Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(177)

She finally went to the door and yanked it open. DC Honigman was waiting in the corridor. She said, “Take Mr. Kumhar to the weight room. See that he has a shower. Have someone get him lunch and some decent clothes. And tell DC Hesketh to take the professor back to London.”

She turned back to Siddiqi and his companion in the interrogation room. She said, “Mr. Kumhar, I'm not finished with you, so don't even think about leaving the vicinity. If you do, I'll track you down and drag you back here by your bollocks. Is that clear?”

Siddiqi leveled an ironic gaze upon her. “I expect he'll get your point,” he said.

She left them and returned to her office on the first floor. She'd long ago learned to trust her instincts in an investigation, and they were fairly screaming that Fahd Kumhar had more information than he was willing to part with.

Damn and blast the law and the proscription of torture and what both had done to the rights of the police, she fumed. A few minutes on the rack in the Middle Ages and that little worm would have been his inquisitor's pudding. As it was, he would walk away with his secrets intact while her head began to throb and her muscles went into extended spasm.

Christ. It was maddening. And what was worse was the fact that one brief interview with Fahd Kumhar had undone four hours of Gary's ardent ministrations the previous night.

Which made her want to snap someone's head off. Which made her want to yell at the first person who came within her line of vision. Which made her want to—

“Guv?”

“What?” Emily barked. “What? What?”

Belinda Warner hesitated at the threshold of Emily's office. She was carrying a long fax in one hand and a pink telephone message in the other. Her expression was one of consternation, and she ventured a peek into Emily's office to see the source of the DCFs ill humour.

Emily sighed. “Sorry. What is it?”

“Good news, Guv.”

“I could do with some.”

Reassured, the WPC joined her. “We've heard from London,” she said. She gestured first with the telephone message and then with the fax. “S04 and SOU. We've got a match on the fingerprints on the Nissan. And a report on that Asian bloke, Taymullah Azhar.”

? ? ?


THE CASTLE HOTEL didn't look much like a castle. Instead, it resembled a squat fortress, with balustrades rather than crenellation at the roof-line. It was monochromatic on its exterior—constructed entirely of buff stone, buff bricks, and buff plaster—but that lack of colour had been more than compensated for in the hotel's interior.

The lobby was awash with colour and the predominant theme was pink: a fuchsia ceiling edged by a roseate dog-toothed cornice, walls papered in stripes of a candy-floss hue, maroon carpeting patterned with hyacinths. Just like walking into an enormous bonbon, Barbara thought.

Behind the reception desk, a middle-aged man in tails watched her progress across the lobby with an expectant air. His nametag identified him as Curtis and his manner suggested a welcome rehearsed in the privacy of his home and in front of a mirror. First came the slow smile till he was assured of eye contact with her; then came the unveiling of teeth; afterwards the head was cocked with an air of helpful interest; one eyebrow raised; one hand picked up a pencil expectantly.

When with studied courtesy he offered her his assistance, she produced her warrant card. The eyebrow lowered. The pencil dropped. The head uncocked. He altered from Curtis-in-Reception to Curtis-Most-Definitely-on-Guard.

Barbara brought out her pictures again, laying Querashi's and Kumhar's side by side. “This bloke was chopped at the Nez last week,” she explained laconically. “This one's in the nick at the moment having a talk with the local DCI. Seen either of them?”

Curtis relaxed marginally. As he studied the pictures, Barbara noted that a brass container sitting on the reception counter held a collection of brochures. She picked one up and saw that it was a copy of the same brochure which she'd found in Querashi's hotel room. There were other brochures as well, and she fingered through these. The Castle Hotel, it seemed, boosted its business in these trying economic times by offering special weekend rates, dances, wine tastings, and holiday extravaganzas at Christmas, New Year, Valentine's Day, and Easter.

“Yes.” Curtis drew the word out thoughtfully on a breath. “Oh yes, indeed.”

Barbara looked up from her study of the brochures. The picture of Kumhar he'd moved to one side. The picture of Querashi, however, he'd picked up and held between his thumb and his index finger. “You've seen him?”

“Oh yes, indeed. I remember him quite well, in fact, because I've never before seen an Asian at Leather and Lace. They generally don't go in for it.”

“Pardon?” Barbara asked, nonplussed. “Leather and Lace?”

Curtis riffled through the brass container and brought out a brochure that Barbara hadn't seen. Its cover was entirely black with a diagonal of white lace etched onto it. The word Leather was printed on the upper acute triangle, the word Lace on the lower. The inside comprised an invitation to a monthly dance held at the hotel. And the accompanying pictures of previous dances left no question at all as to the clientele being solicited.

Score a point for Trevor Ruddock, Barbara thought. “This is a dance for homosexuals?” she asked Curtis. “Not the usual sort of entertainment one finds in the countryside, is it?”