Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(18)

“I know that very well,” she snapped.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Ah,” he said. He placed his teacup carefully on the table and kept his attention on it, rather than on his grandmother, as he continued. “Then you probably also know that he was due to marry Akram Malik's daughter next week. Evidently, the Asian community doesn't believe that the police are moving fast enough to get to the bottom of what happened to Querashi. They brought their grievance to the council meeting. They were especially hard … well, they were hard on Akram. He tried to control them. They walked all over him. He was fairly humiliated about the whole deal. I couldn't ask for another meeting after that. It wouldn't have been right.”

Despite what the disruption had done to her own plans, Agatha found herself taking pleasure in this piece of information. In addition to the man's raising her ire by bullying his way into her special passion—redeveloping Balford—she hadn't forgiven Akram Malik for taking her place on the town council. He hadn't actually run against her, but he hadn't turned down the appointment when someone was needed to fill her place until a by-election could be called. And when that by-election had been held and she herself had been too ill to stand for the seat, Malik had done so, campaigning as earnestly as if he'd been after a seat in the House of Commons. She was delighted, therefore, at the thought of the man's embarrassment at the hands of his own community.

She said, “That must have got right up old Akram's nose, having his precious Pakis take the mickey out of him in a public forum. How I wish I'd been there.” She saw Theo wince. Mr. Compassion. He always pretended to be such a bleeding heart. “Don't tell me you don't feel the same, young man. You're a Shaw at the end of the day and you know it. We have our ways and they have theirs, and the world would be a better place if all of us kept to our own.” She rapped her knuckles on the table to get his attention. “Just try to tell me you disagree. You had more than one run-in with coloured boys when you were in school.”

“Gran …” What was that note in Theo's voice? Impatience? Ingranation? Mollification? Condescension? Agatha's eyes narrowed upon her grandson.

“What?” she demanded.

He didn't reply at once. He touched the rim of his teacup in a meditative gesture, looking deep in thought. “That's not all,” he said. “I stopped at the pier. After what went on at the meeting, I thought it would be a good idea to make sure the attractions were running smoothly. That's why I'm late, by the way.”

“And?”

“And it was good that I went. There was a dust-up among five blokes out on the pier, right outside the arcade.”

“Well, I hope to God you sent them packing, whoever they were. If the pier gets the reputation as a spot for the local hooligans to aggravate tourists, we may as well lay redevelopment to rest.”

“It wasn't hooligans,” Theo said. “It wasn't tourists either.”

“Then who?” She was becoming agitated again. She could feel an ominous rush of blood in her ears. If her pressure was on the rise, there'd be hell to pay when she next saw the doctor. And no doubt another six months of enforced convalescence, which she didn't think that she could endure.

“They were teenagers,” he said. “Just kids from the town. Asian and English. Two of them had knives.”

“This is just what I was talking about. When people don't keep to their own, there's trouble. If one allows immigration from a culture with no respect for human life, then one can hardly quail before the prospect of representatives from that culture walking about with knives. Frankly, Theo, you were lucky the little heathens weren't carrying scimitars.”

Theo got up abruptly. He walked to the sandwiches. He picked one up, then put it down. He settled his shoulders.

“Gran, the English boys were the ones with the knives.”

She recovered quickly enough to say tartly, “Then I hope you relieved them of them.”

“I did. But that's not actually the point.”

“Then kindly tell me what the point is, Theo.”

“Things are heating up. It's not going to be pleasant. Balford-le-Nez is in for some trouble.”



INDING A SUITABLE ROUTE TO GET OUT TO ESSEX WAS a case of damned if you do and damned if you don't. Barbara faced the choice of crossing most of London and weaving her way through mind-numbing traffic or risking the vehicular uncertainties of the M25, which orbited the megalopolis and even at best of times required one to put all plans for a timely arrival at one's destination temporarily on hold. With either choice, she would get to sweat. For the coming of evening hadn't brought with it the slightest corresponding drop in temperature.

She chose the M25. And after throwing her haversack into the back seat and grabbing a fresh bottle of Volvic, a packet of crisps, a peach, and a new supply of Players, she set off on her prescribed holiday. The fact that it wasn't a bonafide holiday didn't bother her in the least. She'd be able to say airily, “Oh, I've been to the sea, darling,” should anyone ask her how she'd spent her time away from New Scotland Yard.

She drove into Balford-le-Nez and passed St. John's Church just as its tower bells were chiming eight o'clock. She found the seaside town little changed from what it had been during the annual summer holidays she'd spent there with her family and with her parents’ friends: the corpulent and odoriferous Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins—Bernie and Bette—who yearly followed the Haverses’ rust-spotted Vauxhall in their own compulsively polished Renault, all the way from their London neighbourhood in Acton east to the sea.