Barbara brought out her pictures again, laying Querashi's and Kumhar's side by side. “This bloke was chopped at the Nez last week,” she explained laconically. “This one's in the nick at the moment having a talk with the local DCI. Seen either of them?”
Curtis relaxed marginally. As he studied the pictures, Barbara noted that a brass container sitting on the reception counter held a collection of brochures. She picked one up and saw that it was a copy of the same brochure which she'd found in Querashi's hotel room. There were other brochures as well, and she fingered through these. The Castle Hotel, it seemed, boosted its business in these trying economic times by offering special weekend rates, dances, wine tastings, and holiday extravaganzas at Christmas, New Year, Valentine's Day, and Easter.
“Yes.” Curtis drew the word out thoughtfully on a breath. “Oh yes, indeed.”
Barbara looked up from her study of the brochures. The picture of Kumhar he'd moved to one side. The picture of Querashi, however, he'd picked up and held between his thumb and his index finger. “You've seen him?”
“Oh yes, indeed. I remember him quite well, in fact, because I've never before seen an Asian at Leather and Lace. They generally don't go in for it.”
“Pardon?” Barbara asked, nonplussed. “Leather and Lace?”
Curtis riffled through the brass container and brought out a brochure that Barbara hadn't seen. Its cover was entirely black with a diagonal of white lace etched onto it. The word Leather was printed on the upper acute triangle, the word Lace on the lower. The inside comprised an invitation to a monthly dance held at the hotel. And the accompanying pictures of previous dances left no question at all as to the clientele being solicited.
Score a point for Trevor Ruddock, Barbara thought. “This is a dance for homosexuals?” she asked Curtis. “Not the usual sort of entertainment one finds in the countryside, is it?”
“Times are difficult,” he replied reasonably. “A business that closes its door to potential profits finds that it's not a business very long.”
There was truth in that, Barbara thought. Basil Treves might well take a slice of this cake and chew upon it when considering his profits and losses at the end of the fiscal year. She said, “And you saw Querashi at one of these dances?”
“Last month. Definitely. As I said, one sees very few Asians at this sort of gathering. One sees very few Asians in this part of the world altogether, as a matter of fact. So when he came in, I took note of him.”
“And you're certain he was here for the dance? Not for dinner? Not for a drink in the bar?”
“He was definitely here for the dance, Sergeant. Oh, not in drag, mind you. Not that he appeared to be the type to go in for that in the first place. No make-up. No ornaments. You know what I mean. But there was no question why he'd come to the Castle.”
“To pull another bloke?”
“Hardly. He wasn't alone. And his companion didn't look like someone who'd take lightly to being left out in the cold by a companion.”
“He had a date, then.”
“Very much so.”
Here, then, was the first corroboration they'd had of Trevor Ruddock's story about Querashi's sexuality. But simple corroboration didn't put Trevor in the clear.
“What did this bloke look like? Querashi's date, that is,” Barbara asked.
Curtis supplied her with a nonspecific and generally useless description in which everything about the man in question was medium: his height, his build, his weight. It wouldn't have served to locate a lightning bolt in a thunderstorm, save for one detail. When Barbara asked if Querashi's date had any visible tattoos, specifically a spider-on-its-web tattoo on his neck, Curtis was able to say he hadn't. Definitely not were his actual words, which he went on to clarify by explaining, “When I see a tattoo, I never forget it because the thought of getting one makes me positively weak at the knees. Needle phobia,” he added. “If someone ever wants me to give blood, I'll be completely done for.”
“Right,” Barbara said.
“How people can do what they do to their bodies in the name of fashion …”He shuddered. But afterwards he lifted a finger swiftly, as if his own statement had brought something to mind. He said, “Wait. This bloke had a lip ring, Sergeant. Yes, indeed, he had. He had earrings as well. And not just one, mind you. But at least four in each ear.”
Here, then, was what she'd been seeking. The lip ring matched with Trevor's claim. So they had at least one part of the truth at last: Querashi was bent.
