This wasn't enough to put the man out of commission. It wasn't enough even to view him somewhat askance. Still, Muhannad Malik's brand of activism—put on display that day—didn't sit well with Emily Barlow. And after completing her examination of the report, she had read nothing that set her mind at rest.
She'd met him and the man he'd called his expert in the “politics of immigration” several hours after the demonstration. Muhannad had let his companion do most of the talking, but his own presence had been impossible to ignore, as he no doubt intended.
He radiated antipathy. He wouldn't sit down. Rather, he stood against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, and he never took his eyes from her face. His expression of contemptuous distrust challenged Emily to try to get away with lying about Querashi's death. She hadn't considered doing so … at least not about the essentials.
Both to forestall any outbursts from him and to subtly underscore the unstated fact that there was no connection between the demonstration and her agreeing to see them, Emily had directed her comments to Muhannad's companion, whom he'd introduced as his cousin Taymullah Azhar. Unlike Muhannad, this man had an air of serenity about him, although as a member of Muhannad's khāndān, Azhar would doubtless be governed by an agenda identical to whatever the family's was. So Emily had been careful with her choice of words.
“We began with the knowledge that Mr. Querashi's death appeared suspicious,” she'd told him. “Once we'd determined that, we asked for a pathologist from the Home Office. He'll arrive tomorrow to perform the postmortem.”
“Is this an English pathologist?” Muhannad asked. The implication was obvious: An English pathologist would serve the interest of the English community; an English pathologist would hardly take seriously the death of an Asian.
“I have no idea what his ethnic background is. We aren't allowed to put in requests.”
“And where does the investigation stand?” Taymullah Azhar had a curious way of speaking, courteous without being at all deferential. Emily wondered how he managed it.
“The moment the death was deemed suspicious, the site was secured,” Emily replied.
“Which site is this?”
“The pillbox at the foot of the Nez.”
“Has it been determined that he died in the pillbox?”
Azhar was very quick. Emily had to admire that. “Nothing's been determined yet, aside from the fact that he's dead and—”
“And it took them six hours to determine that much,” Muhannad put in. “Imagine the fire that would have been lit under the bobbies’ pink bums had the body been white.”
“—and, as the Asian community suspected, it appears to be a murder,” Emily finished.
She waited for Malik's reaction. He'd been shouting murder since the corpse had been discovered thirty-four hours before. She didn't wish to deny him his moment of triumph.
He took it quickly. “As I said/’ he asserted. “And if I hadn't been dogging you since yesterday morning, I expect you'd be calling this an unfortunate accident.”
Emily steadied herself inwardly. Argument was what the Asian wanted. A verbal brawl with the investigating officer would be helpful as a rallying cry for his people. A meticulous conversation reporting the facts would be far less useful. So she ignored his jibe. Instead, she said to his cousin, “The forensic team spent approximately eight hours going over the site yesterday. They bagged evidence, and they've taken it to the lab for analysis.”
“When can you expect the results?”
“We've let them know this is a top priority.”
“How did Haytham die?” Muhannad interjected.
“Mr. Malik, twice I've tried to explain to you over the phone that—”
“You don't expect me to believe that you still don't know how Querashi was murdered, do you? Your medical examiner has seen the body. You admitted on the phone that you saw it yourself.”
“Looking at a body doesn't reveal anything,” Emily explained. “Your own father can tell you that much. He made the formal identification, and I dare say he's as much in the dark as we are.”
“Are we correct in assuming there was no gun involved?” Azhar asked quietly. “No knife either? No garrotte? No rope? Because, of course, the use of these would have left marks upon the body.”
“My father said he saw only one side of Haytham's face,” Muhannad said. Then he enhanced the implication behind his comment by continuing with “My father said he was allowed to see only one side of his face. The body was covered with sheeting which was rolled down to the chin for less than fifteen seconds. And that was that. What are you hiding about this murder, Inspector?”
Emily poured herself water from a jug on the table behind her desk. She offered some to the men. They both declined, which was just as well since she'd taken the last of it and she didn't much feel like sending for more. She drank thirstily, but the water tasted vaguely metallic and it left an unpleasant flavour on her tongue.
She explained to the Asians that she was hiding nothing because there was nothing this early in the investigation to hide. The time of death, she told them, had been set between half past ten and half past midnight on Friday night. Prior to concluding that they were dealing with a homicide, the pathologist had determined that Mr. Querashi's death was not a suicide and not the result of natural causes. But that was the extent—
“Bullshit!” Muhannad offered the expletive as the only logical conclusion to her remarks. “If you can tell it wasn't a suicide or natural and you still say it appears to be a murder, do you really expect us to believe that you can't tell how he was killed?”
To clarify matters further, Emily told Taymullah Azhar as if Muhannad hadn't spoken, everyone living in the vicinity of the Nez was being questioned by a team of detective constables to determine what might have been seen or heard on the night of Mr. Querashi's death. Additionally, appropriate measurements had been made at the site, clothing had been bagged, tissues would be taken from the body for microscopic analysis, blood and urine samples would go to the toxicologist, background information—
“She's stalling, Azhar.” Emily had to give Muhannad credit for the observation. He was very nearly as quick as his cousin. “She doesn't want us to know what happened. Because if we know, we'll take to the streets again and this time we won't clear out till we have the answers and justice. Which, believe me, is exactly what they do not want at the beginning of their tourist season.”
