Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(106)

It was clear that he read her meaning: If any sort of misinformation was leaked into the Asian community, it would be coming only from a single source. Muhannad stood also, and it appeared to Barbara that he used his height—at least eight inches over hers—to illustrate the fact that if intimidation was going to be a feature of their meetings, he would be doing it.

He said, “If you're seeking Asian suspects, Sergeant, know that we intend to get to them first. Male or female, child or adult. We don't mean to allow you to interview any Pakistani without legal representation—Asian legal representation—present.”

Barbara regarded him long and hard before she replied. He needed to end their meeting in the one-up position, and she half-wanted to let him get away with it. But that was the half of her that was tired and hot, eager to have a shower and a decent meal. The half of her that knew the importance of winning the first round of a pissing contest was the half that spoke. “I can't tie your hands at the moment, Mr. Malik. But if you muddy our waters by meddling where you don't belong, I must tell you that you're going to find yourself in the nick for obstructing a police investigation.” She nodded at the doorway and added, “Can you find your way out?”

Muhannad's eyes narrowed fractionally. “A good question,” he replied. “You might want to answer it yourself, Sergeant.”


EMILY WAS STANDING to one side of the china board when Barbara joined the afternoon meeting of the CID team in the incident room. This was her first glimpse of the detectives manning the investigation, and she ran her gaze over them curiously. Fourteen men and three women, they were jammed into what had probably once been the first floor drawing room of the old house. Some rested their bums on the edges of tables, arms crossed and ties loosened. Others sat on plastic chairs. Some of them gave notice to Barbara as she entered, but the rest kept their focus on the DCI.

Emily stood with her weight on one leg, the china board's marking pen in one hand and a bottle of Evian in the other. Like everyone else in the stifling room, she was glistening with perspiration.

“Ah,” she said with a nod at Barbara. “This is DS Havers joining us now. We'll have her and Scotland Yard to thank if the Pakistanis start toeing the line. Which finally lets the rest of us get going on a decent investigation.”

All eyes shifted towards Barbara. She tried to read them. No one looked hostile at her invasion of their patch. At least four of the men looked like the sort of longtime detectives who had a fondness for bouts of harassment whenever joined by a female colleague. They stared. She felt lumpy. Emily spoke.

“Have a problem with this, mates?”

Point taken, they turned back to her.

The DCI said with a glance at the china board, “Right. To continue. Who's got the hospital run?”

“Nothing we can use,” came a response from a crane-like bloke near the window. “An Asian woman died in Clacton last week, but she was seventy-five and it was heart failure. No one's been admitted to casualty with anything looking like a botched abortion. I've checked every local hospital, clinic, and doctor's surgery as well. Nothing.”

“If he's a ginger like you said, that's a blind alley anyway, i'n't it, Guv?” The question came from an older bloke who needed a shave and a new anti-perspirant. Rings of damp descended from his armpits nearly to his waist.

“It's too early to label anything useless,” Emily said. “Until we have solid facts, we check out everything as if it's the gospel. Phil, what more do you have on the Nez?”

Phil removed a toothpick from his mouth. “I had a second go at the houses backing onto it.” He gave a glance to a small black-bound notebook. “Couple called the Sampsons were having themselves a date night, with a baby-sitter watching their kids. Baby-sitter—girl called Lucy Angus—had her boyfriend there for a bit of a snog, but when I tracked her down and gave her memory a jangle, she recalled hearing a motor on Friday night round half-ten.”

There were some positive murmurs at this. Over them, Emily said, “How legitimate is this? What sort of memory jangling are we talking about?”

“Didn't hypnotise her, if that's what you mean,” Phil said with a grin. “She'd gone to the kitchen for a drink of water—”

“Guess we know how she worked up a thirst,” someone called out.

“Shut it.” Emily's order was brusque. “Phil? Go on.”

“She heard a motor. She remembers the time because whoever was out there gunned the hell out of it and she looked outside but didn't see anything. Someone was running without lights, she said.”

“A boat?” Emily asked.

“From the direction of the noise, yeah. She says it was probably a boat.”

“Get on this, then.” Emily said. “Check the marina, check every harbour from Harwich to Clacton, check the boat hires, and get inside the garage, the shed, the lock-up, and the back garden of everyone even remotely connected to Querashi. If someone took a boat out that night, someone else had to have seen it, heard it, or documented it. Frank, what've you got on that key from Querashi's room?”

“It was Barclays,” he said. “All the way in Clacton. The time lock was already running when I got there, so I'll have the goods in the morning directly they open.”