Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(107)

“Right,” Emily said. “So here's where we head,” and she went on without pause, assigning the detectives to their activities for the next day. Primary among the tasks was the effort to locate Fahd Kumhar. “I want this bloke found,” Emily told them, “and I want him found bloody fast, before he has a chance to do a runner. Understand?”

Second among the tasks was the effort to break Muhannad's alibi, and there were several murmurs of surprise when Emily introduced the idea. But she was unmoved by them. She assigned a DC called Doug Trotter the task of sorting through Rakin Khan's neighbours for anyone who could swear to the fact that the Asian man was with someone other than Muhannad Malik on Friday night.

Barbara watched her. Directing a team like this was clearly nothing to Emily. She had an unflappable confidence that spoke volumes as to how she'd attained her position while so young. Barbara thought of her own performance on her last case; she cringed at the contrast between herself and the DCI.

After fielding questions and listening to suggestions, Emily ended the meeting. As the detectives dispersed, she took a hefty swig of her water and came to join Barbara.

“Well?” she said. “The Asians. How did it go?”

“Muhannad's not threatening anything at the moment, but he's not backing off the racial bit.”

“He's been singing that song as long as I've known him.”

“I'm wondering, though,” Barbara said. “Could he be right?” She told Emily of the incident with the two children which she'd witnessed near the pier that afternoon.

“Not bloody likely,” Emily said when she'd finished. “Not with a trip wire, Barb.”

“I don't mean that it's an arbitrary killing based on race,” Barbara said. “I mean, couldn't race actually be behind it, even if the killing was premeditated? Couldn't culture be behind it? Cultural differences and all the misunderstandings that come from cultural differences?”

Emily appeared to consider this, her attention on the china board but her eyes not actually focused on its lists and data. “Who're you looking at, then?”

“Theo Shaw can't be wearing that gold bracelet for nothing. He had to have a relationship with the Malik girl. If that's the case, how would he feel about her marrying? It's a cultural deal, the arranged-marriage bit. But would he be likely to back out of the picture just because he's told to exit stage left? And what about Armstrong? His job went to another bloke. Why? Because it's the done thing: keeping positions in the family. But if he didn't deserve to be given the sack, wouldn't he want to do something to put things right?”

“Armstrong's alibi checks out solidly. The in-laws confirm. I spoke to them myself.”

“Okay, but aren't they likely to confirm, no matter the truth? He's married to their daughter. He's the breadwinner. Are they going to say something that might put their own kid out on the streets?”

“A confirmation is a confirmation,” Emily said.

“But it isn't in the case of Muhannad,” Barbara protested. “He's got an alibi as well, and you aren't buying it. Right?”

“So am I supposed to put Armstrong's in-laws on the rack?” Emily sounded impatient.

“They're relatives. That makes their confirmation weak. Muhannad's not related to this bloke Rakin Khan, is he? So why are you supposing that Khan would lie? What's his motivation?”

“They stick together. It's part of who they are.”

But there was a patent lack of logic to that. “If they stick together, then why would one of them kill another?”

Emily drained her bottle of water. She shot the empty towards a wastepaper basket.

“Em?” Barbara said when she didn't respond. “That doesn't really follow. Either they stick together—which means it's unlikely that a fellow Asian offed Querashi—or they don't stick together—in which case it doesn't make sense that Khan would lie for Muhannad Malik. You can't have it both ways. It seems to me—”

“This is gut,” Emily interrupted. “This is instinct. This is a basic feeling that something stinks and I've got to track it down. If the trail goes into the Asian community, I can't help that, all right?”

There was no question of its being all right. Emily was, after all, directing the entire investigation. But Barbara felt a sense of disquiet with the entire idea of instinct. She'd been on cases before where instinct turned out to be just another word for something else.

“I s'pose,” she said uneasily. “You're the guv.”

Emily glanced her way. “That's right,” she said.



ACHEL WINFIELD DIDN'T WALK DIRECTLY ONTO THE pleasure pier. Instead, she paused at its land end. She stood between the Pier End Hotel, whose windows and doors were boarded against the sea, and the row of kiddie-car rides that flagged each side of the pier's entrance. It was dinner time, so a lull had come in the day's activities. Rides still ran and the beeps and blasts of noise from the arcade games still drowned out the cries of gulls, but the time of day had reduced the number of pleasure seekers and the ringing of bells and the bleeping of horns from fruit machines, pinball machines, and other games of chance were intermittent now.

Thus, it was the perfect time to talk to Theo Shaw.