Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(155)

He spoke without a glance in Barbara's direction, but even so she was certain he could feel her inward wince. PACE was all well and good, but when events began to outstrip the police's ability to keep up with them, more often than not even a good officer let slide exact compliance with the letter of the law. Azhar was betting on this having happened. Barbara waited to see if Emily was going to pull a friend or relative of Fahd Kumhar's out of a metaphorical hat.

She didn't bother. “Mr. Kumhar hasn't identified anyone he wishes to be notified.”

“Does he know he has that right?” Azhar asked astutely.

“Mr. Azhar, we've hardly had the opportunity to speak to this man long enough to apprise him of his rights.”

“That's business as usual,” Muhannad pointed out. “She's slapped him in isolation because it's the only way she can make sure he gets rattled enough to cooperate with her.”

Azhar didn't disagree with his cousin's assessment of the situation. He also didn't allow it to enflame him. Calmly, he asked, “Is Mr. Kumhar a native of this country, Inspector?”

Barbara knew that Emily was probably cursing the fact that she'd allowed Kumhar to jabber about his papers. She could hardly deny knowledge of the man's immigrant status, especially when the law was specific about what his rights were, considering that status. If Emily prevaricated now—only to discover that Fahd Kumhar was involved in Haytham Querashi's death—she ran the risk of having her case tossed out of court later.

She said, “At this point, we'd like to question Mr. Kumhar about his relationship to Haytham Querashi. We've brought him to the station because he was reluctant to answer questions in his lodgings.”

“Stop avoiding the bloody issue,” Muhannad said. “Is Kumhar an English national or not?”

“He doesn't appear to be,” Emily replied, but she spoke to Azhar and not to Muhannad.

“Ah.” Azhar sounded somehow comforted by this admission. Barbara saw why when he asked his next question. “How good is his English?”

“I haven't given him a comprehension test.”

“But that's actually of no account, is it?”

“Azhar, bloody hell. If his English isn't—

Azhar cut off his cousin's hot remark with the simple gesture of raising his hand. He said, “Then I shall have to ask to be given access to Mr. Kumhar immediately, Inspector. I won't insult either your intelligence or your knowledge of the law by pretending you don't know that the only suspects who have an unqualified right to visitors are those from abroad.”

Game, set, and match, Barbara thought with no little admiration for the Pakistani. Teaching microbiology to university students might have been Azhar's day job, but he was clearly no slouch when it came to moonlighting in the white knight arena for the protection of his people. She suddenly realised that she needn't have worried about the man's getting in over his head in this journey he'd made to Balford-le-Nez. It was fairly apparent that he had the situation—at least with respect to their dealings with the coppers—completely and satisfactorily in hand.

For his part, Muhannad was looking triumphant at this turn of events. With pointed courtesy he said, “If you'll lead us to him, Inspector Barlow …? We'd like to be able to report to our people upon Mr. Kumhar's well-being. They're understandably anxious to know he's being treated well while he's in your hands.”

There wasn't much room for political manoeuvring. The message he sent was clear enough. Muhannad Malik could mobilise his people for yet another march, demonstration, and riot. He could just as easily mobilise them to keep the peace. The choice was DCI Emily Barlow's, as would be the responsibility.

Barbara saw the skin at the corners of the DCI's eyes tighten. It was the closest thing to a reaction that Emily was going to give the two men.

“Come with me,” she said.


SHE FELT AS if she were trapped in irons. Not irons that held her at the wrists and ankles, but irons that encased her from head to toe.

Lewis was talking inside her head. On and on he went about the children, his business, his infernal love for that antique Morgan that never ran properly no matter the money he poured into it. Then Lawrence took over. But all he said was I love her, I love her, why can't you understand that I love her, Mum, and we want a life? And then that Swedish bitch herself chimed in, spouting psychobabble that she'd probably learned while swatting a volleyball on some beach in California: Lawrence's love for me cannot lessen his love for you, Mrs. Shaw. You do see that, don't you? And you do want his happiness? And after that came Stephen, saying, It's my life, Gran. You can't live it for me. If you can't accept me as I am, then I agree with you: It's best that I leave.

All of them talking on and on. She needed something to erase her brain. There was no real pain to speak of at the moment. There were only the voices, endless and insistent.

She found she wanted to argue with them, order them about, bend their wills to hers. But all she could do was listen to them, held prisoner to their importuning, their irrationality, their constant noise.

She wanted to raise her fists to her skull. She wanted to beat them against her head. But the irons held her body fast in position, and every limb was a weight that she couldn't move.

She became aware of lights. With this awareness, the voices dimmed. They were replaced with other voices, however. Agatha strained to make out the words.