Muhannad turned from the door. His face was a carving. “What are you saying?”
Yumn felt the relief. It was followed by triumph. She'd diverted a crisis between them. “I'm saying just what you think I'm saying. Your sister's pregnant. Which is something everyone would have known if they weren't so intent on watching me all the time, just in case I make a move that they can give me a beating for.”
His eyes went opaque. She saw the ripple of muscles in his arm. She felt her lips want to draw back in a smile, but she maintained control. Precious Sahlah was in for it now. Four ruined tomato plants were hardly worthy of discussion in the face of this familial disgrace.
Muhannad jerked the door open. The force was so great that it crashed back against the wall and flew forward into his shoulder. He didn't flinch.
“Where are you going?” Yumn asked him.
He didn't reply. He strode from the room and clattered down the stairs. In a moment she heard the roar of the Thunderbird followed by the crackling of chippings from the driveway as its wheels spun wildly, flinging gravel against the sides of the car. She went to the window and saw him tearing down the street.
Oh dear, she thought and allowed herself to experience the smile that she'd stifled in her husband's presence. Poor little Sahlah was in for it now.
Yumn went to the bedroom door and shut it.
How hot the day was, she thought, stretching her arms above her head. A woman in her childbearing years, she would be foolish to overexert herself in the sun. She would have a long, lovely rest before seeing to Wardah's tiresome plants.
“BUT, EM,” BARBARA said, “he's got it all, hasn't he? Motive, opportunity, and now the means. How long would it take him to walk from that house over to the marina? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? That's nothing, right? And the path from the house to the shore's so well marked that you can see it all the way from the boat hire. So he wouldn't even have needed a torch to show him the way. Which explains why we haven't been able to come up with a single witness who saw anyone on or near the Nez.”
“Except Cliff Hegarty.” Emily fired up the Ford.
“Right. And he's practically handed us Theo Shaw on a platter, what with the story about the Malik girl's pregnancy.”
Emily reversed out of the marina's car park. She didn't speak again until they were back on the lane leading into the town. Then she said, “Theo Shaw's not the only person who could have come to the marina and nicked one of Charlie's Zodiacs, Barb. Are you ready to discount Eastern Imports, World Wide Tours, Klaus Reuchlein, and Hamburg? How many of the things that tie Querashi to Muhannad's dodgy business do you want to label coincidences? The phone calls to Reuchlein's flat in Hamburg? The bill of lading from Eastern Imports in the safe deposit box? Muhannad's early morning jaunt to that warehouse? What do we toss out, Barb?”
“//Muhannad's got a dodgy business going,” Barbara pointed out.
“Driving a lorry away from Eastern Imports at one in the morning?” Emily reminded her. “What's that connected to if not something dodgy? Believe it, Barb. I know my man.”
They zoomed along the lane in the direction they'd come from, slowing as they re-entered the town. Emily braked at the corner of the High Street and waited for a family to cross in front of the car. Laden with canvas chairs, plastic buckets, shovels, and towels, they looked uniformly hot and unhappy as they straggled homeward from their day at the sea.
Barbara pulled on her lip, seeing the beachgoers trudging past but concentrating instead upon the case in hand. She knew that she couldn't rationally argue with Emily's logic. The DCI was perfectly right. There were too many flaming coincidences to be actual coincidences in the investigation. But she could not dismiss the fact that very nearly from the first, Theo Shaw had had a motive written above his head in neon, while—no matter his incendiary personality—Muhannad Malik had not.
Nonetheless, Barbara backed away from a full-scale debate over the efficacy of heading to the mustard factory in lieu of making a dash for the pleasure pier. Despite her inclination to follow up on the possibilities presented by the proximity of Balford Old Hall to the marina, she knew that neither she nor Emily had one piece of hard evidence to pin on anyone. Without an eyewitness to anything except a shadowy figure on the top of the Nez, and with only a list of curious phone calls and a tangle of circumstantial bits and pieces to go on, their only hope for an arrest was going to be to dig up an incriminating detail that would implicate one of the men under suspicion or to trip someone up in an interview that would reveal guilt where innocence had been avowed.
