Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(150)

Yet another very strange coincidence, she realised. One of the calls that Querashi had made from the Burnt House had been to this same agency, with one exception. Querashi had phoned World Wide Tours in Karachi, while this World Wide Tours was on the High Street in Harwich.

Barbara joined Emily at the coastal map, where the DCI was contemplating the peninsula north of Pennyhole Bay. Never an enthusiastic student of geography, until Barbara herself had a decent look at the map, she had no idea that Harwich was due north of the Nez and virtually identical to it longitudinally. It sat at the mouth of the River Stour, directly connected to the rest of the country by a railway line. Without conscious intention, Barbara followed the barbed and black indication of this line as it headed west. The first stop it made—indeed, barely far enough out of Harwich to be considered a separate entity—was Parkeston.

“Em,” Barbara said, aware of a rising sense of connections being made and pieces falling into place, “he's got an ad here for a travel agency in Harwich, but it's got the same name as the one he phoned in Karachi.”

But Emily, she saw, didn't make the jump between Karachi and Harwich, between Harwich and Parkeston. Instead, she appeared to be contemplating a small boxed list of information that was superimposed on the blue of the sea, to the east of Harwich. Barbara leaned forward to read it.

Vehicle Ferry from Harwich (Parkeston Quay) to:

Hook of Holland 6 to 8 hours

Esbjerg 20 hours

Hamburg 18 hours

Gothenburg 24 hours

“Well, well, well,” Barbara said.

“Interesting, isn't it?” Emily turned from the map. At her desk, she shifted papers, folders, and reports until she came up with the photograph of Haytham Querashi. She extended it to Barbara, saying, “What d'you think of a drive this afternoon?”

“Harwich and Parkeston?” Barbara said.

“If he was there, someone saw him,” Emily replied. “And if someone saw him, someone may be able to tell us—”

“Guv?” Belinda Warner was at the door again. She looked back over her shoulder as if expecting to be followed.

“What is it?” Emily asked.

“The Asian blokes. Mr. Malik and Mr. Azhar. They're here.”

“Shit.” Emily glanced at her watch. “I'm not about to put up with this. If they think that they can show up whenever they please for another one of their bloody meetings—”

“Not that, Guv,” Belinda cut in. “They've heard about the bloke from Clacton.”

For a moment Emily stared at the WPC as if she didn't quite understand. She even said, “Clacton.”

Belinda said, “Right. Mr. Kumhar. They know he's here. They're demanding to see him, and they won't be put off till you've given them a chance to have a word with him.”

“What bloody cheek,” Emily said.

But what she didn't say was what Barbara knew she had to be thinking: The Asians obviously knew the Police and Criminal Evidence Act better than the DCI had anticipated. And Barbara realised that intimate knowledge of PACE could only have come from one possible source.


AGATHA SHAW REPLACED the telephone receiver into its cradle and allowed herself a crow of triumph. If she could have done, she would have danced a jig. She would have danced it straight across the library carpet, leaping and bouncing through its steps until she found herself in front of those three easels on which still stood—these two days after the failed council meeting—the artist's and architect's depictions of Balford-le-Nez as it could be. Then she would have swept each of those easels into her arms and kissed them soundly, like precious children worshipped by an adoring mother.

As it was, she shouted, “Mary Ellis! Mary Ellis! You're wanted in the library and you're wanted now!” She planted her three-pronged stick between her legs and struggled to her feet.

The effort made her sweat like a suckling pig. Although it didn't seem possible, she found that she rose too quickly, despite the time it took her: Dizziness blew against her like a gust of wind. “Whoops,” she said. But she laughed as well. She had plenty to be dizzy about, hadn't she? She was dizzy with excitement, dizzy with possibility, dizzy with success, dizzy with joy. Damn it all, she had a right to be dizzy.

“Mary Ellis! Blast you, girl! Can't you hear me calling?”

The clatter of shoe soles told her that the girl was finally coming. She arrived in the library red-faced and breathless, saying, “Jesus God, Mrs. Shaw. You gave me that much of a fright. Are you all right?”

“Of course I'm all right,” Agatha snapped. “Where were you? Why don't you come when I call? What am I paying you for if I have to stand here and screech like one of the weird sisters whenever I need you?”

Mary came to her side. “You wanted the drawing room furniture switched round today, Mrs. Shaw. Don't you remember? You didn't like the piano next to the fireplace and you said the sofas were fading cause they're too near the windows. You even wanted the pictures—”

“All right. All right.” Agatha attempted to shake Mary's clammy hand from her arm. “Don't squish me like that, girl. I'm not an invalid. I can walk on my own, and you very well know it.”

Mary loosened her grip, saying, “Yes, ma'am,” and waiting for further instructions.