Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(142)

“He was murdered, Mr. Kumhar. We're investigating that murder. The fact that he gave you four hundred pounds makes you a suspect. What was that money for?”

The Asian could have been having a mild seizure, so much did his tremors increase. It seemed to Emily that he had to be able to understand her. But when he replied, he did so in his own tongue. A babble of indistinguishable words spewed out of him.

Emily cut into what she knew had to be a stream of rising protestations of innocence. She said impatiently, “English please, Mr. Kumhar. You heard his name well enough. And you understand what I'm asking. How did you know Mr. Querashi?”

Kumhar continued his babble.

“Where did you meet him?” Emily asked. “Why did he give you money? What did you do with it?”

More babble, louder this time. Kumhar moved his hands to his chest and began to wail.

“Answer me, Mr. Kumhar. You live not far from the market square. We've heard that Mr. Querashi went there. Did you ever see him? Is that how you two met?”

It sounded as if the Asian was repeating the word Allah over and over again. It was contained within a ritualised chant. Brilliant, Emily thought, it was bow-to-Mecca time.

“Answer the questions,” she said, matching her volume to his.

Against the door, Honigman stirred. “I don't think he's following you, Guv.”

“Oh, he's bloody well following,” Emily said. “I dare say his English's as good as ours when the humour takes him.”

“Mrs. Kersey did say he's not got much of it,” Honigman noted.

Emily ignored this. Sitting before her was a veritable fountain of information about the murdered man, and she bloody well intended to tap the source while she had him alone and at her mercy.

“Did you know Mr. Querashi in Pakistan? Did you know his family?”

“‘Ulaaa-'ika ‘alaa Hudammir-Rabbihim wa ’ulaaaa-ika humul-Muf-lihuun,” he chanted.

Emily raised her voice above his gibberish. “Where do you work, Mr. Kumhar? How do you support yourself? Who pays for this room? Who buys your cigarettes, your magazines, your newspapers, your sweets? Do you have a car? What are you doing here in Clacton?”

“Guv,” Honigman said uneasily.

“’Innallaziina aamanuu wa ‘amilus-saalihaati lanhum—”

“Goddamn it!” Emily slammed her hand onto the tabletop. The Asian immediately shrank back and fell silent.

“Take him,” Emily said to her detective constable.

Honigman said, “What?”

“You heard me, Constable. Take him. I want him in Balford. I want him in custody. I want him to have a chance to decide how much English he really understands.”

“Got it,” Honigman said.

He approached the Asian and took him by the arm, lifting him to his feet. Kumhar's babbling began again, but this time it quickly dissolved to tears.

“Jesus,” Honigman said to Emily. “What's wrong with this bloke?” “That's exactly what I intend to find out,” Emily stated.


THE DOOR AT Number 6 Alfred Terrace was gaping open when Barbara arrived. From within the cramped house, music blared and the television chattered as loudly as on the previous day. She knocked on the side of the faded architrave, but there was no way anything less than a jack-hammer in full operation was going to make a dent in the din.

She stepped out of the blazing sun and into the entry. The stairway directly in front of her was littered with discarded clothing and plates of half-eaten food. The corridor towards the kitchen was strewn with flattened bicycle tyres, a tattered canvas push chair, two trugs, three brooms, and a Hoover bag with a rip up its side. And to her left, the sitting room seemed to be serving as a stopping off point for articles about to be moved from one location to another. Surrounding the television, on which roared an Act Three chase scene from yet another American action film, cardboard boxes bulged with what appeared to be clothing, towels, and household goods.

Curious, Barbara investigated. The boxes, she saw, contained everything from a small and rusting calor gas stove to a faded needlepoint sampler stitched with the words “I must down to the seas again.” Considering this in conjunction with the state of the house, Barbara couldn't help wondering if the Ruddocks were planning a quick departure from Balford, one stimulated by her previous visit.

“Hey! You keep your mitts away from that lot, hear?”

Barbara swung around. Trevor's brother Charlie had come to the sitting room door, and he was followed in quick succession by his older brother and their mother. All three of them had apparently just come into the house. Barbara wondered how she'd missed seeing them on the street. Perhaps they'd trotted along from somewhere in Balford Square, of which Alfred Terrace served as one of the four sides.

“What's this, then?” Shirl Ruddock demanded. “And who're you to go busting into people's houses uninvited?”

She pushed Charlie to one side and strode into the sitting room. She was fragrant with sweat and with the strong fishy scent of a woman in need of a bath. Her face was blotched with grime, and her shorts and skimpy halter top were banded with perspiration.

“You got no right to walk into people's gaff. I know what's what when it comes to the law.”

“Moving house?” Barbara said, taking herself from one box to the next for a closer inspection despite Shirl Ruddock's words. “Are the Ruddocks on their way out of Balford?”