With a search warrant in their hands, it did make more sense to pursue the factory end of the business. At least the factory presented the hope of digging up something that could lead to an arrest. A sojourn to the pier didn't promise much more than plodding through what they already knew and had already heard, hoping this time to listen with more discerning ears to whatever tale was told.
Still, she persisted. “That bracelet did say ‘Life begins now.’ He could have meant to marry her, only to have Querashi get in the way.”
Emily gave her an incredulous glance. “Theo Shaw marry the Malik girl? Not on your life. His grandmother would have cut him off without a penny. No, it was to Theo Shaw's advantage that Haytham Querashi came along. Querashi was Theo's best bet to be rid of Sahlah without fuss. If anything, he had every reason to want Haytham Querashi to stay alive.”
They spun along the Esplanade. They left bicycle riders, pedestrians, and Rollerbladers behind them as they veered inland by the Coast Guard station and cruised along Hall Lane towards the elbow that became Nez Park Road.
Emily pulled into the bedraggled industrial estate. She took the search warrant from the glove compartment and said, “Ah. Here are the boys.”
The boys were the eight members of the squad whose pagers the DCI had instructed Belinda Warner to ring from the station. They'd been ordered from their current activities—everything from verifying Gerry DeVitt's alibi to contacting all of the owners of beach huts in an attempt to corroborate Trevor Ruddock's untold tale about petty burglary—in order to take part in the search of the factory. They were lounging about outside the old brick building, smoking, attempting to beat the heat with cans of Coke and bottles of water. They joined Emily and Barbara at the Ford, the smokers prudently crushing out their fags before they approached.
Emily instructed them to wait for her word, and she went into reception. Barbara followed. Sahlah Malik was not behind the desk. Instead, the reception area was occupied by a middle-aged woman—scarved and gowned—who was seeing to the day's post.
She greeted Emily's presentation of the search warrant by excusing herself hastily and disappearing into the administrative office just beyond reception. In a moment, Ian Armstrong was hurrying towards them, with the temporary receptionist hanging behind at a safe distance to watch his confrontation with the police.
Armstrong came through the door, said, “Detective Chief Inspector, Sergeant,” and nodded to both of them in turn. He dug into the breast pocket of his jacket. For a moment, Barbara thought he intended to present them with a legal document of his own, but he brought forth a crumpled handkerchief and blotted his forehead with it. “Mr. Malik isn't here. He's paying a call on Agatha Shaw. She's in hospital. A stroke, I'm told. How may I help you? Kawthar told me that you're requesting—”
Emily cut in with “It's not a request,” and she showed him the document.
He swallowed. “Oh dear. With Mr. Malik not here at the moment, I'm afraid I can't allow—”
“Allowing or not allowing isn't your option, Mr. Armstrong,” Emily told him. “Gather your people outside.”
“But we're mixing product at the moment.” He spoke weakly, as if he knew his protest was futile but felt compelled to make one anyway. “This is a delicate stage of the operation, as we're working on a new sauce, and Mr. Malik was quite firm in instructing our mixers …” He cleared his throat. “If you can give us a half hour …? Perhaps a bit
more …?”
In answer, Emily went to the door. She stuck her head out and said, “Let's get on with it.”
“But …but …” Ian Armstrong wrung his hands and looked imploringly at Barbara, seeking an advocate. “Surely, you have to tell me …give me some indication of …what is it exactly that you're looking for? As I'm the one in charge in the absence of the Maliks …”
Emily said sharply, “Muhannad's not here either?”
“Well, of course he is … I mean, he was earlier … I had assumed …He goes home for lunch.” Armstrong cast an agonised glance at the outer door as Emily's team came striding through it. She'd chosen the biggest and burliest men available, knowing that at least one-quarter of the power of search and seizure was intimidation. Ian Armstrong took one look at the assembling crowd of police officers and obviously decided that discretion was the better part of whatever else he'd had in mind. He said, “Oh dear.”
