Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(162)

It could mean anything, Barbara thought. It could also be twisted to mean what one wanted. She thought about reminding the DCI of what Muhannad had said: The Asians hadn't walked into the room alone. But arguing over a mere surmise seemed fruitless at the moment. Worse, it seemed inflammatory. So she backed away from Kumhar's state of mind. She said, “If Kumhar already knows Malik, what's the connection between them?”

“Some sort of skulduggery, you can depend upon it. The same sort of thing Muhannad was up to as a teenager: something dodgy that can never quite be traced back to him. But his teenage offences—those minor infractions of the law—have given way to the big stuff now.”

“What sort of big stuff?”

“Who the hell knows? Burglary, car rings, pornography, prostitution, drugs, smuggling, running guns from the East, moving explosives, dabbling in terrorism. I don't know what it is, but I know one thing: There's money involved. How else do we explain that car of Muhan-nad's? That Rolex watch? The clothes? The jewellery?”

“Em, his father owns an entire flaming factory right here in town. The family's got to be rolling in lolly. And he'd have got a handsome dowry from his in-laws. Why wouldn't Muhannad put some of it on display?”

“Because that isn't their way. They may be rolling in lolly, but they're rolling it right back into Malik's Mustards. Or they're sending it to Pakistan. Or they're using it to bankroll other family members’ entry into the country. Or they're saving it for dowries for their females. But, believe me, they are not using it for classic cars and personal baubles. Absolutely no way.” Emily tossed her damp paper towels into the wastepaper basket. “Barb, I swear to you, Malik's dirty. He's been dirty since he was sixteen years old, and the only change from that time to now is that he's upped the stakes. He uses Jum'a as a front these days. He acts the part of Mr. Man of His People. But the truth is that this is a bloke who'd slice his mother's jugular open if it would put another diamond in his signet ring.”

Classic cars, diamonds, a Rolex watch. Barbara would have given one lung to have had a cigarette at that moment in Emily's office, so taut did she feel her nerves being pulled. She wasn't so much disturbed by the DCI's words, but by the unacknowledged—and hence potentially dangerous—passion that ran beneath them. She had walked this road before. It was signposted Loss of Objectivity, and it didn't lead to a destination in which a decent cop wanted to head. And Emily Barlow was a decent cop. She was one of the best.

Barbara sought a way to keep the case in balance. She said, “Wait. We've got Trevor Ruddock without an alibi and an hour and a half of free time on Friday night. We've got his dabs under scrutiny. I've sent his spider-making paraphernalia to the lab for some tests. So do we let him walk and go after Muhannad instead? Ruddock had wire in his bedroom, Em. He had a whole bleeding roll of it.”

Emily looked past her, at the wall of her office, at the china board hanging there, at its scrawl of notations. She said nothing. Into her silence, telephones rang and someone hooted nearby, “Jesus, mate. Stop kidding yourself.”

Right. How about it? Barbara thought. Come on, Em. Don't fail me now.

“We need to check the log.” Emily's words were decisive. “Here and in Clacton. We need to see what's been reported and what's going unsolved.”

Barbara's spirits sank. “The log? But if Muhannad's into something big, d'you think we're really going to find it sitting there unsolved on the police log?”

“We're going to find it somewhere,” Emily responded. “Believe me. But we won't find it at all if we don't start looking.”

“And Trevor? What'll I do with him?”

“Let him go for now.”

“Let him …?” Barbara dug her fingernails into the skin on the underside of her arm. “But, Em, we can do with him what we're doing with Kumhar. We can let him stew till tomorrow afternoon. We can put him through the paces every quarter of an hour. I swear to God, he's hiding something, and until we know what that something is—”

“Let him go, Barbara,” the DCI said steadily.

“But we haven't heard about his fingerprints yet. And that wire of his has been sent to the lab, and when I talked to Rachel …” Barbara didn't know what else to say.

“Barb, Trevor Ruddock isn't going to do a runner. He knows that all he has to do is keep his gob shut and our hands are tied. So we'll let him go till we've got the word from the lab. And in the meantime, we work the Asians.”

“Work them how?”

Emily ticked off items. The police log in Balford as well as the logs in surrounding communities would show if anything dodgy—connectable to Muhannad—was going on; the contents of Querashi's safe deposit box had to be looked into; the offices of World Wide Tours in Harwich needed to be visited by someone with Querashi's picture in hand; a Polaroid of Kumhar had to be shown round the houses that backed onto the Nez; as a matter of fact, a Polaroid picture of Fahd Kumhar should be taken to World Wide Tours as well, just for good measure.

“I've a meeting with our team in less than five minutes,” Emily said. She rose, and the inflection in her voice clearly indicated that their interview was over. “I'll be making the assignments for tomorrow. Is there any of this that you want to take on, Barb?”