior officer by reasons of talent, intelligence, intuition, and skill, but also that she herself had been admitted to work on this case on DCI Barlow's generous sufferance.

Back off, she told herself. This is not your patch, Barb. She was suddenly aware of how bloody hot the incident room was. It was worse than an oven. The harsh light of late afternoon poured in like an armed invasion. When, she wondered, had the country ever had a summer this beastly and miserable at the seaside?

“I checked on Trevor's alibi,” she said. “I stopped by Racon Jewellery on my way back here. According to her mum, Rachel did a runner right after I left them. Her mum couldn't say where Rachel was on the murder night because she herself was dancing in some ballroom competition in Chelmsford. She did say something interesting, though.”

“What's that?” Emily asked.

“She said, ‘My Rachel only goes with white boys, and mind you, remember that, Sergeant.’ What d'you think that means?”

“That she's worried about something.”

“We know that Querashi was probably meeting someone that night. We have only Trevor Ruddock's word that Querashi was cottaging in the first place. And even if Querashi
was
cottaging, that doesn't mean he doesn't swing both ways.”

“You're putting Querashi with Rachel Winfield now?” Emily asked.

“She gave him that jewellery receipt, Em. She had to have a reason.” Barbara considered one other element of the puzzle that they'd not yet tried to place. “But that doesn't really take care of the question of the bracelet: what Theo Shaw's doing with it. I've assumed that Sahlah gave it to him. But he always could have taken it from Querashi's body. If he did that, though, it means that Sahlah's lie about having tossed the bracelet from the pier was prompted by the fact that she knows that whoever has the bracelet is involved in all this. Why else lie?”

Behind her, Emily said with some passion, “Jesus. This is just like going down the goddamn rabbit hole.”

The tone of Emily's comment prompted Barbara to study the DCI more closely. Emily was leaning her bum against the edge of the table. For the first time, Barbara noticed the smudged skin under her eyes.

“Em?” she said.

“If it's one of them, Barb, this town's going to blow.”

Barbara knew what she was implying: If the killer was English and the town caved in to more racial unrest because of that fact, heads would roll. And the first would be Emily Barlow's.

In the silence that hung between them, Barbara heard voices in the entry downstairs. Terse words were spoken by a man and answered by a woman sounding calm and professional. Barbara recognised the man, at least. Muhannad Malik was in reception, arrived for his afternoon meeting with the police.

Azhar would be with him. So the moment had arrived when Barbara knew she ought to tell Emily Barlow the truth.

She opened her mouth to do so but found that she couldn't. If she fully explained—at least as fully as she was able, considering how little she had bothered to examine her motives before setting forth to Balford—Emily would have to dismiss her from the case. She could hardly view Barbara as an objective party in the investigation when at the side of at least one of the suspects moved a man who lived a bare fifty yards from her own shack-like dwelling in London. And Barbara wanted to stay on the case for more than one reason now. While it was true that she'd initially come to Balford-le-Nez for the sake of her Pakistani neighbours, she realised that she wished to remain for the sake of her colleague.

Barbara was well aware of the myriad prices women had to pay to succeed in policework. Men in the profession didn't have to persuade a single soul that their competence was unaffected by their sex. Women lived with having to do that daily. So if she could help Emily maintain her position and prove herself as a DCI, she was determined to do it.

“I'm on your side, Em,” she said quietly.

“Are you.” Once again Emily said the two words; she didn't ask them. Which reminded Barbara of another fact: The higher one climbed in authority and power, the fewer true friends one actually had. But a moment later, Emily roused herself from whatever black thoughts of the future were troubling her. She said, “So where was Theo Shaw on Friday night?”

“He says he was at home. His grandmother was there, but she won't be able to confirm anything, as she'd gone to bed.”

“That part of his story is probably true,” Emily said. “Agatha Shaw—that's the grandmother—had a stroke some time ago. She'd need her rest.”