Emily said, “Clear your people out of the building, Mr. Armstrong.”
Emily's team spread throughout the factory. While the employees gathered on the cracked tarmac fanning out from the front door, the detectives divided themselves among the administration offices, the shipping department, the production area, and the storage facility. They were seeking what could be shipped from the factory in the guise of product or tucked among the packed bottles and jars: drugs, hard core or child pornography, weapons, explosives, counterfeit money, jewels.
The team was elbow deep into the search when Emily's mobile sounded. She and Barbara were in the warehouse, searching through boxes that stood on the loading dock ready for shipment. The mobile phone was attached to the waistband of Emily's trousers, and when it rang, she snapped it off and, clearly annoyed at having so far found nothing within the factory, barked her name into the mouthpiece.
From her place on the other side of the loading dock, Barbara heard Emily's end of the conversation. It consisted of, “Barlow here …Yes. Goddamn it, Billy, I'm in the middle of something. What the hell is it? …Right, that's what I ordered and that's what I want. That bloke's intent on doing a runner and the minute you let him out of your sight, he's going to do one. … He what? Have you had a good look? Everywhere? …Yes, I can hear him babbling. What's he on about? …Stolen? Since yesterday? Bullshit. I want him back at the nick. Directly … I don't care if he pees in his pants. I want him under my thumb.”
She snapped the phone off and looked at Barbara. “Kumhar,” she said.
“A problem?”
“What the fuck else?” Emily scowled, looking at the shipping boxes that they'd opened but obviously with her mind miles away from the factory. “I told DC Honigman to collect Kumhar's papers when he returned him to Clacton. Passport, immigration documents, work permits, the lot.”
“So he wouldn't do a runner in case we need to talk to him again. I remember,” Barbara said. “And?”
“And that was Honigman on the blower. It seems that our little Asian worm doesn't have any papers in Clacton at all. According to Honigman, he appears to be claiming that they were stolen while he was in the nick last night.” She shoved the mobile back onto the waistband of her trousers.
Barbara considered this information in light of everything else they knew, what they had seen, and what they had heard. “Querashi had immigration papers in the Barclays safe deposit box, didn't he, Em? Is there a connection in that? And even if there is, is there also a connection here?” She gestured round the shipping department.
“That,” Emily said, “is exactly what I intend to find out.” She stepped off the shipping dock. “Keep with the search, Barb. And if Malik shows his mug, drag him over to the nick for a natter.”
“And if he doesn't show up?”
“Then check at his home. Run him to ground. Find him one way or the other. And bring him in.”
AFTER THE COPS returned him to the industrial estate, Cliff Hegarty decided to officially declare himself on holiday for the rest of the afternoon. He used a sheet of polythene to cover his current Distraction—a jigsaw puzzle under construction, featuring a large and pendulously breasted woman together with a small elephant in a most fascinating if physiologically impossible pose—and he packed his tools away in their stainless steel chests. He swept up the fine sawdust, polished the surface of his display cabinets, emptied and washed the tea mugs, and locked his door. He hummed contentedly all the while.
He'd done his part to bring Haytham's killer to justice. True, he hadn't come forward at once like he might've done on last Friday night, when he'd seen poor Hayth go head over arse down the face of the Nez, but at least he knew he would've come forward had circumstances been different. Besides, he hadn't been thinking only of himself in hanging back from making a statement to the rozzers. There was Haytham to think of as well. Had Cliff made it known that the murder victim had gone to the Nez for a bit of brown, what would it have done to the bloke's reputation? No sense in tarring him once he was gone was Cliff's way of thinking about it.
And there had been Gerry to consider as well. What was the point in stirring up a hornets’ nest of worry in Ger when it wasn't the least bit necessary? Ger talked about fidelity all the time, like he really believed in his heart of hearts that being true to one's lover was the number one topic on his mind. But the real truth was that Ger was scared shitless about HIV. He'd been getting himself tested three times a year since the scare began, and what he believed was that plugging only one bloke for the rest of his life was the key to survival. If he knew that Cliff had been doing the business with Haytham Querashi, he'd only worry himself into a state and probably bring on symptoms of some crazy disease that he didn't even have in the first place. Besides, Haytham always took precautions. Hell, there were times when taking it in the arse from Haytham was so antiseptic that Cliff had found himself tossing round the idea of setting up something with a third bucking bronco just to add a bit of salt to the mash.
