Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(186)

Suddenly, she understood how very good she—Rachel Lynn Win-field—was and could continue to be for Sahlah Malik. She was more than a friend to her. She was a tonic. Exposed to her on a daily basis in the weeks and months until her delivery, Sahlah could only grow stronger, happier, and more optimistic about the future. And everything—everything—would work out in the end: Sahlah and Theo, Sahlah and her family, and most of all Sahlah and Rachel herself.

Rachel clasped this knowledge to herself with growing bliss. Oh, she had to dash to Sahlah at the mustard factory to share it all with her. She only wished she had wings so that she could fly there.

The ride across town was gruelling in the fiery sunlight, but Rachel hardly noticed. She pedalled along the sea route at a furious clip, swigging back tepid water from her bottle whenever the slope of the seaside esplanade allowed her to coast. She thought not at all of her discomfort. She thought only of Sahlah and of the future.

Which bedroom would Sahlah like to have? The front one was larger, but the back one faced the sea. The sound of the sea might lull the baby. It might lull Sahlah as well, in those moments when the responsibilities of motherhood weighed too heavily upon her shoulders.

Would Sahlah like to do the cooking for the three of them? Her religion placed restrictions on her diet, and Rachel herself was easier than easy when it came to adjusting to that sort of thing. So it made sense for Sahlah to cook for them. Besides, if Rachel was to be the breadwinner while Sahlah remained home with the baby, Sahlah would probably want to cook their meals as Rachel had seen Wardah Malik do for Sahlah's dad. Not, of course, that Rachel was going to act the part of anyone's dad, least of all the dad of Sahlah's baby! That would be Theo. And Theo would act that role eventually. He would do his duty and meet his obligations, in time and when his gran was recovered.

“’Cording to the doctors, she could live for years,” Mr. Unsworth had told them that morning. “She's a real battleship, is Mrs. Shaw. A bird like that is one'n a hunnerd. And all's the more better for us, right? She won't die till Balford's back on its feet. You wait and see, Con. Things're looking up.”

So they were. Every which way, things were looking up. And as Rachel made the final left turn into the old industrial estate at the north end of the town, she felt near to bursting with the need to pour her happiness like balm over Sahlah's worries.

She climbed off her bike and leaned it against a half-full skip that was open to the air. This was redolent with the smell of vinegar, apple juice, and rotting fruit, and it buzzed with flies. Rachel flailed her hands round her head to drive the pesky insects away. She took a last gulp of water, settled her shoulders, and made for the factory door.

Before she could get to it, however, it opened as if in anticipation of her arrival. Sahlah stepped outside. She was followed immediately by her father, not garbed all in white, which was usual for him during his working hours in the factory's experimental kitchen, but dressed in what Rachel thought of as mufti: a blue shirt and tie, grey trousers, and nicely polished shoes. A luncheon date between father and daughter, Rachel concluded. She hoped her news about Agatha Shaw didn't spoil Sahlah's appetite. But then again, no matter if it did. Rachel had other news that would revive it.

Sahlah saw her at once. She was wearing one of her fancier necklaces, and at the sight of Rachel, her hand went up to grip it lightly as if it were a talisman. How often had she seen that gesture in the past? Rachel wondered. It was the primary sign of Sahlah's anxiety, and Rachel hurried forward to put this at rest.

“Hello, hello,” she called out gaily. “Beastly hot again, isn't it? When d'you think the weather's going to break? That fog bank's been out there in the sea for ages, and all we need's some wind to blow it this way and we'll be cooled off. D'you have a minute, Sahlah? ’Lo, Mr. Malik.”

Akram Malik said his good afternoon formally, the way he always said it, just like he was addressing the Queen. And he neither studied her face nor looked away from it hastily the way other people did, which was one of the reasons that Rachel liked him. He said to his daughter, “It will take a moment to fetch the car, Sahlah. Speak to Rachel while I do so.”

When he had walked off, Rachel turned to Sahlah and impulsively hugged her. She said in a low voice, “I've done it, Sahlah! Yes, indeed. I've done it. Everything's taken care of now.”

Beneath her hand, she felt the tension immediately drain out of Sahlah's stiff shoulders. Her friend's fingers dropped from the fawn stone pendant of the necklace, and she swung to face Rachel.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. She reached for Rachel's hand and lifted it as if she meant to kiss her knuckles in gratitude. “Oh, thank you. I couldn't believe you'd abandon me, Rachel.”

“I'd never do that, would I? I told you so a thousand times. We're friends till the end, you and me. The minute I heard about Mrs. Shaw, I knew how you'd feel, so I went out and did it. Have you heard what happened?”

“The stroke? Yes. One of the town councillors phoned Dad about it. That's where we're going: to the hospital to pay our respects.”

Theo would doubtless be there, Rachel realised. She felt an interior niggle at this news, but she couldn't put a name to what it was. She said stoutly, “That's real nice of your dad. But that's what he's like, isn't he? And that's why I'm sure—”