Azhar raised a hand to silence his cousin. “And photographs?” he asked Emily quietly. “You took them, of course.”
“That's always done first. The entire site is photographed, not only the body.”
“May we see these, please?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Why?”
“Because as we've determined the death is a homicide, no element of the formal investigation can be shared with the public. It just isn't done.”
“And yet information is leaked to the media quite frequently in the midst of an investigation of this kind,” Azhar pointed out.
“Perhaps it is,” Emily said, “but not by the officer in charge.”
Azhar observed her with large, intelligent brown eyes. If the room hadn't been insufferably hot already, Emily knew she would have flushed under his scrutiny. As it was, the heat was her alibi. Everyone in the building—save the Asians—was crimson with discomfort, so her own colouring was indication of nothing.
“In what direction do you go from here?” he finally asked.
“We wait for all of the reports to come in. And we place everyone who knew Mr. Querashi under suspicion. We'll begin interviewing—”
“Everyone brown who knew him,” Muhannad concluded.
“I didn't say that, Mr. Malik.”
“You didn't have to, Inspector.” He made her rank too polite a title to indicate anything other than his scorn for it. “You have no intention of pursuing this murder into the white community. If you had your way, you probably wouldn't both
er to pursue it as the murder it is. And don't bother to deny the accusation. I've a bit of experience associated with how the police treat crimes committed against my people.”
Emily didn't rise to this additional baiting, and Taymullah Azhar gave no indication he'd even heard his cousin. He merely said, “Since I didn't know Mr. Querashi, may I have access to the photographs of his body? It would set my family's mind at rest to know the police are hiding nothing from us.”
“I'm sorry,” Emily said in reply.
Muhannad shook his head, as if he'd expected this answer all along. He said to his cousin, “Let's get out of here. We're wasting our time.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Come on. This is bullshit. She's not going to help us.”
Azhar looked thoughtful. “Are you willing to meet our needs, Inspector?”
“In what way?” Emily was immediately wary.
“Through compromise.”
“Compromise?” Muhannad echoed. “No. No way, Azhar. If we compromise, we'll end up watching the carpet being lifted and Haytham's murder being swept—”
“Cousin.” Azhar glanced his way. It was the first time he'd even looked at him. “Inspector?” he repeated, turning back to Emily.
“There can be no compromise in a police investigation, Mr. Azhar. So I don't understand what you're suggesting.”
“What I'm suggesting is a way to assuage the community's most pressing concerns.”
She decided to read the implication at its most potentially efficacious: He could be suggesting a way to keep the Asians in line. That would certainly serve her interests. She replied carefully. “I won't deny that the community's foremost in my thoughts,” she said, and waited to see where he was heading.
“Then I would propose regular meetings between you and the family. This will allay all of our concerns—not only among the family but also among the larger community—as to how you're proceeding with your enquiry into Mr. Querashi's death. Will you agree to that?”
He waited patiently for her answer. His expression was as bland as it had been from the first. He was acting as if nothing—least of all peace in Balford-le-Nez—depended upon her willingness to cooperate. Watching him, Emily suddenly realised he'd anticipated every one of her previous answers, having planned to end up with this suggestion as the logical outcome of everything she'd said. She'd just been outmanoeuvred by the two of them. They'd played a mild variation of good cop/bad cop, and she'd fallen for it like a schoolgirl arrested for pinching sweets.
“I'd like to cooperate as fully as possible,” she said, choosing words with care to avoid committing herself. “But in the midst of an investigation, it's difficult to guarantee that I'll be available when you want me.”
“A convenient response,” Muhannad said. “I suggest we end this charade, Azhar.”
“I suspect you're drawing an inference I don't intend,” Emily told him.
“I know bloody well what you intend: letting anyone who raises a hand against us get away with it, with murder as well.”
“Muhannad,” Taymullah Azhar said quietly. “Let's give the inspector an opportunity to compromise.”
But Emily didn't want to compromise. In an investigation, she didn't want to find herself obliged to have meetings at which she would have to watch her every step, guard her every word, and maintain her temper. She didn't have the inclination for the game. More important, she didn't have the time. The investigation was already behind schedule, and mostly due to Malik's machinations. She was already twenty-four hours behind where she should have been. But Taymullah Azhar had just given her a way out, even if he did not realise the fact. “Will the family accept a substitute for me?”
“What sort of substitute?”
“Someone to liaise between you—the family and the community—and the investigating officers. Will you accept that?” And go on your bloody way, she added silently. And keep your fellows in line, at home, present at their jobs, and off the damn streets.
Azhar exchanged a look with his cousin. Muhannad shrugged abruptly. “We accept,” Azhar said, getting to his feet. “With the proviso that this individual will be replaced by you should we find it necessary to reject him as biased, ignorant, or deceptive.”
Emily had agreed to the condition, after which the two men had left her. She'd blotted her face with a tissue and rubbed it to bits against the sweat on the back of her neck. Picking the tissue fragments off her damp skin, she returned her phone calls. She talked to her superintendent.
