Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(17)

“I should certainly hope so.”

“But things got derailed and the redevelopment plans didn't come up.”

Agatha forced her legs to take the required steps without faltering. She stood in front of him. “They didn't come up? Why not? Redevelopment was what the bloody meeting was all about.”

“Yes, it was,” he replied. “But there was a … well, a serious disruption, I suppose you might call it.” Theo reached for the signet ring he wore—his father's ring, it was—and played his thumb across its engraved surface. He looked distressed, and Agatha's suspicions were immediately aroused. Theo didn't like conflict, and if he was acting uneasy at the moment, it had to be because he'd failed her. Blast the boy to hell and back. All she'd asked of him was to cope with the politics of a simple presentation and he'd managed to fluff it with his usual flair.

“We're being opposed,” she said. “One of the council opposes us. Who? Malik? Yes, it's Malik, isn't it? That mule-faced upstart provides this town with a single patch of green that he calls a park—and names it after one of his heathen relatives—and suddenly he decides he's a man with a vision. It's Akram Malik, isn't it? And the council's backing him instead of falling on their knees and thanking God I've the money, the connections, and the inclination to put Balford back on the map.”

“It wasn't Akram,” Theo said. “And it wasn't about the redevelopment.” For some reason, he looked away for a moment before he met her eyes squarely. It was as if he was gathering the nerve to go on. “I can't believe you didn't hear what happened. It's all over town. It was about this other matter, Gran. About this business on the Nez.”

“Oh, piffle the Nez.” There was always something coming up about the Nez, mostly questions having to do with public access to a part of the coastline that was becoming increasingly fragile. But questions about the Nez came up on a regular basis, so why some long-haired ecologist would choose the redevelopment meeting—her redevelopment meeting, damn everyone—to blither on about speckle-bellied gorse sitters or some other fanciful form of wildlife was beyond her comprehension. This meeting had been in the works for months. The architect had taken two days from his other projects to be here and the city planner had flown to England at her personal expense. Their presentation had been initiated, calculated, orchestrated, and illustrated to the last detail, and the fact that it could be derailed by anyone's concern about a crumbling promontory of land that could be discussed at any date, in any place, at any time … Agatha felt her trembling heighten. She worked her way to the sofa and lowered herself to it. “How,” she asked her grandson, “did you let this happen? Didn't you object?”

“I couldn't object. The circumstances—”

“What circumstances? The Nez will be there next week, next month, and next year, Theo. I fail to see how a discussion about the Nez was a burning necessity today of all days.”

“It wasn't about the Nez,” Theo said. “It was about this death. The one that occurred out there. A delegation from the Asian community came to the meeting and demanded to be heard. When the council tried to fob them off till another time—”

“Heard about what?”

“About this man who died on the Nez. Come on, Gran. The story was all over the front page of the Standard. You must have read it. And I know Mary Ellis must have gossiped about it.”

“I don't listen to gossip.”

He went to the tea table and poured himself another cup of cold Darjeeling. He said, “Be that as it may,” in a tone that told her he didn't believe her for an instant, “when the council tried to turn away the delegation, they took over the hall.”

“They? Who?”

“The Asians, Gran. There were more of them outside, waiting for a sign. When they got it, they started putting on the pressure. Shouting. Brick throwing. It got ugly fast. The police had to settle everyone down.”

“But this was our meeting.”

“Right. It was. But it turned into someone else's. There was no getting round it. We'll have to reschedule when things quiet down.”

“Stop sounding so unmercifully reasonable.” Agatha thumped her stick against the carpet. It made virtually no noise, which aggravated her more. What she wanted was a good bout of pan throwing. A few broken pieces of crockery also wouldn't have gone down ill. “‘We'll just have to reschedule …?’ Where do you think that sort of mind set will get you in life, Theodore Michael? This meeting was arranged to accommodate our needs. We requested it. We as good as stood in a queue tugging at our forelocks to get it. And now you tell me that a puling group of uneducated coloureds who no doubt didn't even take time to bathe before presenting themselves—”

“Gran.” Theo's fair skin was flushing. “The Pakistanis bathe quite as much as we do. And even if they didn't, their hygiene's hardly the point, is it?”

“Perhaps you'll tell me what the point is.”

He came back to his seat, opposite her. His teacup rattled in its saucer in a manner that made her want to howl. When would he learn how to carry himself like a Shaw, for God's sake?

“This man—his name was Haytham Querashi—”