Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(122)
“I did.”
“But he intended to marry. In fact, he was committed to marry. He was so committed that his family was ready to attend the celebration and he had the wedding night all planned out.”
“It seems reasonable to conclude that,” Azhar said cautiously.
“So can we reckon that after his conversation with the mufti, Haytham Querashi decided to start living by the tenets of Islam, in effect to go straight?” She warmed to her topic. “Can we reckon that he'd been at war with himself about doing this—about going straight—ever since coming to England? He was committed to getting married, after all, and yet still he was drawn to the men he'd sworn to give up. In being drawn to them, he was probably drawn to locations they frequent, more than one location. So he met some bloke in Clacton market square and took up with him. They carried on for a month or so, but he didn't want to live a double life—too much was at risk—so he tried to end it. Only he ended instead.”
“Clacton market square?” Azhar asked. “What has Clacton market square to do with anything, Barbara?”
And Barbara realised what she'd done. So caught up was she in her desire to piece together what facts and speculations they had been able to gather that she'd inadvertently given Azhar a piece of information which only Trevor Ruddock and the investigators had. In doing so, she'd crossed a line.
Shit, she thought. She wanted to rewind the tape, to whisk the words Clacton market square out of the air and back into her mouth. But she couldn't unsay them. All she could hope to do was temporise. Temporising, however, was among the very least of her talents. Oh, to be in the company of Detective Inspector Lynley, Barbara thought. With his gracefully adroit conversational footwork, he'd ease them out of this situation in a flash. Of course, he'd never have got them into this situation in the first place since he wasn't in the habit of thinking aloud unless he was in the presence of his colleagues. But that was another matter entirely.
She decided to ignore the question by saying in as reflective a manner as possible, “Of course, he may have had another person in mind when he was speaking to the mufti,” and having said this, she realised how close to the truth she may have just come.
“Who?” Azhar asked.
“Sahlah. Perhaps he'd discovered something about her that made him reluctant to marry her. Perhaps he was seeking from the mufti a way to get out of the marriage contract. Wouldn't a woman's grave sin—something that if revealed could result in her being cut off from Islam—be reason enough to nullify the marriage contract?”
He looked sceptical, then shook his head. “It would nullify the contract. But what grave sin could my cousin Sahlah possibly have on her soul, Barbara?”
Theo Shaw, Barbara thought. But this time wisely she said nothing.
THE DOORBELL RANG in the midst of their argument. Connie's voice had reached such a shrill pitch that had Rachel not been standing in the sitting room doorway, she wouldn't have heard it. But the two-note chime—the second note strangled as always like a bird shot down in the middle of a chirp—came at the moment when her mother was taking a breath.
Connie ignored the chimes. “You answer me, Rache!” she shouted. “You answer me now and you answer me good. What d'you know about this business? You was lying to that police detective and you're lying to me now and I'm not going to stand for it, Rachel Lynn. I truly am not.”
“That was the door, Mum,” Rachel said.
“Connie. I'm Connie and don't you forget it. And bugger the door. It won't get itself opened till you answer me straight. How're you messed in with that dead bloke from the Nez?”
“I already said,” Rachel told her. “I gave him the receipt so he could see how much Sahlah loved him. She told me she was worried. She said she didn't think he believed her and I thought that if he saw the receipt—”
“Rubbish!” Connie shrieked. “Bloody flaming bollocks! If that rot's the truth, then I'm Mother Goose. Why didn't you tell that police person when she asked you about it, eh? But we know the answer to that one, don't we? You didn't say cause you hadn't cooked up a good explanation till now. Well, if you expect me to believe a half-arsed story about proving some coloured girl's eternal love for her intended bloody sodding bridegroom, then—”
The doorbell rang again. Three times in succession. Connie herself stormed to answer it. She flung the door open. It smashed against the wall.
“What?” she barked. “What bloody what? Who the hell are you? And do you know what time it is, by the way?”
A young voice, male. It was carefully deferential. “Rachel in, Mrs. Winfield?”
“Rachel? What d'you want with my Rache?”
Rachel went to the door, standing behind her mother. Connie attempted to block her with her hip.
“Who is this wanker?” Connie demanded of her. “And what's his business showing up at … Piss on your face! Do you know what time it is, you?”
It was Trevor Ruddock, Rachel saw. He was standing well into the shadows so that neither the light from the house nor the light from the streetlamps touched him. But still, he couldn't do much to hide. And he looked worse than usual because his T-shirt was dirty, with holes round the neckline, and his jeans had gone so long unwashed that they probably could have stood up on their own.