Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(159)

Did he understand that he was being held for questioning in the matter of the death of Haytham Querashi?

He did, he did. But he had nothing to do with that death, nothing, he didn't even know a Mr. Querashi.

Did he understand that he had a right to have a solicitor with him when he was questioned by the police?

He didn't know a solicitor, he had his papers, they were all in order, he'd tried to show them to the police, he had never met a Mr. Querashi.

Did he wish to arrange for a solicitor now?

He had a wife in Pakistan, he had two children, they needed him, they needed money to—

“Ask him why Haytham Querashi wrote him a cheque for four hundred pounds if the two of them had never met,” Emily said.

Barbara shot her a surprised look. She wouldn't have bet on the DCI's playing any one of her cards in the presence of the Pakistanis. In reaction to Emily's words, she saw Muhannad's eyes narrow as he silently took in this piece of information before turning to assess the man in the chair.

But Kumhar's answer was much the same. He didn't know a Mr. Querashi. There was some mistake, perhaps another Kumhar. It was a common enough name.

“Not round here” was Emily's reply. “Finish it up, Mr. Azhar. It's clear that Mr. Kumhar needs some time to dwell upon his situation.”

But something in all of Kumhar's babble had struck a chord with Barbara. She said, “He keeps talking about his papers. Ask him if he's had any dealings with an agency called World Wide Tours, either here or in Pakistan. They deal in immigration.”

If Azhar recognised the name from the calls he'd made to Karachi for her, he gave no indication. He merely acted as translator for the fact that Kumhar knew no more about World Wide Tours than he knew about Haytham Querashi.

Once Azhar had completed the process of informing Kumhar of his legal rights, he stood and moved away from the chair. But even this did not relax the young man. Kumhar had gone back to his original position with fists clenched tightly beneath his chin. His face dribbled sweat. His thin shirt clung to his skeletal frame. Barbara noted that he wore no socks beneath his black trousers, and where his foot met his cheap shoe, the flesh looked raw. Azhar studied him for a long moment before he turned to Barbara and Emily. He said, “You'd do well to have a doctor examine him. At the moment, he's clearly incapable of making a rational decision about legal representation.”

“Thank you,” Emily said in a tone that was deadly polite. “You've registered the fact that he's unbruised. You can see he's got an attendant here to keep him from harm. And now that you know he's fully aware of his rights—”

“We won't know that till he asserts them,” Muhannad put in.

“—Sergeant Havers can bring you up-to-date on the investigation, and then you can leave.” Emily continued speaking steadily as if she hadn't heard Muhannad. She turned to the door, which the constable swung open for her.

“A moment, Inspector,” Azhar said quietly. “If you have no charge to bring against this man, you can keep him in your custody for only twenty-four hours. I'd like him to know that.”

“Tell him,” Emily said.

Azhar did so. Kumhar didn't look relieved by the news. Indeed, he looked no different from the way that he'd looked when they'd walked into the room.

“Tell him also,” Muhannad said, “that someone from Jum'a will come to the station to pick him up and escort him home at the end of those twenty-four hours. And”—this with a meaningful look at the police—”these officers had better have a good reason for holding him if he's not released at that time.”

Azhar glanced Emily's way, as if waiting either for her reaction or for her permission to pass this information on. Emily gave a single sharp nod. They heard the word ]um'a among the others as Azhar spoke.

Outside in the corridor, Emily directed her final comments to Muhannad Malik. She said, “I trust you'll pass along the information about Mr. Kumhar's well-being to all the relevant parties.”

The implication was obvious: She'd done her part, and she expected him to do his.

That said, she left them in Barbara's company.


WHEN EMILY STALKED up to the first floor, blood on the boil at having had the two Pakistanis gain the upper hand in the meeting with Fahd Kumhar, she heard the news that Superintendent Ferguson was waiting for her on the other end of the telephone line. Belinda Warner called out the information just as Emily was about to plunge into the loo.

“I'm unavailable,” she shot back.

“This is his fourth call since two o'clock, Inspector,” Belinda informed her with a rise in inflection that communicated a tentative, sisterly sympathy.

“Is it? Well, someone should remove the redial button from that idiot's phone. I'll talk to him when I talk to him, Constable.”

“What shall I tell him, then? He knows you're in the building. Reception told him.”

Reception's loyalty was a wonderful thing, Emily thought. “Tell him we have a suspect and I can either spend time questioning him or waste time yammering with my effing arsehole of a superintendent.”

That said, she shoved open the door of the loo and went in. At the wash basin, she turned on the water, pulled six paper towels from the holder, and dashed them under the tap. When they were thoroughly doused, she wrung them out and used them vigorously: against her neck and her chest, down her arms, pressed against her forehead and cheeks.