Not that he would have done it, mind you. But there were times …Just now and then when Hayth would wrestle with that flaming Durex for about ten seconds too long for Cliff's liking …
However, those days were now behind him. Cliff made this decision as he strode to the car. Across the rutted lane, he could see six police cars sitting in front of the mustard factory, and he gave thanks that his part in the investigation was now at an end. He'd head for home and forget about it all, he decided. He'd had a close call, and he'd be a real boofhead if he didn't see what had happened in the past few days as a gilt-edged invitation from on high to turn over a new leaf.
He found himself whistling as he drove south through Balford, buzzing along the seafront, then cruising up the High Street. His life was definitely looking up. With the Haytham business completely behind him and his head finally straight on what he intended to do with the rest of his life, he knew he was ready to devote himself to Gerry. They'd been through a bad patch—him and Ger—but that's all it was, plain and simple.
He'd had to bring to bear all the fancy dancing he knew in order to convince Gerry that his suspicions were groundless. He'd begun his efforts at placation by using anger. When his lover had brought up the idea of being tested for HIV, Cliff's response had been outrage, finely tuned to illustrate that a grievous blow had been dealt him.
“Are we going to have this one again, Ger?” he'd demanded that morning in the kitchen. “I'm not cheating on you, okay? Jesus Christ. How d'you think it feels—”
“You think HIV can't touch you.” Gerry was the maddening voice of reason as always. “But it can and it will. Have you watched anyone die of AIDS, Cliff? Or do you leave the cinema when that scene comes on?”
“Is there something wrong with your hearing, mate? I said I'm not cheating. If you don't believe me, maybe you ought to tell me why.”
“I'm not stupid, okay? I work days at the pier. I work nights at that house. Want to tell me what you do while I'm gone?”
Cliff had felt ice running in his veins, so close was Gerry coming to the tru
th, but he'd rallied well enough. “You want to tell me what you're on about? What's your point? Just spit it out, Ger.” This demand had been a calculated risk. But in Cliff's experience, the time to bluff was when he had absolutely no idea what cards his opponent was holding. In this case, he knew what Gerry's suspicions were, and the only way he could sway Gerry to see those suspicions as groundless was to force them into the open in order to beat them down with a decent display of righteous rage. “Go on, then. Spit it all out, Gerry.”
“Okay. All right. You go out when I'm working nights. And we haven't been doing it like we used to. I know the signs, Cliff. Something's going on.”
“Shit. I fucking do not believe this. You expect me to sit here and wait for you, right? But I can't sit here with nothing to do. I start climbing the walls. So I go out. I have a walk. I take a drive. I have a drink at Never Say Die. Or I work on a special order at the shop. D'you want some proof for all this? Should I get the barmaid to write me a note? How ’bout setting up a time clock at the Distractions so I could punch in and out for you?”
This explosion achieved a nice effect. Gerry's voice altered, a subtle gentling that told Cliff he was well on his way to having the upper hand. “I'm saying that if we need to get tested, we need to get tested. Knowing the truth is better than living a death sentence without even knowing it.”
Gerry's alteration in tone told Cliff that an escalation of his own passion would douse even more of his lover's. “Great. So get tested if you want to, but don't expect me to do the same, because I don't need a test, because I'm not bloody cheating. If you're going to start sifting through my business, though, I sure as hell c'n do the same to you. And just as easy. Believe me.” He raised his voice further. “You're gone all day on the pier, aren't you, and half the bleeding night pounding away on some bloke's house—// by the way that's what you're really pounding on.”
“Hang on,” Gerry said. “What's that supposed to mean? We need the money, and as far as I know, there's only one legal way to get it.”