“Yeah. Well,” Barbara said with a shrug, intending the movement of her shoulders to indicate her own membership in the sisterhood of women who casually crushed cobblers for stress reduction. The reality was that she was dying for a fag—not a man—and she could feel the need for nicotine building from her fingertips to the backs of her eyeballs, despite having sucked down three and a half cigarettes during her meeting with Azhar and his cousin. “Whatever works.”
“This does for me.” Emily blew out a breath and raked her fingers back through her hair. A small curtain of sodden paper towels draped over the unlit lamp of her desk, and she took one of them, rubbing it on the back of her neck. “I swear to God, this weather feels like summer in New Delhi. Have you ever been there? No? Good. Don't waste your money. It's a real pit. What did you give them?”
Barbara made her report. She'd told the Asians that the police had tracked down and acquired the contents of Querashi's safe deposit box at Barclays, that Siddiqi had confirmed Azhar's translation of the Qur'aan page from Querashi's hotel room, that they were working on his incoming and outgoing telephone calls, and that they had a suspect—beyond Kumhar—who was being held for questioning at the present time.
“Malik's reaction?” Emily said.
“He pressed.”
Which mildly understated the case. Muhannad Malik had demanded to know the race and identity of the second suspect. He'd asked for a list of the contents of Querashi's safe deposit box. He'd demanded a complete definition of what it meant to be “working” on incoming and outgoing telephone calls. He wanted to be put in touch with Professor Siddiqi in order to make certain that the man understood the nature of the crime that was being investigated in Balford-le-Nez.
“Christ. He's got such bloody nerve,” Emily remarked upon Barbara's conclusion. “What did you tell him?”
“I didn't have to tell him anything,” Barbara replied. “Azhar did it for me.” And he'd done it in his usual fashion, with the aplomb that came from obviously having had more than one occasion to deal with the police, with PACE, and with that law's ramifications. Which made Barbara wonder anew about her London neighbour. She'd labelled him university professor and father of Hadiyyah during the nearly two months of their acquaintance. But what else was he? she asked herself now. And what were the depth and the breadth of information that was missing from her knowledge of the man?
“You like this other bloke, this Azhar,” Emily said astutely. “Why?”
Barbara knew she should say Because I know him from London, we're neighbours, and his daughter is special to me. But what she said instead was “Just a gut feeling. He seems honest. He seems like he wants to get to the bottom of what happened to Querashi as much as we do.”
Emily gave out a sceptical bark of laughter. “Don't put money on that, Barb. If he's thick with Muhannad, he's got an agenda that has nothing to do with getting to the bottom of what happened on the Nez. Or did you miss the subtext in our little rendezvous with Azhar, Malik, and Fahd Kumhar?”
“What subtext?”
“Kumhar's reaction when those two walked into the interrogation room. You saw it, didn't you? What do you think that meant?”
“Kumhar was bricking it,” Barbara admitted. “I've never seen anyone so rattled in custody. But that's the real point, isn't it, Em? He's in custody. So where are you heading with this?”
“I'm heading to a connection between these blokes. Kumhar took one look at Azhar and Malik and nearly wore brown trousers.”
“You're saying he knew them?”
“Perhaps not Azhar. But I'm saying that he knew Muhannad Malik. I'm saying it's dead cert that he knew him. He was shaking so badly, we could have used him to make martinis for James Bond. And believe me, that reaction had nothing to do with being locked up in the nick.”
Barbara sensed her certainty and met it with caution. “But, Em, look at his situation. He's in custody—a suspect in a murder investigation—in a foreign country, where his language skills wouldn't get him as far as the edge of town if he wanted to scarper. Isn't that reason enough for him to be—”
“Yes,” Emily said impatiently. “Right. His English wouldn't serve him to call a dog to a bone. So what was he doing in Clacton? And, more to the point, how did he get there? We're not talking about a town teeming with Asians. We're talking about a town with so few of them that all we had to do was ask about a single Pakistani at Jackson and Son and the proprietor knew we were looking for Kumhar.”
“So?” Barbara asked.
‘This isn't exactly a culture of free spirits. These people stick together. So what's Kumhar doing in Clacton by himself when the rest of his kind are here, in Balford?”
