Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(179)

The warehouse in question was more subtle in announcing its purpose and contents. Barbara had to trudge through the heat to within ten yards of the attached office before she was able to read the small white sign fixed above the building's door: EASTERN IMPORTS was lettered in black, and beneath it FINE FURNITURE AND FURNISHINGS.

Well, well, well, Barbara thought, and she tipped her hat mentally to Inspector Lynley. She could hear him saying, “Well, there you are, Sergeant,” with quiet satisfaction. There is, after all, no real coincidence when it comes to murder. Either Rudi had scarpered from the office of World Wide Tours because he'd suddenly developed a passion for interior design and sought to fulfill it with the immediate redecoration of his bed-sit, or he had known more than he'd been willing to let on. In either case, there was only one way to find out.

The office door was locked, so Barbara rapped on it smartly. When no one stirred, she squinted through the dusty window. Inside, there was evidence of recent occupation: A packed lunch of bread, cheese, apple, and sliced ham was spread out on a desk.

She thought at first that only a secret-code knock would admit her to the building. But a second, sharper rap aroused the attention of someone within the warehouse. Through the window she saw the door between the office and the larger building swing open. A thin, bespectacled man—so skeletal that the end of his belt was looped round the buckle and tucked into his trousers—stepped through and carefully shut the door behind him.

He used his index finger to push his spectacles back into place as he crossed the office to the door. He was about six feet tall, Barbara noted, but his height was minimized by poor posture.

“I am so terribly sorry,” he said pleasantly when he had the door open. “When I'm in the back, I generally lock up.”

Wen Vm in the back, Barbara thought. Another German. He was casually attired for a businessman. He wore cotton trousers and a white T-shirt. He had trainers—but no socks—on his feet. His tanned face was bristly with light brown whiskers the same colour as his hair. She said, “Scotland Yard CID,” and presented him with her warrant card.

He frowned as he looked at it. But when he raised his face, his expression appeared to have the right balance of guilelessness and concern. He asked nothing and said nothing. He merely waited for her to continue, using the moment in which she said nothing to roll a slice of ham into a tube and to take a bite from it. He held it like a cigar.

In Barbara's experience, most people weren't able to let a silence hang between themselves and the police. But this German seemed like a bloke who could deal with silence indefinitely.

Barbara pulled out her photographs of Haytham Querashi and Fahd Kumhar for the third time. The German took another bite of ham and reached for a slice of cheese as he studied each picture in turn. He said, “This one I've seen,” and indicated Querashi. “This one, no. Him I have not.” Have he pronounced haff. But his English sounded marginally less practiced than Rudi's.

Barbara said, “Where'd you see this bloke, then?”

The German positioned his cheese on a slice of brown bread. “In the newspaper. He was killed last week, yes? I saw his picture afterwards, perhaps Saturday or Sunday. I cannot recall which.” Vas and vich, he said. He bit into the bread and cheese and chewed slowly. There was nothing in his lunch to drink, but he didn't seem to be affected by this, despite the heat, the salt of the meat, and the gummy mixture of cheese and bread in his mouth. Barbara longed even more strongly for a glass of water just watching him chew and swallow.

“Before the newspaper,” she said.

“Have I seen him before then?” he clarified. Haff. “No. I have not. Why do you ask?”

“He had a bill of lading from Eastern Imports among his belongings. It was locked up in a safe deposit box.”

The German stopped chewing for a moment. “That is strange indeed,” he said. “May I …?” And he took up the picture in his fingers. Nice fingers, they were, with buffed nails.

“Stowing papers away in a safe deposit box tends to indicate they've got some importance,” Barbara said. “It doesn't make a lot of sense to lock them up for any other reason, wouldn't you say?”

“Indeed. Indeed. This is very true,” the man replied. “But one would wish to keep a bill of lading among important papers if a purchase was recorded upon it. If this gentleman bought furniture that was not yet in our stock, he'd want to keep—”

“Nothing was written on the bill of lading. Aside from the name and address of this establishment, the paper was blank.”

The German shook his head in perfect perplexity. He said, “Then I cannot say …This bill of lading was perhaps given to the gentleman by someone else? We import from the East and if he wished to make a purchase of furniture on some future date …”He shrugged and made a small moue with his mouth, that quintessential European male gesture that signified two words: Who knows?

Barbara considered the possibilities. True, what this bloke was saying made partial sense. But only as far as serving to explain the bill of lading's presence among Querashi's belongings. Explaining its presence inside his safe deposit box was going to take another mental leap or two.

She said, “Yeah. You're probably right. Mind if I have a look round while I'm here? I've a mind to do a bit of redecorating.”