Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(141)

Honigman had managed to grab onto a leg as well as an arm, and he yanked the Pakistani back into the room. “Not so hasty there, mate,” he said as he dropped the man onto the floor. Kumhar cowered where he fell.

Emily went to the window. Below was the back garden of the house, but it was a considerable drop from the first floor window. There was nothing beneath to break the fall. Nor was there a drainpipe fastened to the house, allowing someone to do an easy runner. Kumhar could have just as easily broken a leg as he could have scarpered from the cops.

She turned to him. “Balford Criminal Investigations Department,” she told him. She kept her words slow. “I'm Detective Chief Inspector Barlow. This is Detective Constable Honigman. Can you understand my English, Mr. Kumhar?”

He scrambled to his feet. DC Honigman made a move towards him. Kumhar held up his hands as if he wanted to show them that he had no weapons.

“Papers,” he said. “I have papers.”

“What's this, then?” Honigman directed the question to Emily.

“You please wait, yes?” Kumhar said, again with the hands up, but now moved to his chest in a defensive posture. “I show you papers. Yes. Okay? You watch papers.”

He moved to a wicker chest of drawers. As he reached for the handles of the top drawer, Honigman said, “You hold it there, mate! Step back. Do it quick. Here. Back!”

Kumhar's hands went up again. He cried, “Not hurt. Please. Papers. I have papers.”

Emily understood. They were the police. He was a foreigner. “He wants to show us his legal documents, Billy. They must be in the drawer.” She shook her head at the Pakistani. “We're not here to inspect your papers, Mr. Kumhar.”

“Papers, yes.” Kumhar nodded frantically. He began to pull open one of the wicker drawers.

Honigman shouted, “Hang on right there, mate!”

The Pakistani jumped away. He fled to the wash basin in the corner of the room. Beneath was a toppled stack of magazines. They looked heavily thumbed-through, with dog-eared pages and covers that were stained with coffee and tea rings. From her position by the open window, Emily could see the titles: Country Life, Hello!, Woman's Own, Vanity Fair. A soft-bound Collier's dictionary lay among them. It looked as well-used as the magazines.

DC Honigman riffled through the drawer that Kumhar had begun to open. He said, “No weapons in here,” and slammed it shut.

For his part, Kumhar watched their every move. His entire concentration seemed to be given to keeping himself from hurling his body out of the open window. Emily considered exactly how his patent desire to escape fitted into the case in hand.

She said, “Sit down, Mr. Kumhar,” and she indicated the room's only chair. This stood before a small newspaper-covered table on which a partially completed dollhouse was being constructed. It appeared that Kumhar had interrupted work on the dollhouse to go to Jackson and Son. It also appeared that the arrival of the police had disrupted further work on this same project. A tube of glue was uncapped on the table and five miniature roofing tiles were speckled with it. The house itself was of a decidedly English design: a wattle and daub miniature of the sort of dwelling one could find in nearly every corner of the country.

Cautiously, Kumhar crossed the room to the chair. He crab-walked, as if in the belief that a false move would cause the heavy arm of the law to crash down upon him. Emily maintained her position at the window. Honigman moved to the door. Behind it, faintly, the poodle whined. Obviously, Mrs. Kersey hadn't made the connection between a door slamming in her face and the desire for privacy.

Emily jerked her head at the door. Honigman nodded. He opened it and had a few quiet words with the house's owner. He allowed her a moment to poke her head inside the room to reassure her that her tenant was unharmed. Apparently having watched many episodes of American police dramas, she expected to find Fahd Kumhar on the floor, bloodied and handcuffed. Seeing him sitting unmolested on the chair, she gulped, hiked the poodle beneath her chin, and retreated. Honigman closed the door.

Emily said, “Haytham Querashi, Mr. Kumhar. Please explain your relationship with him.”

Kumhar stuffed his hands between his knees. He was painfully thin, with a concave chest and sloping shoulders. These were covered by a neatly pressed white shirt that despite the heat was buttoned both to the neck and to the cuffs. He wore black trousers, belted with a strip of brown leather that was too long for his waist and dangled limply like the tail of a reprimanded canine. He made no reply. He merely swallowed, and his teeth vigorously worked his lips.

“Mr. Querashi wrote you a cheque for four hundred pounds. Your name was on more than one telephone message for him at the Burnt House Hotel. If you read any of these”—she indicated the newspapers that served as protection between the dollhouse and the table beneath it—”then you know that Mr. Querashi is dead.”

“Papers,” Fahd Kumhar said, his head turning from her to the chest of drawers to Honigman.

“I'm not here about your papers.” Emily spoke more slowly and in a louder voice, although her real wish was to shake him into comprehension. Why on earth, she wondered, did people immigrate into a country whose language was a mystery to them? “We're here to talk about Haytham Querashi. You knew him, didn't you? Haytham Querashi?”

“Mr. Querashi, yes.” Kumhar's hands tightened on his knees. He was trembling so badly that the material on his shirt shimmered as if a breeze were blowing it.