Now, though … This was a different Gerry. This wasn't a bloke whose main concern had always been that problems between them got solved, questions got answered, and irritations got smoothed away without either of them raising their voices. This was a Gerry who sounded and acted like a bloke who'd put his oars in the water and knew exactly how far he had to row to get to the shore.
Cliff hadn't wanted to think about what this meant. He'd wished like hell he had stayed in bed. He heard the kitchen clock ticking loudly on the wall behind him, and it sounded just like the steady drumbeat that led the condemned to the chopping block. Shit, he thought. Fuck, hell, shit.
Gerry had taken his breakfast to the table. It was a hearty meal to see him through till lunch: eggs, bangers, two pieces of fruit, toast, and jam. But when he had it laid out with cutlery in position, a glass of juice poured, and a napkin tucked into the top of his T-shirt, he didn't eat. He just stared at the food, curled his hand round the juice glass, and swallowed so loud that Cliff had to think he was choking on a stone.
Then he looked up. “I think,” Gerry said, “we both need to have blood tests.”
The kitchen walls swam. The floor felt unsteady. And their shared history came back at Cliff in a sickening rush.
Who they'd been would always haunt them, two blokes who lied to their respective families about how and when and where they'd met: in a public loo at a period of time when “taking precautions” wasn't near as important as buggering the first bloke willing to have it. He and Ger knew the truth about each other, about who they'd been and, more important, who they could easily go back to being if the time was right and the temptation was there and the market square loo was empty save for just one other accommodating bloke.
Cliff had wanted to laugh, to pretend he'd misheard. He'd thought about saying, “You daft? What the hell're you on about, mate?” But instead, he said nothing. Because long ago he'd learned the value of waiting for panic and terror to subside before saying the first thing that came into his head.
“Hey, I love you, Gerry DeVitt,” he'd finally declared.
Gerry bowed his head and began to weep.
Now Cliff watched the two cops yakking outside Hegarty's Adult Distractions, just like two biddies over their tea. He knew they'd soon be going to every business in the industrial estate. They'd have to do it. The Paki'd been murdered, and they'd want to talk to anyone who might have seen the bloke, talked to him, or observed him talking to anyone else. Next to his digs, the industrial estate was a logical place to begin. So it was only a matter of time before they got themselves over to Hegarty's Adult Distractions.
“Shit,” Cliff whispered. He was sweating despite the air conditioner in the window that blew a frigid breeze in his direction. What he didn't need right now was a run-in with the rozzers. He had to keep them away from Gerry. And he had to avoid telling anyone the truth.
AN IMPRESSIVE TURQUOISE cruisemobile swung into the industrial estate just as Emily was saying, “We can be sure of one thing, based on the fact that Sahlah didn't know who F. Kumhar was. He's a man, as I've thought from the first.”
“How d'you reckon that?”
Emily held up a hand to hold Barbara's question at bay for a moment as the car rumbled into the lane. An American convertible, it was all sleek lines and leather interior with chrome that glittered like polished platinum. Thunderbird sports car, Barbara thought, at least forty years old and perfectly restored. Someone wasn't hurting for lolly.
The driver was a tea-skinned male somewhere in his twenties, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore wrap-around sunglasses of a style that Barbara had always associated with pimps, gigolos, and card sharks. She recognised him from the demonstration that she'd witnessed on television the previous day. Muhannad Malik.
Taymullah Azhar was with him. To his credit, he didn't look particularly comfortable arriving at the factory like a fugitive from Miami Vice.
The men got out. Azhar remained by the car, arms folded across his chest, while Muhannad sauntered to join the two police officers. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his white shirt. This was perfectly ironed and fresh-looking, and he wore it with jeans and snake-skin boots.
Emily made the introductions. Barbara felt her palms getting damp. Now was the moment for her to tell the DCI that no introduction to Taymullah Azhar was going to be necessary. But she held her tongue. She waited for Azhar to clarify matters on his part for his cousin. Azhar glanced Muhannad's way but held his tongue as well. This was an unexpected turn of events. Barbara decided to see where it led them.