She thanked Curtis for his help and went back to the car. She took a moment to rustle up her cigarettes and in the shade of a dust-coated hornbeam tree, she smoked and she thought about what corroboration for Trevor's story meant to the case.
Azhar had said that homosexuality was a grave sin to the Muslims, enough of a sin for a man to be cast out of his family as a permanent exile. Thus, it was an aberration serious enough to be held as a closely guarded secret. But if someone had unearthed this secret, was it black enough—or deviant enough—to cause Querashi's life to be taken? Certainly, it would be an insult to the Malik family if Querashi had aligned himself with them as a cover for a clandestine life. But wouldn't a better revenge than death be to expose him to his own family and let them deal with him as they would?
And if his homosexuality was the key to what had happened to him on the Nez, where did that leave Kumhar? Or the phone calls to Germany and Pakistan? Or the discussions with the mulla and the mufti? Or the address in Hamburg? Or the papers in his safe deposit box?
At the thought of these last items, Barbara took a final drag on her cigarette and returned to the Mini. She'd forgotten about Rudi's visit to the industrial estate. It made sense to recce it while she was in the area.
Less than five minutes took her back. She made certain that Rudi's Renault was nowhere in sight before driving through the entrance to the looming warehouses.
These were prefabricated and two-toned: green corrugated steel on the bottom, silver corrugated steel on the top. Attached to each was a reception office of dust-coloured brick. There wasn't a single tree in the entire estate; without the ameliorating effects of shade, the heat radiated from the structures with a mirage-producing intensity. Despite this fact, the warehouse into which Rudi had disappeared at the end of the lane was closed up completely, its huge door and high row of windows sealed off. This was in contrast to every other warehouse, whose doors and windows gaped, hopeful of a breeze.
Barbara chose a spot for the Mini some distance from Rudi's warehouse. She parked next to a row of red and white rubbish bins against which clumps of dying pigweed drooped thirstily. She blotted her forehead on the back of her wrist, berated herself for having left the Burnt House without a bottle of water, admitted her stupidity at having smoked a cigarette and worsened her thirst, and shoved open the door of her car.
The industrial estate comprised two lanes, one shooting off perpendicular to the other. Both of them were lined with warehouses, and the proximity of the estate to Parkeston Harbour made them perfect for temporary storage for shipments both coming into and leaving the country. Sun-faded signs indicated the contents of each: electronics supplies, appliances, fine china and crystal, household goods, business machines.
The warehouse in question was more subtle in announcing its purpose and contents. Barbara had to trudge through the heat to within ten yards of the attached office before she was able to read the small white sign fixed above the building's door: EASTERN IMPORTS was lettered in black, and beneath it FINE FURNITURE AND FURNISHINGS.
Well, well, well, Barbara thought, and she tipped her hat mentally to Inspector Lynley. She could hear him saying, “Well, there you are, Sergeant,” with quiet satisfaction. There is, after all, no real coincidence when it comes to murder. Either Rudi had scarpered from the office of World Wide Tours because he'd suddenly developed a passion for interior design and sought to fulfill it with the immediate redecoration of his bed-sit, or he had known more than he'd been willing to l
et on. In either case, there was only one way to find out.
The office door was locked, so Barbara rapped on it smartly. When no one stirred, she squinted through the dusty window. Inside, there was evidence of recent occupation: A packed lunch of bread, cheese, apple, and sliced ham was spread out on a desk.
She thought at first that only a secret-code knock would admit her to the building. But a second, sharper rap aroused the attention of someone within the warehouse. Through the window she saw the door between the office and the larger building swing open. A thin, bespectacled man—so skeletal that the end of his belt was looped round the buckle and tucked into his trousers—stepped through and carefully shut the door behind him.
He used his index finger to push his spectacles back into place as he crossed the office to the door. He was about six feet tall, Barbara noted, but his height was minimized by poor posture.
“I am so terribly sorry,” he said pleasantly when he had the door open. “When I'm in the back, I generally lock up.”
