Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(202)
They spun along the Esplanade. They left bicycle riders, pedestrians, and Rollerbladers behind them as they veered inland by the Coast Guard station and cruised along Hall Lane towards the elbow that became Nez Park Road.
Emily pulled into the bedraggled industrial estate. She took the search warrant from the glove compartment and said, “Ah. Here are the boys.”
The boys were the eight members of the squad whose pagers the DCI had instructed Belinda Warner to ring from the station. They'd been ordered from their current activities—everything from verifying Gerry DeVitt's alibi to contacting all of the owners of beach huts in an attempt to corroborate Trevor Ruddock's untold tale about petty burglary—in order to take part in the search of the factory. They were lounging about outside the old brick building, smoking, attempting to beat the heat with cans of Coke and bottles of water. They joined Emily and Barbara at the Ford, the smokers prudently crushing out their fags before they approached.
Emily instructed them to wait for her word, and she went into reception. Barbara followed. Sahlah Malik was not behind the desk. Instead, the reception area was occupied by a middle-aged woman—scarved and gowned—who was seeing to the day's post.
She greeted Emily's presentation of the search warrant by excusing herself hastily and disappearing into the administrative office just beyond reception. In a moment, Ian Armstrong was hurrying towards them, with the temporary receptionist hanging behind at a safe distance to watch his confrontation with the police.
Armstrong came through the door, said, “Detective Chief Inspector, Sergeant,” and nodded to both of them in turn. He dug into the breast pocket of his jacket. For a moment, Barbara thought he intended to present them with a legal document of his own, but he brought forth a crumpled handkerchief and blotted his forehead with it. “Mr. Malik isn't here. He's paying a call on Agatha Shaw. She's in hospital. A stroke, I'm told. How may I help you? Kawthar told me that you're requesting—”
Emily cut in with “It's not a request,” and she showed him the document.
He swallowed. “Oh dear. With Mr. Malik not here at the moment, I'm afraid I can't allow—”
“Allowing or not allowing isn't your option, Mr. Armstrong,” Emily told him. “Gather your people outside.”
“But we're mixing product at the moment.” He spoke weakly, as if he knew his protest was futile but felt compelled to make one anyway. “This is a delicate stage of the operation, as we're working on a new sauce, and Mr. Malik was quite firm in instructing our mixers …” He cleared his throat. “If you can give us a half hour …? Perhaps a bit more …?”
In answer, Emily went to the door. She stuck her head out and said, “Let's get on with it.”
“But …but …” Ian Armstrong wrung his hands and looked imploringly at Barbara, seeking an advocate. “Surely, you have to tell me …give me some indication of …what is it exactly that you're looking for? As I'm the one in charge in the absence of the Maliks …”
Emily said sharply, “Muhannad's not here either?”
“Well, of course he is … I mean, he was earlier … I had assumed …He goes home for lunch.” Armstrong cast an agonised glance at the outer door as Emily's team came striding through it. She'd chosen the biggest and burliest men available, knowing that at least one-quarter of the power of search and seizure was intimidation. Ian Armstrong took one look at the assembling crowd of police officers and obviously decided that discretion was the better part of whatever else he'd had in mind. He said, “Oh dear.”
Emily said, “Clear your people out of the building, Mr. Armstrong.”
Emily's team spread throughout the factory. While the employees gathered on the cracked tarmac fanning out from the front door, the detectives divided themselves among the administration offices, the shipping department, the production area, and the storage facility. They were seeking what could be shipped from the factory in the guise of product or tucked among the packed bottles and jars: drugs, hard core or child pornography, weapons, explosives, counterfeit money, jewels.
The team was elbow deep into the search when Emily's mobile sounded. She and Barbara were in the warehouse, searching through boxes that stood on the loading dock ready for shipment. The mobile phone was attached to the waistband of Emily's trousers, and when it rang, she snapped it off and, clearly annoyed at having so far found nothing within the factory, barked her name into the mouthpiece.
From her place on the other side of the loading dock, Barbara heard Emily's end of the conversation. It consisted of, “Barlow here …Yes. Goddamn it, Billy, I'm in the middle of something. What the hell is it? …Right, that's what I ordered and that's what I want. That bloke's intent on doing a runner and the minute you let him out of your sight, he's going to do one. … He what? Have you had a good look? Everywhere? …Yes, I can hear him babbling. What's he on about? …Stolen? Since yesterday? Bullshit. I want him back at the nick. Directly … I don't care if he pees in his pants. I want him under my thumb.”
She snapped the phone off and looked at Barbara. “Kumhar,” she said.
“A problem?”
“What the f*ck else?” Emily scowled, looking at the shipping boxes that they'd opened but obviously with her mind miles away from the factory. “I told DC Honigman to collect Kumhar's papers when he returned him to Clacton. Passport, immigration documents, work permits, the lot.”