Barbara wanted to argue that Azhar was in London alone despite, as she had so recently learned, having a large family elsewhere in the country. She wanted to argue that the Asian community in London was centered mostly round Southall and Hounslow, while Azhar lived in Chalk Farm and worked in Bloomsbury. How typical is that? she wanted to ask. But she couldn't do that without jeopardising her position in the investigation.
Emily went on insistently. “You heard DC Honigman. Kumhar was fine till those two blokes walked into the room. What do you suppose that means?”
It could mean anything, Barbara thought. It could also be twisted to mean what one wanted. She thought about reminding the DCI of what Muhannad had said: The Asians hadn't walked into the room alone. But arguing over a mere surmise seemed fruitless at the moment. Worse, it seemed inflammatory. So she backed away from Kumhar's state of mind. She said, “If Kumhar already knows Malik, what's the connection between them?”
“Some sort of skulduggery, you can depend upon it. The same sort of thing Muhannad was up to as a teenager: something dodgy that can never quite be traced back to him. But his teenage offences—those minor infractions of the law—have given way to the big stuff now.”
“What sort of big stuff?”
“Who the hell knows? Burglary, car rings, pornography, prostitution, drugs, smuggling, running guns from the East, moving explosives, dabbling in terrorism. I don't know what it is, but I know one thing: There's money involved. How else do we explain that car of Muhan-nad's? That Rolex watch? The clothes? The jewellery?”
“Em, his father owns an entire flaming factory right here in town. The family's got to be rolling in lolly. And he'd have got a handsome dowry from his in-laws. Why wouldn't Muhannad put some of it on display?”
“Because that isn't their way. They may be rolling in lolly, but they're rolling it right back into Malik's Mustards. Or they're sending it to Pakistan. Or they're using it to bankroll other family members’ entry into the country. Or they're saving it for dowries for their females. But, believe me, they are not using it for classic cars and personal baubles. Absolutely no way.” Emily tossed her damp paper towels into the wastepaper basket. “Barb, I swear to you, Malik's dirty. He's been dirty since he was sixteen years old, and the only change from that time to now is that he's upped the stakes. He uses Jum'a as a front these days. He acts the part of Mr. Man of His People. But the truth is that this is a bloke who'd slice his mother's jugular open if it would put another diamond in his signet ring.”
Classic cars, diamonds, a Rolex watch. Barbara would have given one lung to have had a cigarette at that moment in Emily's office, so taut did she feel her nerves being pulled. She wasn't so much disturbed by the DCI's words, but by the unacknowledged—and hence potentially dangerous—passion that ran beneath them. She had walked this road before. It was signposted Loss of Objectivity, and it didn't lead to a destination in which a decent cop wanted to head. And Emily Barlow was a decent cop. She was one of the best.
Barbara sought a way to keep the case in balance. She said, “Wait. We've got Trevor Ruddock without an alibi and an hour and a half of free time on Friday night. We've got his dabs under scrutiny. I've sent his spider-making paraphernalia to the lab for some tests. So do we let him walk and go after Muhannad instead? Ruddock had wire in
his bedroom, Em. He had a whole bleeding roll of it.”
Emily looked past her, at the wall of her office, at the china board hanging there, at its scrawl of notations. She said nothing. Into her silence, telephones rang and someone hooted nearby, “Jesus, mate. Stop kidding yourself.”
Right. How about it? Barbara thought. Come on, Em. Don't fail me now.
“We need to check the log.” Emily's words were decisive. “Here and in Clacton. We need to see what's been reported and what's going unsolved.”
Barbara's spirits sank. “The log? But if Muhannad's into something big, d'you think we're really going to find it sitting there unsolved on the police log?”
“We're going to find it somewhere,” Emily responded. “Believe me. But we won't find it at all if we don't start looking.”
“And Trevor? What'll I do with him?”
“Let him go for now.”
“Let him …?” Barbara dug her fingernails into the skin on the underside of her arm. “But, Em, we can do with him what we're doing with Kumhar. We can let him stew till tomorrow afternoon. We can put him through the paces every quarter of an hour. I swear to God, he's hiding something, and until we know what that something is—”
“Let him go, Barbara,” the DCI said steadily.