Wen Vm in the back, Barbara thought. Another German. He was casually attired for a businessman. He wore cotton trousers and a white T-shirt. He had trainers—but no socks—on his feet. His tanned face was bristly with light brown whiskers the same colour as his hair. She said, “Scotland Yard CID,” and presented him with her warrant card.
He frowned as he looked at it. But when he raised his face, his expression appeared to have the right balance of guilelessness and concern. He asked nothing and said nothing. He merely waited for her to continue, using the moment in which she said nothing to roll a slice of ham into a tube and to take a bite from it. He held it like a cigar.
In Barbara's experience, most people weren't able to let a silence hang between themselves and the police. But this German seemed like a bloke who could deal with silence indefinitely.
Barbara pulled out her photographs of Haytham Querashi and Fahd Kumhar for the third time. The German took another bite of ham and reached for a slice of cheese as he studied each picture in turn. He said, “This one I've seen,” and indicated Querashi. “This one, no. Him I have not.” Have he pronounced haff. But his English sounded marginally less practiced than Rudi's.
Barbara said, “Where'd you see this bloke, then?”
The German positioned his cheese on a slice of brown bread. “In the newspaper. He was killed last week, yes? I saw his picture afterwards, perhaps Saturday or Sunday. I cannot recall which.” Vas and vich, he said. He bit into the bread and cheese and chewed slowly. There was nothing in his lunch to drink, but he didn't seem to be affected by this, despite the heat, the salt of the meat, and the gummy mixture of cheese and bread in his mouth. Barbara longed even more strongly for a glass of water just watching him chew and swallow.
“Before the newspaper,” she said.
“Have I seen him before then?” he clarified. Haff. “No. I have not. Why do you ask?”
“He had a bill of lading from Eastern Imports among his belongings. It was locked up in a safe deposit box.”
The German stopped chewing for a moment. “That is strange indeed,” he said. “May I …?” And he took up the picture in his fingers. Nice fingers, they were, with buffed nails.
“Stowing papers away in a safe deposit box tends to indicate they've got some importance,” Barbara said. “It doesn't make a lot of sense to lock them up for any other reason, wouldn't you say?”
“Indeed. Indeed. This is very true,” the man replied. “But one would wish to keep a bill of lading among important papers if a purchase was recorded upon it. If this gentleman bought furniture that was not yet in our stock, he'd want to keep—”
“Nothing was written on the bill of lading. Aside from the name and address of this establishment, the paper was blank.”
The German shook his head in perfect perplexity. He said, “Then I cannot say …This bill of lading was perhaps given to the gentleman by someone else? We import from the East and if he wished to make a purchase of furniture on some future date …”He shrugged and made a small moue with his mouth, that quintessential European male gesture that signified two words: Who knows?
Barbara considered the possibilities. True, what this bloke was saying made partial sense. But only as far as serving to explain the bill of lading's presence among Querashi's belongings. Explaining its presence inside his safe deposit box was going to take another mental leap or two.
She said, “Yeah. You're probably right. Mind if I have a look round while I'm here? I've a mind to do a bit of redecorating.”
The German nodded as he took another bite of bread and cheese. He reached into his desk and brought out a three-ring notebook, then a second, then a third. He flipped them open with one hand while the other rolled up another piece of ham.
Barbara saw that these were catalogues, and they contained everything from bedroom furniture to kitchenware to lamps. She said, “You don't keep goods in the warehouse, then?” And she thought, If you don't, then why bloody have one?
“We do indeed,” he said. “Our wholesale shipments. They are in the warehouse.”
“Perfect,” Barbara said. “Could I have a look? I can't ever tell anything from a picture.”
“Our stock is low,” he said, and sounded uneasy for the first time. “If you could come back …perhaps Saturday week?”
“Just a look is all,” Barbara said pleasantly. “I'd like to get an idea of size and materials before I make up my mind.”
He didn't appear convinced, but he said, albeit reluctantly, “If you don't mind the dust and a toilet that's gone down…”
She assured him that she minded neither—what were dust and broken toilets when one was in search of the perfect three-piece suite?—and she followed him through the inner door.
