Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(178)

“Times are difficult,” he replied reasonably. “A business that closes its door to potential profits finds that it's not a business very long.”

There was truth in that, Barbara thought. Basil Treves might well take a slice of this cake and chew upon it when considering his profits and losses at the end of the fiscal year. She said, “And you saw Querashi at one of these dances?”

“Last month. Definitely. As I said, one sees very few Asians at this sort of gathering. One sees very few Asians in this part of the world altogether, as a matter of fact. So when he came in, I took note of him.”

“And you're certain he was here for the dance? Not for dinner? Not for a drink in the bar?”

“He was definitely here for the dance, Sergeant. Oh, not in drag, mind you. Not that he appeared to be the type to go in for that in the first place. No make-up. No ornaments. You know what I mean. But there was no question why he'd come to the Castle.”

“To pull another bloke?”

“Hardly. He wasn't alone. And his companion didn't look like someone who'd take lightly to being left out in the cold by a companion.”

“He had a date, then.”

“Very much so.”

Here, then, was the first corroboration they'd had of Trevor Ruddock's story about Querashi's sexuality. But simple corroboration didn't put Trevor in the clear.

“What did this bloke look like? Querashi's date, that is,” Barbara asked.

Curtis supplied her with a nonspecific and generally useless description in which everything about the man in question was medium: his height, his build, his weight. It wouldn't have served to locate a lightning bolt in a thunderstorm, save for one detail. When Barbara asked if Querashi's date had any visible tattoos, specifically a spider-on-its-web tattoo on his neck, Curtis was able to say he hadn't. Definitely not were his actual words, which he went on to clarify by explaining, “When I see a tattoo, I never forget it because the thought of getting one makes me positively weak at the knees. Needle phobia,” he added. “If someone ever wants me to give blood, I'll be completely done for.”

“Right,” Barbara said.

“How people can do what they do to their bodies in the name of fashion …”He shuddered. But afterwards he lifted a finger swiftly, as if his own statement had brought something to mind. He said, “Wait. This bloke had a lip ring, Sergeant. Yes, indeed, he had. He had earrings as well. And not just one, mind you. But at least four in each ear.”

Here, then, was what she'd been seeking. The lip ring matched with Trevor's claim. So they had at least one part of the truth at last: Querashi was bent.

She thanked Curtis for his help and went back to the car. She took a moment to rustle up her cigarettes and in the shade of a dust-coated hornbeam tree, she smoked and she thought about what corroboration for Trevor's story meant to the case.

Azhar had said that homosexuality was a grave sin to the Muslims, enough of a sin for a man to be cast out of his family as a permanent exile. Thus, it was an aberration serious enough to be held as a closely guarded secret. But if someone had unearthed this secret, was it black enough—or deviant enough—to cause Querashi's life to be taken? Certainly, it would be an insult to the Malik family if Querashi had aligned himself with them as a cover for a clandestine life. But wouldn't a better revenge than death be to expose him to his own family and let them deal with him as they would?

And if his homosexuality was the key to what had happened to him on the Nez, where did that leave Kumhar? Or the phone calls to Germany and Pakistan? Or the discussions with the mulla and the mufti? Or the address in Hamburg? Or the papers in his safe deposit box?

At the thought of these last items, Barbara took a final drag on her cigarette and returned to the Mini. She'd forgotten about Rudi's visit to the industrial estate. It made sense to recce it while she was in the area.

Less than five minutes took her back. She made certain that Rudi's Renault was nowhere in sight before driving through the entrance to the looming warehouses.

These were prefabricated and two-toned: green corrugated steel on the bottom, silver corrugated steel on the top. Attached to each was a reception office of dust-coloured brick. There wasn't a single tree in the entire estate; without the ameliorating effects of shade, the heat radiated from the structures with a mirage-producing intensity. Despite this fact, the warehouse into which Rudi had disappeared at the end of the lane was closed up completely, its huge door and high row of windows sealed off. This was in contrast to every other warehouse, whose doors and windows gaped, hopeful of a breeze.

Barbara chose a spot for the Mini some distance from Rudi's warehouse. She parked next to a row of red and white rubbish bins against which clumps of dying pigweed drooped thirstily. She blotted her forehead on the back of her wrist, berated herself for having left the Burnt House without a bottle of water, admitted her stupidity at having smoked a cigarette and worsened her thirst, and shoved open the door of her car.

The industrial estate comprised two lanes, one shooting off perpendicular to the other. Both of them were lined with warehouses, and the proximity of the estate to Parkeston Harbour made them perfect for temporary storage for shipments both coming into and leaving the country. Sun-faded signs indicated the contents of each: electronics supplies, appliances, fine china and crystal, household goods, business machines.