“But we haven't heard about his fingerprints yet. And that wire of his has been sent to the lab, and when I talked to Rachel …” Barbara didn't know what else to say.
“Barb, Trevor Ruddock isn't going to do a runner. He knows that all he has to do is keep his gob shut and our hands are tied. So we'll let him go till we've got the word from the lab. And in the meantime, we work the Asians.”
“Work them how?”
Emily ticked off items. The police log in Balford as well as the logs in surrounding communities would show if anything dodgy—connectable to Muhannad—was going on; the contents of Querashi's safe deposit box had to be looked into; the offices of World Wide Tours in Harwich needed to be visited by someone with Querashi's picture in hand; a Polaroid of Kumhar had to be shown round the houses that backed onto the Nez; as a matter of fact, a Polaroid picture of Fahd Kumhar should be taken to World Wide Tours as well, just for good measure.
“I've a meeting with our team in less than five minutes,” Emily said. She rose, and the inflection in her voice clearly indicated that their interview was over. “I'll be making the assignments for tomorrow. Is there any of this that you want to take on, Barb?”
The implication was crystalline: Emily Barlow was directing the course of the investigation, not Barbara Havers. Trevor Ruddock would walk within the hour. They would begin to home in on the Pakistanis. On one particular Pakistani. On one Pakistani with one very good alibi.
There was nothing more that she could do, Barbara realised. “I'll take World Wide Tours,” she said. “I suppose I could do with a drive to Harwich.”
BARBARA SAW THE classic turquoise Thunderbird the moment she turned into the car park at the Burnt House Hotel ninety minutes later. It was hard to miss, sleek, pristine, and exotic among the dusty Escorts, Volvos, and Vauxhalls. The convertible looked as if someone spit-polished it every day. From its glittering hubcaps to the chromium curve of its windscreen's border, it could have been used as a mobile operating theatre, so unbesmirched was its every inch. It was sitting at the end of the row of cars, straddling two of the parking bays so as to keep anyone from scratching its paint job when disembarking from a lesser machine. Barbara considered using her recently purchased lipstick to scrawl selfish across the car's windscreen as an unsubtle commentary on the driver's commandeering more than his share of the car park's spaces. But she settled for a suitable imprecation, and she squeezed her Mini into a slot at the rear of the hotel, fragrantly located near the kitchen rubbish.
Muhannad Malik was within, doubtlessly scheming with Azhar after having had his every request to examine evidence turned down flat with no court of appeal. He hadn't liked that. He'd liked it less when his cousin had informed him that the police were under no obligation to meet the Asians at all, let alone put evidence on display for them. Muhannad had gone all tight-lipped at that, but if he'd felt at cross-purposes with his cousin, he hadn't let on. Rather, he'd directed his antipathy and scorn towards Barbara. She could only guess with what joy he would now greet her arrival at the hotel should she run into him. Which she fervently hoped to avoid doing.
The combination of wisps of cigarette smoke and fragments of muted conversation told Barbara that the hotel residents were gathering in the bar for preprandial sherry and the ritual study of the daily menu. That the menu was as unvarying as the tide—pork, chicken, plaice, beef—seemed to have no impact on the residents’ desire to peruse it with the intensity of devoted biblical scholars. Barbara could see them as she turned towards the stairs. A shower first, she decided. Then a pint of Bass with a whisky chaser.
“Barbara! Barbara!” A clatter of feet on the parquet floor accompanied the cry of her name. Hadiyyah, dressed to the nines in sunset silk, had caught sight of her from the bar's window seat and was leaping into immediate action.
Barbara hesitated, wincing inwardly. If she'd hoped to fumble her way through an evening's unexpected encounter with Muhannad Malik by pretending not to be acquainted with his cousin outside Balford-le-Nez, the gaff had just decidedly been blown. And Azhar was not quick enough to stop his daughter. He rose, but she was already dancing across the room. A limp white shoulder bag shaped like the moon dangled from her elbow to the floor.
Hadiyyah said, “Come and see who's here. It's my cousin, Barbara. He's called Muhannad. He's twenty-six and he's married and he's got two little boys who're still in nappies. I forget their names, but I know I'll remember when I get to meet them.”
