Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(133)

“If,” Barbara said. “He's got motive enough to kill Querashi himself, and I haven't checked on his alibi yet. I want to have a look at his time card for last week. And I want a talk with Rachel as well. A lot of roads seem to be leading to her. It's curious, if you ask me.”

Emily gave her approval to the plan. For her own part, she'd work the homosexual aspect of the case. With the market-square angle to be explored and Fahd Kumhar to be located, other roads appeared to be leading to Clacton. She didn't want to ignore them. “If he exists, that witness is our key,” she said.

They parted company in the patch of tarmac that served as the old police station's car park. At one side, a corrugated metal lock-up acted as the digs of the evidence officer. In his shirt sleeves and with a blue handkerchief tied round his head to soak up the perspiration, he sat on a stool. He appeared to be in the process of checking evidence bags against a logbook. The temperature was beginning to reach heights that felt suitable for grilling bacon. That poor bloke, Barbara thought, had the worst job of all.

In the time that she'd been in the station, Barbara found that the Mini—even with its windows wide open—had soaked up enough heat to make breathing difficult once she was inside it. The steering wheel was fiery to the touch, and the car's seats sizzled through the thin material of her trousers. She looked at her watch and wondered at the fact that it wasn't yet midday. She had little doubt that by two o'clock she'd feel like an overcooked Sunday joint.

Racon Original and Artistic Jewellery was open for business when she arrived. Beyond the gaping front door, both Connie Winfield and her daughter were at work. They appeared to be in process of arranging a new shipment of necklaces and earrings for display, because they were removing baubles from a cardboard box and using straight pins to mount them on an antique folding screen whose panels had been fashioned from cream-coloured velvet.

Barbara watched them for a moment without making her presence known. Idly, she noted two details. Between them they had the artistry to make the arrangement of jewellery enticing and attractive. And they worked in what seemed to be an inimical silence. The mother cast baleful looks upon the daughter. The daughter countered with haughty expressions indicative of her indifference to her mother's displeasure.

Both women started when Barbara said good morning. Only Connie spoke.

“I got my doubts that you're here to make a purchase.” She stopped what she was doing and went to the counter, where a cigarette burned in a quarter-moon ashtray. She tapped off ash and brought the cigarette to her mouth. She watched Barbara over it, eyes hostile.

“I'd like a word with Rachel,” Barbara said.

“Have it, then. And good luck to you. I'd like a word with the slag myself, but I'm getting nothing out of her. You may as well have a go. I can't hardly wait to hear what she's got to say for herself.”

Barbara didn't intend the mother to be in on the questioning, however. She said, “Rachel, can you step outside? Can we have a walk?”

“What's this, then?” Connie demanded. “I di'n't say she was free to go off somewheres. We got work to do. What you got to say to her, you c'n say here. While we do our unpacking.”

Over one of the folding screen's six finíais, Rachel draped the necklace she'd been holding. Connie seemed to realise what this action implied. She went on, “Rachel Lynn, don't you dare even think—”

“We c'n walk up to the park,” Rachel said to Barbara. “It's not far, and I could do with a break.”

“Rachel Lynn!”

Rachel pointedly ignored her. She led the way out of the shop and onto the pavement. Barbara heard Connie bark her daughter's name once more—and then cry it out pleadingly—as they headed in the direction of the Balford Road.

The park in question was a square of sun-parched lawn a short distance beyond St. John's Church. A freshly painted black wrought-iron fence surrounded it, but its gate stood open. A sign on this bade everyone welcome and named the place FALAK DEDAR PARK. A Muslim name, Barbara noted. She wondered if it was indicative of the inroads that the Asian community was making into Balford-le-Nez.

A cinder path that edged the lawn took them to a bench, partially shaded by a laburnum tree heavy with cascades of yellow flowers. A fountain trickled in the centre of the park, a veiled girl rendered in cloud-coloured marble, who poured water from a tipped urn into a shallow pool that formed a shell at her feet. After arranging her filmy skirt, Rachel gave her attention to this fountain, not to Barbara.

Barbara told the girl why she was there: to ascertain her whereabouts on the previous Friday night. “Four nights ago,” she reminded Rachel, lest the girl feign an inability to recall. Four nights hardly comprised a substantial enough leap in time to dim one's recollection, she was implying.

Rachel obviously was skilled in inference. She said, “You want to know where I was when Haytham Querashi died.”

Barbara agreed that this was her purpose. She added, “Your name's come up more than once in relation to this case, Rachel. I didn't want to say as much in front of your mum—”

“Ta,” Rachel said.

“—but it never looks good when one's name pops up in any way during a murder investigation. Smoke?”

Rachel shook her head and returned her gaze to the fountain. She said, “I was out with a boy called Trevor Ruddock. He's a bloke from the pier. But I expect you know that already. He told me last night that you talked to him.” She smoothed her hand along a design in her skirt, a peacock's head that was cleverly camouflaged in the material's swirls of colour.