Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(189)

“This Ger,” she said. “Gerry DeVitt.”

Hegarty, who'd even begun to relax in their presence, seeming to enjoy his moment of importance in the investigation, was at once wary. His eyes betrayed this, becoming watchful and alert. “What about him? You're not thinking that Gerry …? Look, I already said. He didn't know about me and Hayth. Which is why I didn't want to talk to you lot in the first place.”

“Why you say you didn't want to talk to us,” Barbara said.

“He was working on Hayth's house that night,” Hegarty insisted. “Ask anyone on First Avenue. They would've seen the lights. They would've heard the banging. And I already told you what was what: If Ger found out about me and Hayth, he would've ended it with me. He wouldn't've gone after Hayth. That's not his way.”

“Murder,” Emily said, “is generally not anyone's way, Mr. Hegarty.”

She concluded the interview formally, giving the time and switching the recorder off. She stood, saying, “We may be in touch again.”

“You won't ring me at home,” he said in request. “You won't come to Jay wick.”

“Thank you for cooperating,” Emily said in reply. “DC Eyre will take you back to work.”

Barbara followed Emily into the corridor, where the DCI spoke in a low, terse voice, revealing that motive or not, Gerry DeVitt had not displaced her number one suspect. “Whatever it is, Muhannad's taking it to the factory. He's boxing it there, and he's stowing those boxes with everything else being shipped out. He knows when orders are being assembled for shipment. Christ. That's part of his job. All he has to do is to time his own shipments with those going out from the factory. I want that place searched, top to bottom, inside and out.”

But in Barbara's mind, the interrogation of Hegarty could not be so easily dismissed. Thirty minutes with the bloke had raised at least half a dozen questions. And the answer to none of them was Muhannad Malik.

They passed reception on their way to the stairs. Barbara saw Azhar talking to the WPC on duty there. He looked up as she and Emily came within his field of vision. Emily saw him as well, saying obscurely to Barbara, “Ah. Mr. Devotion to His People. All the way from London to show us what a good Muslim can be.” She stopped behind the reception desk and spoke to Azhar. “A little early for your meeting, aren't you? Sergeant Havers won't be available until late this afternoon.”

“I've come not for our meeting but to collect Mr. Kumhar and return him to his home,” Azhar said. “His twenty-four hours of custody are nearly at an end, as I'm certain you know.”

“What I know,” Emily replied tartly, “is that Mr. Kumhar hasn't requested your services as a chauffeur. And until he does, he'll be returned to his home in the same way he was taken from his home.”

Azhar's glance shifted to Barbara. He seemed aware of the sudden sea-change in the investigation as evidenced by the DCFs tone. She didn't sound like an officer who was worried any longer about the possibility of another community uprising. Which made her much less likely to compromise.

Emily didn't give Azhar a chance to reply. She turned away, caught sight of one of her team approaching, and said, “Billy, if Mr. Kumhar's had his lunch and his wash-up, take him home. Collect his work papers and his passport when you get there. I don't want that bloke disappearing on us till we can sort through everything he had to say.”

Her voice carried. Azhar clearly heard it. Barbara spoke with some care as they climbed the stairs. “Even if Muhannad's at the bottom of all this, you don't think Azhar's—Mr. Azhar's—involved, Em? He's come from London. He didn't even know about the killing before that.”

“We don't know a thing about what he knew or when he knew it. He came here posing as some sort of legal expert when, for all we know, he could be the brains behind Muhannad's game. Where was he on Friday night, Barb?”

Barbara knew the answer to that very well since, from behind the shelter of the curtains in her bungalow, she'd watched Azhar and his daughter grilling halal lamb kebabs on the lawn behind the Edwardian house in which they occupied the ground floor flat. But she couldn't say this without betraying her friendship with them. So she said, “Except …well, he's seemed a decent sort of bloke in our meetings.”

Emily gave a sardonic laugh. “He's decent all right. He's got a wife and two kids that he ditched in Hounslow so he could set up house with some English tart. He gave her a brat, and then she walked out on him, this Angela Weston, whoever she is. God knows how many other women he's doing the business with in his spare time. He's probably planting half-breed bastards all over town.” She laughed again. “Right, Barb. What a decent bloke our Mr. Azhar is.”

Barbara's step faltered on the stairs. She said, “What? How d'you—?”

Emily stopped above her. She glanced back and said, “How did I what? Suss out the truth? I put a call out on him the first day he was here. I got the report when I got the i.d. on Hegarty's fingerprints.” Her look sharpened. Too perceptively, Barbara thought. “Why, Barb? What's the truth about Azhar got to do with the price of petrol? Aside, of course, from confirming my belief that not one of these yobbos can be trusted half an inch.”