Muhannad's gaze passed over her in the sort of scornful, evaluative look that made Barbara itch to sink her thumbs into his eyeballs. He didn't stop walking towards them until—she was certain—he knew he'd come too close for comfortable conversation.
“And this is your liaison officer?” He gave ironic emphasis to the adjective.
“Sergeant Havers will meet with you this afternoon,” Emily told him. “Five o'clock at the station.”
“Four o'clock suits us better,” Muhannad countered. He didn't try to disguise the statement's purpose: an attempt at dominance.
Emily didn't play along. “Unfortunately, I can't guarantee that my officer will be there at four,” she said, unruffled. “But you're welcome to come then. If Sergeant Havers isn't in when you arrive, one of the constables will see that you're settled comfortably.” She smiled pleasantly.
The Asian favoured first Emily then Barbara with an expression that suggested he was in the presence of a substance whose odour he was at pains to identify. When he'd made his point, he turned to Azhar. “Cousin,” he said, and headed towards the factory door.
“Kumhar, Mr. Malik,” Emily called out as his hand touched the handle. “First initial P.”
Muhannad halted, turned back their way. “Are you asking me something, Inspector Barlow?”
“Is that name familiar?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It's come up. Neither your sister nor Mr. Armstrong recognised it. I thought you might.”
“Why?”
“Because of jum'a. Is Kumhar a member?”
“Jum'a.” Muhannad's face, Barbara noted, betrayed nothing.
“Yes. Jum'a. Your club, your organisation, your brotherhood. Whatever it is. You can't think the police don't know about it.”
He gave a low chuckle. “What the police don't know could fill volumes,” and pushed the door inward.
“Do you know Kumhar?” Emily persisted. “It's an Asian name, isn't it?”
He paused, half in light, half in shadow. “Your racism's showing, Inspector. Just because a name's Asian, it doesn't follow I'm acquainted with the man.”
“I didn't say Kumhar was a man, did I?”
“Don't out-shine yourself. You asked if Kumhar belonged to Jum'a. If you know about Jum'a, I assume you know it's a society of male members only. Now, is there anything else? Because if there isn't, my cousin and I have work to do inside.”
“Yes, there is something else,” Emily said. “Where were you on the night Mr. Querashi died?”
Muhannad let go of his hold on the door. He came back into the light and returned his sunglasses to his nose. “What?” he asked quietly, certainly more for effect than because he'd not heard the question.
“Where were you the night Mr. Querashi died?” Emily repeated.
He snorted. “And this is where your investigation has taken you. Right where I expected you to go. A Paki's dead, so a Paki did it. And what better place to pin your hopes than on me, the most obvious Paki of choice.”
“That's certainly an intriguing observation,” Emily noted. “Perhaps you'd care to explain it.”
He removed his sunglasses once again. His eyes were full of contempt. Behind him, Taymullah Azhar's expression was guarded. “I get in your way,” Malik said. “I take care of my people. I want to make them proud of who they are. I want them to hold their heads up high. I want them to kno
w that they don't need to be white in order to be worthy. And all of that is the last thing you want, Inspector Barlow. So what better way to oppress my people—to humiliate them into a subservience you can live with—than to shine the light of your pathetic investigation upon me?”
The man was no intellectual sluggard, Barbara realised. What could be more successful in disarming dissent in the community than attempting to present the dissenters’ leader to them as a shrill, tin god? Except … maybe he was. Barbara ventured a quick look at Azhar, to see how he was reacting to the exchange between the DCI and his cousin. She found him watching not Emily but herself. See? his expression seemed to be saying. Our conversation at breakfast was prescient, wasn't it?
“That's a fine analysis of my motives,” Emily told Muhannad. “And we'll be certain to discuss it at a later date.”
“In front of your superiors.”
“Whatever you wish. As for now, please answer the question or come with me to the nick to have a think about it.”
“You'd like me there, wouldn't you?” Malik said. “I'm sorry to have to deprive you of the pleasure.” He went back to the door and shoved it open. “Rakin Khan. You'll find him in Colchester, which I trust isn't too difficult a task for someone of your admirable investigative powers.”