Now, having read the intelligence report on Muhannad Malik, she jotted down the name Taymullah Azhar and requested a similar report on him. Then she looped the strap of her hold-all over her shoulder and switched out the lights in her office. Having dealt with the Muslims, she'd bought a little time. And time counted for everything when dealing with murder.
BARBARA HAVERS FOUND the Balford police station on Martello Road, a lane of shambled red-brick structures that marked yet another route to the sea. The station was housed in one of these. It was a gabled and many-chimneyed Victorian building that had doubtless once housed one of the town's more prominent families. An antique blue light whose glass shade was embellished with the white word Police identified the building's current use.
As Barbara pulled to a halt in front of it, evening floodlights came on, arcing shells of incandescence against the station's façade. A female figure was coming out of the front door, and she paused to adjust the strap of a bulky shoulder bag. Barbara hadn't seen Emily Barlow in eighteen months, but she recognised her instantly. Tall, wearing a white tank top and dark trousers, the DCI had the broad shoulders and the well-defined biceps of the dedicated triathlete that she was. She may have been approaching forty, but her body was timelocked at twenty. In her presence—even at a distance and in the growing darkness—Barbara felt as she'd felt when they'd taken their courses together: a candidate for liposuction, a wardrobe makeover, and six intense months with a personal trainer.
“Em?” Barbara called quietly. “Hullo. Something told me I'd find you still hard at it.”
At the initial sound of Barbara's voice, Emily's head rose sharply. But by the end of the other woman's greeting, she'd stepped away from the station door and approached the pavement. She said, “Good God. Is that Barb Havers? What the devil are you doing in Balford?”
How exactly would it play? Barbara wondered. I'm trailing an exotic Pakistani and his kid in the hopes of keeping them out of the nick. Oh yes, DCI Emily Barlow was certain to go for that strange tale in a major way. “I'm on holiday,” Barbara settled upon saying. “I've just got in. I read about the case in the local rag. I saw your name and thought I'd come along to suss out the situation.”
“That sounds like a busman's holiday.”
“Can't keep my fingers out of the pie. You know how it is.” Barbara fished in her bag for her cigarettes but remembered at the last moment not only that Emily didn't smoke but also that she was always willing to go one or two rounds with anyone who did. Barbara relinquished the Players and fumbled for the Juicy Fruit instead. “Congratulations on the promotion,” she added. “Bloody hell, Em. You're climbing fast.” She folded the stick of gum into her mouth as the DCI joined her.
“Congratulations may be premature. If my super has his way, I'm back to constable.” Emily frowned. “What happened to your face, Barb? You look like hell.”
Barbara made a mental note to remove the bandages as soon as she was within spitting distance of a mirror. “I forgot to duck. On my last case.”
“I hope he looks worse. Was it a he?”
Barbara nodded. “He's in the nick for murder.”
Emily smiled. “Now, that's excellent news.”
“Where are you heading?”
The DCI shifted her weight and the weight of her hold-all and ran a hand through her hair in the habitual manner that Barbara remembered. It was jet-black hair, dyed punk and cut punk, and on any other woman her age it would have looked absurd. But not on Emily
Barlow. Emily Barlow didn't do absurd, in appearance or in anything else. “Well,” she said frankly, “I was supposed to meet a gentleman friend for a few discreet hours of moonlight, romance, and what usually follows moonlight and romance. But to tell you the truth, his charms have just about run their course, so I cancelled. Somewhere along the line I knew he'd start whingeing about the wife and kiddies, and I just wasn't up to holding his hand through another attack of the galloping guilts.”
The reply was vintage Emily. She'd long ago relegated sex to just another aerobic activity. Barbara said, “Have you time for chat, then? About what's going on?”
The DCI hesitated. Barbara knew she would be considering the request for its propriety. She waited, understanding that Emily was unlikely to agree to any action that would jeopardise either the case itself or her newly acquired position. She finally glanced back at the building and seemed to come to a decision of some sort. She said, “Have you eaten, Barb?”
“At the Breakwater.”
“That was courageous. I can imagine your arteries hardening even as we speak. Well, I haven't had a bite since breakfast and I'm heading home. Come along. We can talk while I have my dinner.”
They wouldn't need the car, she added as Barbara fished her keys from her lumpy shoulder bag. Emily lived just at the top of the street, where Martello Road became the Crescent.
It took them less than five minutes to walk there, at a brisk pace that Emily Barlow set. Her house stood at the near end of the Crescent. It was the last in a row of nine terraced dwellings that appeared to be in various stages of either renaissance or decay. Emily's belonged to the former group: Three storeys of scaffolding fronted it.
“You'll have to pardon the mess.” Emily led Barbara up the eight cracked front steps and onto a shallow porch that was walled with chipped Edwardian tiles. “It'll be a real showpiece when I've got it done, but right now finding the time to work on it is the biggest problem.” She shouldered open a paint-stripped front door. “Back here,” she said, heading down a steamy corridor that was redolent of sawdust and turpentine. “It's the only part that I've managed to get into remotely livable condition.”