Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(137)

He hadn't phoned this time. He hadn't come home. And as Cliff had sat on the edge of the bed that morning, he sought clues within his last conversation with Gerry, details that might tell him of Gerry's whereabouts and of the condition of his heart and his mind. Except he had to admit that they hadn't had so much a conversation as an argument, one of those verbal brawls in which past behaviours suddenly become a bench mark for measuring present doubts.

Everything about their shared and individual pasts had been dragged out, aired, and laid down for a lengthy and intimate examination. The market square in Clacton. The gentlemen's toilet. Leather and Lace at the Castle. Gerry's endless work in that pishposh Balford house. Cliff's infuriating walks and his drives and his pints of Foster at Never Say Die. Who used the motorcycle had been brought up, as well as who took the boat out and when and why. And when they'd run out of accusations to hurl, they went on to shout about whose family accepted that one of their sons was a poofter and whose dad would try to beat the living shit out of his son if he knew the truth.

Gerry usually backed down from a fight, but he hadn't backed down from this one. And Cliff was left wondering what it meant that his lover—usually so mild and so earnest—had altered into a yobbo ready to take him on if taking him on was necessary.

So the day had started out bad and had only got worse: waking up to find that Gerry'd done a bunk and looking out the shop window to see the coppers putting the cosh on everyone in sight.

Now, at the jigsaw, Cliff tried to give his mind to the work. There were orders to fill and puzzles to be cut, dodgy pictures to assess for their potential as future puzzles and decisions to be made about ordering in an array of novelty condoms from Amsterdam. He had at least sixteen videos to preview and reviews to write for Crossdressers’ Quarterly. But he found that he could think of nothing but the questions the cops had wanted him to answer and whether he'd managed to be so convincing that they wouldn't show up in Jaywick Sands to ask Gerry DeVitt's assistance in their enquiry.

? ? ?

THEO SHAW'S APPEARANCE didn't suggest a man who'd slept the sleep of the guileless, Barbara thought. Shaw was carrying luggage under his eyes and these were nearly bloodshot enough to give him the look of an albino rabbit. When Dominique the Tongue-stud had announced Barbara's arrival at the pier offices for a second visit, Theo had started to say brusquely, “No way. Tell her—” but had choked off whatever else he'd intended to communicate when he saw Barbara standing directly behind the girl.

Dominique said, “She's asking to see the time cards, Mr. Shaw, last week's time cards. Sh'll I fetch them or what? I didn't want to do nothing till I talked to you first.”

“I'll handle this,” Theo Shaw said, and made no other comment until Dominique went swinging back towards reception in her orange platform shoes. Then he looked at Barbara, who'd entered his office without an invitation, installing herself in one of two rattan chairs that sat facing his desk. “Time cards?”

“In the singular,” Barbara said. “Trevor Ruddock's from last week, to be specific. Have you got it?”

He had. The card was with the accounting department, where the payroll was done. If the sergeant didn't mind waiting a minute …

Barbara didn't mind. Another opportunity to recce Theo Shaw's office was just fine by her. But he seemed to read her intention, because instead of heading off to fetch the requested time card himself, he picked up the phone, punched in three numbers, and asked that the card be brought to them.

“I hope Trevor's not in trouble,” he said.

The devil you do, Barbara thought. She said, “Just confirming a few details.” She gestured towards the window. “The pier looks more crowded today. Business must be picking up.”

“Yes.”

“Good for the cause, that.”

“What cause?”

“Redevelopment. Are the Asians part of it? Redevelopment, I mean.”

“That's an odd question. Why do you ask?”

“I was in a place called Falak Dedar Park. It looks new. There's a fountain in the centre: a girl in Arab garb pouring water. And the name sounds Asian. So I was wondering if the Asians are involved in your redevelopment plans. Or do they have their own?”

“Anyone's free to become involved,” Theo said. “The town needs investors. We don't intend to hold anyone back if they want to be part of the project.”

“And if someone wants to go his own way? Have his own project? With a different idea to yours about redevelopment? What happens then?”

“It makes more sense for Balford to accept an overall plan,” Theo replied. “Otherwise, what you end up with is an architectural hotchpotch, like the south bank of the Thames. I've lived here most of my life and, frankly, I'd rather like to avoid that happening.”

Barbara nodded. His reasoning made sense. But it also suggested yet another area in which the Asian community might be in conflict with the longtime residents of Balford-le-Nez. She left her chair and approached the redevelopment plans, which she'd noticed on the previous day. She wanted to see how the plans affected such areas as the industrial estate where Akram Malik had obviously invested so much money in his mustard factory. But she was distracted by a town map that hung on the wall next to the blueprints and the artist's renderings of Balford-to-be.