Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(163)
The implication was crystalline: Emily Barlow was directing the course of the investigation, not Barbara Havers. Trevor Ruddock would walk within the hour. They would begin to home in on the Pakistanis. On one particular Pakistani. On one Pakistani with one very good alibi.
There was nothing more that she could do, Barbara realised. “I'll take World Wide Tours,” she said. “I suppose I could do with a drive to Harwich.”
BARBARA SAW THE classic turquoise Thunderbird the moment she turned into the car park at the Burnt House Hotel ninety minutes later. It was hard to miss, sleek, pristine, and exotic among the dusty Escorts, Volvos, and Vauxhalls. The convertible looked as if someone spit-polished it every day. From its glittering hubcaps to the chromium curve of its windscreen's border, it could have been used as a mobile operating theatre, so unbesmirched was its every inch. It was sitting at the end of the row of cars, straddling two of the parking bays so as to keep anyone from scratching its paint job when disembarking from a lesser machine. Barbara considered using her recently purchased lipstick to scrawl selfish across the car's windscreen as an unsubtle commentary on the driver's commandeering more than his share of the car park's spaces. But she settled for a suitable imprecation, and she squeezed her Mini into a slot at the rear of the hotel, fragrantly located near the kitchen rubbish.
Muhannad Malik was within, doubtlessly scheming with Azhar after having had his every request to examine evidence turned down flat with no court of appeal. He hadn't liked that. He'd liked it less when his cousin had informed him that the police were under no obligation to meet the Asians at all, let alone put evidence on display for them. Muhannad had gone all tight-lipped at that, but if he'd felt at cross-purposes with his cousin, he hadn't let on. Rather, he'd directed his antipathy and scorn towards Barbara. She could only guess with what joy he would now greet her arrival at the hotel should she run into him. Which she fervently hoped to avoid doing.
The combination of wisps of cigarette smoke and fragments of muted conversation told Barbara that the hotel residents were gathering in the bar for preprandial sherry and the ritual study of the daily menu. That the menu was as unvarying as the tide—pork, chicken, plaice, beef—seemed to have no impact on the residents’ desire to peruse it with the intensity of devoted biblical scholars. Barbara could see them as she turned towards the stairs. A shower first, she decided. Then a pint of Bass with a whisky chaser.
“Barbara! Barbara!” A clatter of feet on the parquet floor accompanied the cry of her name. Hadiyyah, dressed to the nines in sunset silk, had caught sight of her from the bar's window seat and was leaping into immediate action.
Barbara hesitated, wincing inwardly. If she'd hoped to fumble her way through an evening's unexpected encounter with Muhannad Malik by pretending not to be acquainted with his cousin outside Balford-le-Nez, the gaff had just decidedly been blown. And Azhar was not quick enough to stop his daughter. He rose, but she was already dancing across the room. A limp white shoulder bag shaped like the moon dangled from her elbow to the floor.
Hadiyyah said, “Come and see who's here. It's my cousin, Barbara. He's called Muhannad. He's twenty-six and he's married and he's got two little boys who're still in nappies. I forget their names, but I know I'll remember when I get to meet them.”
“I was just about to pop up to my room,” Barbara told her. She averted her eyes from the bar, irrationally hoping that by doing so, she would not be noticed in conversation with the girl.
“Pooh. It'll only take a minute. I want you to meet him. I asked him if he'd eat here with us, but he said his wife's waiting for him at home. And his mum and his dad. He's got a sister as well.” She sighed with pure pleasure. Her eyes were vivid. “Imagine, Barbara. I didn't even know before tonight. I didn't know I even had a family besides Mummy and Dad. And he's ever so nice, my cousin Muhannad. Will you come and meet him?”
Azhar had come to the door of the bar. Behind him, Muhannad had risen from a cracked leather wing chair that faced the window. He held a drink, which he raised to his lips and finished off before setting the glass on a nearby table.
Barbara telegraphed her question to Taymullah Azhar. What to say?
But Hadiyyah had latched onto her hand, and any pretence of their having only two evenings’ acquaintance predicated on a mutual love of the Burnt House Hotel's culinary masterpieces was quickly mooted by her words. “You thought the same, didn't you, Barbara? That's because we never much act like we have a family anywhere at all. I expect we'll see them in London now. They c'n come for weekends. And we c'n invite them to one of our barbecues, can't we?”
Sure, Barbara wanted to say. Muhannad Malik was no doubt chomping at the bit this very moment, desperate for an opportunity to tuck into Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers’ grilled kebabs.
“Cousin Muhannad,” Hadiyyah was singing out. “Come and meet my friend Barbara. She lives in London. We have the ground floor flat, like I told you, and Barbara lives in the sweetest little cottage round back of the house. We met her cause her refrigerator got delivered to our flat by mistake. Dad moved it for her. He got grease on his shirt. We got most of it out, but he doesn't like to wear it to the university any longer.”
Muhannad joined them. Hadiyyah caught his hand. Now she stood with her hands locked to both of them—Barbara and her cousin—and she couldn't have looked more pleased had she just successfully arranged their nuptials.