“You were with somone called Rakin Khan on Friday night?”
“Sorry to disappoint your hopes.” He didn't wait for an answer. He disappeared into the building. Azhar nodded at Emily, then followed him.
“He's quick,” Barbara noted grudgingly. “But he ought to deep-six those sunglasses.” She repeated the question she'd asked a moment before Muhannad's arrival. “So how do you reckon Kumhar's a man?”
“Because Sahlah didn't know him.”
“So? Like Muhannad just said—”
“That was bullshit, Barbara. The Asian community in Balford is small and it's tight. If there's an F. Kumhar among them, believe me, Muhannad Malik of all people knows him.”
“So why wouldn't his sister?”
“Because she's a woman. The family's traditional—witness the marriage bit. Sahlah would know the community of Asian women, and she'd know the men who work here at the factory. But it doesn't follow that she'd know other men unless they're married to her acquaintances or boys from her schooldays. How would she? Look at her life. She probably doesn't date. She doesn't go to pubs. She doesn't move freely round Balford. She hasn't been away to school. She's as good as a prisoner. So if she's not lying about not recognising the name—which of course she could be—”
“Right. She could be,” Barbara cut in. “Because F. Kumhar could well be a woman and she could know that. F. Kumhar could be the woman, in fact. And Sahlah may have sussed that out.”
Emily rustled in her bag and brought out her sunglasses. Absently, she rubbed them against the front of her tank top before she replied. “The cheque stub tells us that Querashi paid Kumhar four hundred pounds. A single cheque, a single payment. If the cheque's been written to a woman, what was Querashi paying her for?”
“Blackmail,” Barbara offered.
“Then why kill Querashi? If he was being blackmailed by F. Kumhar and he'd made a payment, why break his neck? That's killing the goose.”
Barbara considered the DCFs questions. “He was going out at night. He was meeting someone. He was carrying rubbers. Couldn't F. Kumhar be the woman he was boffing? And couldn't F. Kumhar have come up pregnant?”
“Then why take the rubbers if she was already pregnant?”
“Because he wasn't meeting her any longer. He'd already moved on to someone else. And F. Kumhar knew it.”
“And the four hundred pounds? What was that for? An abortion?”
“A very private abortion. Perhaps, even, a botched abortion.”
“With someone seeking revenge afterwards?”
“Why not? Querashi had been here six weeks. That's long enough to put someone in the club. If word got out that he'd done it—to an Asian woman, no less, for whom virginity or chastity is a big deal in capitals—maybe her father, brother, husband, or other assorted relations were looking to set things right. So. Have any Asian women died recently? Have any been admitted to hospital with suspicious haemorrhaging? It's something we need to look into, Em.”
Emily shot her a wry look. “Have you gone off Armstrong so soon, then? We've still got his dabs on the Nissan, you know. And he's still sitting inside that building, happily working Querashi's job.”
Barbara looked at the building, once again seeing the copiously sweating Mr. Ian Armstrong being put through his paces by DCI Barlow. “His sweat glands were giving a power performance,” she admitted. “So I wouldn't cross him off the list.”
“What if the in-laws corroborate his Friday night phone call story?”
“Then I think I'd start sifting through BT's records.”
Emily chuckled. “You're a real pit bull, Sergeant Havers. If you ever decide to leave the Yard for the seaside, I'll have you on my team in a flash.”
Barbara felt a rush of pleasure at the DCI's praise. But she was never one to take a compliment and run with it, so she shifted her weight and fished her car keys out of her bag. “Right. Well. I want to check out Sahlah's story about the bracelet. If she tossed it from the pier on Saturday afternoon, then somebody probably saw her. It's not like she isn't noticeable, what with the gear she wears. So shall I track down this bloke Trevor Ruddock as well? If he's working on the pier, I can kill two birds.”
Emily nodded. “Sort him out. In the meantime, I'll see about this Rakin Khan that Muhannad's so hot to have me talk to. Although I've little doubt he'll confirm the alibi. He'll be wanting his brother Muslim to—how did our Muhannad phrase it exactly?—be able to hold his head up high. Now, there's a delicious image for you to dwell on.” She gave a short laugh and headed towards her car.