“I was just about to pop up to my room,” Barbara told her. She averted her eyes from the bar, irrationally hoping that by doing so, she would not be noticed in conversation with the girl.
“Pooh. It'll only take a minute. I want you to meet him. I asked him if he'd eat here with us, but he said his wife's waiting for him at home. And his mum and his dad. He's got a sister as well.” She sighed with pure pleasure. Her eyes were vivid. “Imagine, Barbara. I didn't even know before tonight. I didn't know I even had a family besides Mummy and Dad. And he's ever so nice, my cousin Muhannad. Will you come and meet him?”
Azhar had come to the door of the bar. Behind him, Muhannad had risen from a cracked leather wing chair that faced the window. He held a drink, which he raised to his lips and finished off before setting the glass on a nearby table.
Barbara telegraphed her question to Taymullah Azhar. What to say?
But Hadiyyah had latched onto her hand, and any pretence of their having only two evenings’ acquaintance predicated on a mutual love of the Burnt House Hotel's culinary masterpieces was quickly mooted by her words. “You thought the same, didn't you, Barbara? That's because we never much act like we have a family anywhere at all. I expect we'll see them in London now. They c'n come for weekends. And we c'n invite them to one of our barbecues, can't we?”
Sure, Barbara wanted to say. Muhannad Malik was no doubt chomping at the bit this very moment, desperate for an opportunity to tuck into Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers’ grilled kebabs.
“Cousin Muhannad,” Hadiyyah was singing out. “Come and meet my friend Barbara. She lives in London. We have the ground floor flat, like I told you, and Barbara lives in the sweetest little cottage round back of the house. We met her cause her refrigerator got delivered to our flat by mistake. Dad moved it for her. He got grease on his shirt. We got most of it out, but he doesn't like to wear it to the university any longer.”
Muhannad joined them. Hadiyyah caught his hand. Now she stood with her hands locked to both of them—Barbara and her cousin—and she couldn't have looked more pleased had she just successfully arranged their nuptials.
Muhannad's face was a study in active assessment, as if a computer in his brain were in the process of tallying information and placing
it in appropriate categories. Barbara could well imagine what they were labelled: betrayal, secrecy, deception. He spoke to Hadiyyah, but he looked at her father.
“How very nice to meet your friend, little cousin. Have you known her long?”
“Oh, weeks and weeks and weeks,” Hadiyyah crowed. “We go for ice creams on Chalk Farm Road and we've been to the cinema and she even came to my birthday party. Sometimes we go to see her mum in Greenford. We have ever so much fun, don't we, Barbara?”
“How coincidental it is, then, that you should find yourselves in the same hotel in Balford-le-Nez,” Muhannad said meaningfully.
“Hadiyyah,” Azhar said, “Barbara has only just returned to the hotel, and it appears that you waylaid her on her way to her room. If you—”
“We told her we were going to Essex, you see.” Amiably, Hadiyyah offered the information to her cousin. “We had to, because I left a message on her answer machine. I invited her for an ice cream, and I didn't want her to think I would forget. So I went to her cottage to tell her and then Dad came and then we said we were going to the sea. Only Dad didn't tell me you lived here, Cousin Muhannad. He made it a surprise. So now you can meet my friend Barbara and she can meet you.”
“That's been done,” Azhar said.
“But perhaps not as soon as it might have been,” Muhannad said.
“Listen, Mr. Malik,” Barbara put in, but the appearance of Basil Treves supervened.
He was coming out of the bar in his usual bustle, the evening's dinner orders clutched in his hand. He hummed as always. The sight of Barbara with the Pakistanis, however, silenced him on what sounded like the fifth note of the title song to The Sound of Music.
“Ah! Sergeant Havers,” he said. “You've had a phone call. Three, in fact, all from the same man.” He cast a speculative glance at Muhannad and then at Azhar before he added mysteriously but with an unmistakable air of importance that served to underscore his position as the compatriot, fellow investigator, and general soulmate of the Scotland Yard detective, “You know, Sergeant. That little German concern of ours? He left two numbers: home and direct line into his office. I've put them both in your cubbyhole, and if you'll just wait a moment …”