Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(103)

True contentment grows from tradition, Sahlah. And tradition binds us together as a people.

In these nighttime conversations with her mother, the room's shadows hid their faces from each other and freed them to speak their hearts. But now … Sahlah wondered how she could possibly speak to her mother. She wanted to do so. She yearned to open her heart to Wardah, to receive the comfort and to feel the safety that her mother's quiet presence had always provided her. Yet to seek that comfort and safety now meant to speak a truth that would destroy the very possibility of comfort and safety forever.

So she said in a low voice the only thing she could say, “The police were at the factory today, Ammī”

“Your father phoned me,” Wardah replied.

“They've sent two detective constables. The constables are talking to everyone, and they're recording the interviews. They're in the conference room and one by one they call in someone to question. From the kitchen, from shipping, from storage, from production.”

“And you, Sahlah? Have these constables spoken to you as well?”

“No. Not yet. But they will. Soon.”

Wardah seemed to hear something in her voice, because for a moment she stopped brushing Sahlah's hair. “You fear an interview with the detective constables? Do you know something about Haytham's death? Something you haven't spoken of yet?”

“No.” Sahlah told herself it wasn't a lie. She didn't know anything. She merely suspected. She waited to see if her mother would hear a hesitation in her words that gave her away or an uncharacteristic inflection that revealed the roiling of a soul in which guilt, sorrow, fear, and anxiety all warred. “But I'm frightened,” she said. And this, at least, was a truth she could part with.

Wardah put the hairbrush on the chest of drawers. She returned to her daughter and placed her fingers beneath Sahlah's chin. She tilted her face and gazed into it. Sahlah felt her heart beating rapidly, and she knew the birthmark on her cheek had suffused with colour.

“You have no reason to fear,” Wardah told her. “Your father and your brother will protect you, Sahlah. As will I. No harm can possibly come to you from the harm that came to Haytham. Before that ever could happen, your father would lay down his own life. As would Muhannad. You know this, don't you?”

“Harm has already come to us all,” Sahlah whispered.

“What happened to Haytham touches all of our lives,” Wardah agreed. “But it needn't contaminate us if we choose not to let it. And we make that choice by speaking the truth. Only lies and denials have the power to taint us.”

These words were nothing that Wardah had not said in the past. But now their power to wound astonished her daughter. She couldn't blink the tears away before her mother saw them.

Wardah's face softened and she drew her close, holding Sahlah's head against her breast. “You're quite safe, dearest,” her mother said. “I promise you that.”

But Sahlah knew that the safety of which her mother spoke was as insubstantial as a piece of gauze.


BARBARA SUFFERED THROUGH Emily's ministrations to her face a second time that day. Before allowing her to meet the Pakistanis in her first official appearance as police liaison officer, Emily took her to the locker room and stood her in front of the basin and mirror for another go with the foundation, powder, mascara, and blusher. She even dotted Barbara's mouth with lipstick, saying, “Stuff it, Sergeant,” when Barbara protested. “I want you looking fresh for the fray,” she instructed. “Don't underestimate the power of personal appearance, especially in our line of work. You'd be a fool to think it doesn't count.”

As she repaired what the heat had damaged, she gave her directions for the upcoming meeting. She listed what details Barbara was to share with the Asians, and she reiterated the dangers of the minefield they were walking through.

She concluded by saying, “The last thing I want is for Muhannad Malik to use anything from this meeting to fire up his people, all right? And watch them both while you're at it. Watch them like a hawk. Watch everyone like a hawk. I'll be meeting the rest of the team in the conference room, if you need me.”

Barbara was determined not to need her, as well as to do justice to the DCI's faith in her. And as she faced Muhannad Malik and Taymullah Azhar across the table in what had once been the Victorian house's dining room, she recommitted herself to those ends.

The two men had been kept waiting a quarter of an hour. During that time, someone had provided them with a jug of water, four glasses, and a blue paper plate of Oreos. But they appeared to have touched nothing. When Barbara entered, both men were sitting. Azhar rose. Muhannad did not.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she told them. “Some last-minute details we had to clear up.”

Muhannad didn't look as if he believed that remark. Obviously, he was experienced enough and clever enough to know when power-jockeying was being attempted by an adversary. For his part, Azhar made a study of Barbara as if trying to gaze beneath her skin for the truth of the matter. When she returned his scrutiny, he lowered his eyes.

“Details we wait to hear,” Muhannad said. Barbara had to credit him with opening the meeting with an attempt to sound polite.

“Yes. Well.” Onto the table she slapped the folders she was carrying. There were three of them, and she'd brought them along more for effect than for any other reason. She topped them with the yellow-bound book she'd taken from Querashi's hotel room. Then she drew out a chair, sat, and gestured Azhar to do likewise. She'd brought along her cigarettes, and she took a moment to light up.