Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(138)

This map indicated in which sections of the town the most money would be invested. But that wasn't what interested Barbara. Instead, she took note of the location of the Balford Marina. It was west of the Nez at the base of the peninsula. With advantageous tidal conditions, someone sailing from the marina up the Balford Channel into Pen-nyhole Bay would have easy access to the east side of the Nez, where Haytham Querashi had met his death.

She said, “You have a boat, haven't you, Mr. Shaw? Berthed at the marina?”

His expression was guarded. “It's the family's, not mine.”

“Cabin cruiser, isn't it? Do any night sailing?”

“I have done.” He saw where she was heading. “But not on Friday night.”

They would see about that, Barbara thought.

Trevor's time card was delivered by an antique gentleman who looked as if he'd worked on the pier since the day it was built. He doddered into the room, dressed in a linen suit, starched shirt, and tie despite the heat, and he handed the card over with a respectful, “Mr. Shaw, sir. Glorious day, isn't it? Like a gift from the Almighty.”

Theo thanked him, asked after his dog, his wife, and his grandchildren—in that order—and sent him on his way. He gave Barbara the time card.

She saw on it what she expected to see. Trevor Ruddock had been telling half-truth and half-lie during her interview with him: His time card indicated that he'd appeared for work at eleven thirty-six. But if Rachel could be depended upon to be speaking the truth, then he hadn't been with her after ten that evening, and he had an hour and a half still to account for. Motive and opportunity were now his. Barbara wondered if the means lay among the clutter of his spider-making workta-ble.

She told Theo Shaw that she would need the time card. He made no protest, although he added, “Trevor's a good sort, Sergeant. He looks like a lout, but that's the extent of it. He might engage in petty theft, but he'd never take it on to murder.”

“People can surprise you,” Barbara said. “Just when you think you know what you're dealing with, they can do something that makes you wonder if you ever really knew them at all.”

She'd struck something with that: the right note, the wrong chord, a jangled nerve. She could see it in his eyes. She waited for him to make a comment that might betray himself in some way, but he didn't do it. He merely made the appropriate noises about being glad to be helpful in her investigation. Then he saw her on her way.

On the pier once more, Barbara slipped the time card into her shoulder bag. She managed to avoid Rosalie the Romany Palm Reader a second time, and she wended her way through the clumps of small children waiting with their parents to charge onto the kiddie rides. As was the case yesterday, the noise in this covered section of the pier reverberated from the walls and the ceiling. Clanging bells, shrilling whistles, a tooting calliope, and shouting voices all contributed to a din that made Barbara feel as if she were shooting round inside a gigantic pinball machine. She extricated herself from the cacophony by making her way to the uncovered section of the pier.

To her left the Ferris wheel was spinning. To her right, barkers were trying to seduce passersby into taking a chance at tossing coins, upending milk bottles, and firing air guns. Beyond, a roller coaster car was hurtling downward with a load of screaming passengers. And a miniature steam train was chugging towards the end of the pier.

Barbara followed the train. The unfinished restaurant loomed over the sea, and the workers on its roof reminded her that there was a point she wished to clarify with the head of the project, Gerry DeVitt.

As on the previous day, DeVitt was welding. But this time he happened to look up as Barbara stepped past a mound of copper tubing and dodged a stack of timber. He doused the flame on his blow torch and pushed his protective mask to the top of his kerchief-bound head.

“What d'you need this time round?” He didn't sound either rude or impatient, but there was still an edge to his words. She wasn't welcome. Nor, Barbara thought, were her questions. “Make it fast, all right? We've a load of work to get through today and not a lot of time to spend yammering with visitors.”

“Can I have a word with you, Mr. DeVitt?”

“Looks to me like you're having it.”

“Right. Outside, though. Away from the noise.” In order to be heard, she had to raise her voice. The hammering, pounding, and sawing hadn't ceased with her entrance on this occasion.

DeVitt made a mysterious adjustment to the tanks that were connected to his equipment. Then he led the way to the front of the restaurant, which overlooked the end of the pier. Sidling past a serried arrangement of prefabricated windows that leaned against the doorway, he stepped outside. At the pier railing, he dug in the pocket of his cut-off jeans and brought out a roll of Polos. He popped one in his mouth, turned to Barbara, and said, “So?”

“So why didn't you mention yesterday that you knew Haytham Querashi?” she said.

He squinted in the bright light. He didn't pretend to misunderstand her. He said, “The way I recall it, you didn't ask. You wanted to know if we'd seen an Arab bird on the pier. We hadn't. End of story.”

“You said you didn't mix with the Asians, though,” Barbara said. “You said something about Asians having their ways and English having theirs. ‘Put them together and you've got trouble’ was your conclusion.”