She wasn't quite sure what she'd been expecting. But what she found within the cavernous gut of the warehouse wasn't a sound set for making snuff films, on going videotaping of hard-core pornography, crates of explosives, or a factory for assembling Uzi sub-machine guns. What she found was a storehouse for furniture: three tiers of sofas, dining room tables, armchairs, lamps, and bedframes. As her companion had said, the stock was low. It was also covered in plastic that was coated with dust. But as to thinking the furniture was anything else: It was impossible to stretch the imagination that far.
And he'd told the truth about the toilet. The warehouse was rank with the scent of sewage, as if two hundred people had used the facilities without flushing. Barbara saw the offending source through a half-open door at the end of the building: a toilet that had overflowed onto the concrete floor, pooling out into the warehouse for a good fifteen feet.
The German saw the direction of her gaze. “I have called the plumbers three times these last two days. To no avail, as you see. I am so sorry. It is so unpleasant.” And he hastened forward to shut the door on the lavatory, stepping carefully round the pool of sewage. He clucked at a blanket and a sodden pillow that lay next to a row of dusty filing cabinets to one side of the lavatory. He picked up the former and folded it carefully, placing it on the nearest cabinet. The latter he threw in a rubbish bin next to a wall of cupboards.
He came to rejoin Barbara, taking a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. He said, “Our sofas are the very best quality. The upholstery is all done by hand. Whether you choose wool or silk—”
“Yeah,” Barbara said. “I get the idea. Nice stuff. You don't need to uncover it.”
“You do not wish to see?” Vish, he said.
“I've seen. Thanks.”
What she'd seen was that the warehouse was like the others in the industrial park. It had one large door that retracted into the metal rafters, allowing the entrance of large lorries. That lorries came and went was evident in the empty rectangle that extended from the door to the far side of the building. In that space, oil stains blotted the concrete floor, looking like continents floating on a grey map of sea.
She walked towards this, making a pretence of examining the furniture beneath the pl
astic shrouds. The building had no insulation, so it was like a boiler room inside. Barbara felt the sweat trickling down her back, between her breasts, from her neck to her waist.
“Hot,” she said. “It's not bad for the furniture? Doesn't heat dry it out or something?”
“Our furniture comes from the East, where the weather is far less temperate than England's,” he responded. “This heat is nothing in comparison.”
“Hmm. I s'pose you're right.” She stooped to examine the oil on the warehouse floor. Four of the stains were old, with small hillocks of dirt looking like depictions of mountains on the global map of the concrete. Three were more recent. In one of them, a single bare foot—man-sized—had left a perfect print.
When Barbara rose, she saw that the German was watching her. He looked perplexed, and his eyes travelled from her to the stains to the furniture. He said, “Is there something out of order?”
She jerked her thumb at the oil stains. “You ought to clean that up. Safety hazard. Someone could slip and break a leg, especially if he's running round without shoes on.”
“Yes, of course. Unquestionably,” he replied.
She had no reason to linger, aside from a feeling that she hadn't yet learned all there was to learn. She wished like hell that she knew what she was looking for, but if there was a sign of something dodgy going on in the warehouse, she failed to see it. All she had to go on was a hollow sensation in her gut, a drumlike feeling that she wanted to identify as incompletion. It was instinct and nothing else. Yet how could she act upon it when at the same time she continually questioned Emily Barlow for doing the same? Instinct was all well and good but, somewhere along the line, it needed to be supported by evidence.
But Rudi had left World Wide Tours within minutes of her own departure, she told herself. He'd driven directly here. He'd been admitted into this same building. And if those facts didn't mean something, what the hell did?
She sighed, wondering if the hollow feeling in her stomach was merely a desire for sustenance, vengeance taken for having left a third of her bag of crisps back in the Harwich pub. She rustled round in her shoulder bag and pulled out her notebook. She scrawled the number of the Burnt House Hotel on a spare sheet of paper and passed it over to the German, telling him to phone if he recalled anything pertinent, particularly how a bill of lading from Eastern Imports managed to end up among a dead man's belongings.