Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(120)

“Very well,” Azhar said, and stepped back into the room. “If you'll give me a moment to change …”

“Forget it. You don't need to get dressed. This'll probably take less than five minutes. Come on.”

She didn't give him a chance to argue. She set off down the corridor in the direction of the stairs. Behind her, she heard the sound of his door closing, followed by the scrape of the key as he locked up. She waited for him at the top of the stairs.

“Querashi was phoning Pakistan at least once a day in the last three weeks. Whoever got those calls is bound to remember if they've heard he's dead.”

“The family has been informed,” Azhar told her. “Aside from them, I can't think whom he might have been phoning.”

“That's what we're about to find out.”

She shoved open the door of her room and ushered him inside. From the floor, she scooped up the underclothes, the drawstring trousers, and the T-shirt that she'd worn earlier that day. She tossed them into the clothes cupboard with an “Excuse the mess,” and led him to the bedside table, where the computer print out lay on the dingy counterpane.

“Have at it,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He sat and looked at the print out for a moment, cigarette in his mouth and a plume of smoke rising like a vaporous serpent above his head. He tapped his fingers beneath one of the circled numbers and finally glanced in her direction.

“Are you certain you wish me to place these calls?”

“Why wouldn't I be certain?”

“We sit among opposing forces, Barbara. Should the parties at the other end of these numbers speak only Urdu, how will you know I'm relating the truth of the conversation to you?”

He had a point. Prior to fetching him, she hadn't dwelt long upon Azhar's reliability as a conduit of information. She hadn't thought about the question at all. She wondered why. Nonetheless she said, “Our objective's the same, isn't it? We both want to get to the bottom of who killed Querashi. I can't think you'd do something to bury the truth once you knew it was the truth. Frankly, you've never seemed that type.”

He gazed at her, his expression something between thoughtful, enlightened, and perplexed. He finally said, “As you wish,” and picked up the phone.

Barbara dug her cigarettes out of her bag, lit up, and dropped onto the dressing table's lime-cushioned stool. She moved an ashtray within reach of both of them.

Azhar used his long fingers to shove back a wing of black hair that had fallen across his forehead. He placed his cigarette into the ashtray and said, “It's ringing. Have you a pencil?” Then a moment later: “It's a recording, Barbara.” He frowned, listening. He jotted notes on the print out. He left no message, however, when the recording finished. He just rang off. “This number—” And he ticked off one of them. “This is a travel agency in Karachi. World Wide Tours. The message gave their hours of operation, none of which”—he smiled and reached for his cigarette—”happen to be between midnight and seven A.M.”

Barbara looked at the print out. “He phoned them four times last week. What d'you make of that? Honeymoon plans? The great escape from his marriage?”

“Doubtless he was merely arranging for his family's transport, Barbara. They would have wanted to be here to celebrate his marriage to my cousin. Shall I continue?”

She nodded. He went on to the next number. The connection was made, and within moments he was speaking Urdu. Barbara could hear the voice on the other end of the line. The words, at first hesitant, quickly became both urgent and passionate. The conversation went on some minutes, with English interspersed where there was no Urdu translation. Thus, she heard her own name mentioned as well as New Scotland Yard, Balford-le-Nez, Burnt House Hotel, and Essex Constabulary.

When he rang off, she said, “Well? Who was it? What did they—” but he held up his hand to stop her question and went on to make the next call.

This time he spoke at greater length, and he made notes as a man's voice on the other end of the line imparted what appeared to be a small volume of information. Barbara itched to wrest the receiver away from Azhar and make demands of her own. But she schooled herself to patience.

Without comment, Azhar went on to the fourth call, and this time Barbara recognised what seemed to be his standard opening: an apology for having phoned at such an hour, followed by an explanation in which Haytham Querashi's name came up more than once. This final conversation was longest of all, and at its conclusion, Azhar kept his attention gravely on the computer print out until Barbara spoke.

His expression was so sombre that Barbara felt the queasiness of trepidation come over her. She had handed him a potential item of crucial interest in the investigation. He was free to do with it what he would, including lie about its significance or relate it—with suitable incendiary comments—to his cousin.

She said, “Azhar?”

He roused himself. He reached for his cigarette and took a hit. Then he looked her way.

“The first call was to his parents.”

“That's the number that appears earlier on the printout?”

“Yes. They are—” He paused, ostensibly seeking a word or a phrase. “They are understandably crushed by his death. They wished to know about the status of the investigation. And they would like the body. They feel they cannot grieve their oldest son properly without having his body, so they ask if they must pay the police to release it.”