With a wave, she was on the road, pointed towards Colchester and another alibi.
BEING ON THE Balford pleasure pier for the first time since her sixteenth summer wasn't the trip down memory lane that Barbara had expected it might be. The pier was greatly changed, with a rainbow sign over its entrance that spelled SHAW ATTRACTIONS in colourful neon. Still, the bright fresh paint, new planking, crisp-looking deck chairs, refurbished rides and games of chance, and a modern arcade offering everything from old-fashioned penny slides to video games didn't alter the smells that could never wipe from her memory her annual visits to Balford. The scent of fish and chips, hamburgers, popcorn, and candy floss mingled sharply with the brine of the sea. And the sounds were the same as well: children laughing and shouting, arcade games ringing cacophonously, the calliope playing as the roundabout horses rose and fell on their shiny brass poles.
Ahead of her, the pier shot straight out into the sea, widening at its end in spatulate fashion. Barbara walked to this point, where the old Jack ‘Awkins Cafeteria was being renovated and from which location Sahlah Malik had allegedly thrown the bracelet she'd bought for her fiancé.
From the shell of the old cafeteria rose the sound of voices shouting above the pounding of tools against metal and the loud hiss of a blow torch welding reinforcements onto the original infrastructure. Heat seemed to throb from the building, and when Barbara peered inside, she felt it pulsating against her face.
The workers were scantily dressed. Jeans cut off at the thigh, heavy-soled boots, and grimy T-shirts—or none at all—appeared to be the uniform of choice. These were big-muscled men, intent on their jobs. But when one caught sight of Barbara, he set down his tools and shouted, “No visitors! Can't you read? Clear out of here before you get hurt.”
Barbara pulled out her warrant card, more for effect than anything else, since he couldn't have seen what it was at the distance. She shouted back, “Police.”
“Gerry!” The man directed his attention to the welder whose protective headgear and concentration on the flame he was shooting towards the metal seemed to make him oblivious of everything else.
“Ger
ry! Hey! DeVitt!”
Barbara stepped over three steel girders that were lying on the floor, awaiting placement. She dodged several huge coils of electrical wire and a stack of unopened wooden crates.
Someone yelled, “Keep back! You want to get hurt?”
This apparently got Gerry's attention. He looked up, saw Barbara, and doused the flame on his blow torch. He removed his headgear to reveal a bandana-covered head. He whipped this off and dried first his face with it, then his shining and hairless skull. Like the others, he wore cut-off jeans and an armless T-shirt, and he had the sort of body that would quickly go to seed if exposed to the wrong kind of food or a period of inactivity. Neither appeared to be the case. He was extremely fit-looking and brown from the sun.
Before he, too, had a chance to warn her off, Barbara lifted her warrant card again, saying, “Police. Can I have a word with you blokes?”
He frowned, returning the bandana to his head. He tied it at the back and with the single earring hoop he wore, the overall effect was piratical. He spat onto the floor—to the side, at least—and dug into his pocket for a roll of Polos. He thumbed one out and popped it into his mouth. “Gerry DeVitt,” he said. “I'm the guv here. What d'you need?”
He came no closer, so Barbara knew he couldn't read her identification. She introduced herself, and although his eyebrows made a quick furrowing movement when she said New Scotland Yard, he didn't evidence any other reaction.
He glanced at his watch and said, “We don't have much time to spare.”
“Five minutes,” Barbara said, “perhaps less. No one's in trouble, by the way.”
He evaluated this, then nodded. Much of the work had ceased in the building anyway, so he waved the men over. There were seven of them, sweat-streaked, smelly, and patched with grease.
“Thanks,” Barbara said to DeVitt. She explained what she was seeking: verification that a young woman—probably dressed in traditional Asian garb—had come to the end of the pier on Saturday and had thrown something from it. “This would have been in the afternoon,” Barbara said. “Do you work on Saturdays?”