Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(203)

“So he wouldn't do a runner in case we need to talk to him again. I remember,” Barbara said. “And?”

“And that was Honigman on the blower. It seems that our little Asian worm doesn't have any papers in Clacton at all. According to Honigman, he appears to be claiming that they were stolen while he was in the nick last night.” She shoved the mobile back onto the waistband of her trousers.

Barbara considered this information in light of everything else they knew, what they had seen, and what they had heard. “Querashi had immigration papers in the Barclays safe deposit box, didn't he, Em? Is there a connection in that? And even if there is, is there also a connection here?” She gestured round the shipping department.

“That,” Emily said, “is exactly what I intend to find out.” She stepped off the shipping dock. “Keep with the search, Barb. And if Malik shows his mug, drag him over to the nick for a natter.”

“And if he doesn't show up?”

“Then check at his home. Run him to ground. Find him one way or the other. And bring him in.”


AFTER THE COPS returned him to the industrial estate, Cliff Hegarty decided to officially declare himself on holiday for the rest of the afternoon. He used a sheet of polythene to cover his current Distraction—a jigsaw puzzle under construction, featuring a large and pendulously breasted woman together with a small elephant in a most fascinating if physiologically impossible pose—and he packed his tools away in their stainless steel chests. He swept up the fine sawdust, polished the surface of his display cabinets, emptied and washed the tea mugs, and locked his door. He hummed contentedly all the while.

He'd done his part to bring Haytham's killer to justice. True, he hadn't come forward at once like he might've done on last Friday night, when he'd seen poor Hayth go head over arse down the face of the Nez, but at least he knew he would've come forward had circumstances been different. Besides, he hadn't been thinking only of himself in hanging back from making a statement to the rozzers. There was Haytham to think of as well. Had Cliff made it known that the murder victim had gone to the Nez for a bit of brown, what would it have done to the bloke's reputation? No sense in tarring him once he was gone was Cliff's way of thinking about it.

And there had been Gerry to consider as well. What was the point in stirring up a hornets’ nest of worry in Ger when it wasn't the least bit necessary? Ger talked about fidelity all the time, like he really believed in his heart of hearts that being true to one's lover was the number one topic on his mind. But the real truth was that Ger was scared shitless about HIV. He'd been getting himself tested three times a year since the scare began, and what he believed was that plugging only one bloke for the rest of his life was the key to survival. If he knew that Cliff had been doing the business with Haytham Querashi, he'd only worry himself into a state and probably bring on symptoms of some crazy disease that he didn't even have in the first place. Besides, Haytham always took precautions. Hell, there were times when taking it in the arse from Haytham was so antiseptic that Cliff had found himself tossing round the idea of setting up something with a third bucking bronco just to add a bit of salt to the mash.

Not that he would have done it, mind you. But there were times …Just now and then when Hayth would wrestle with that flaming Durex for about ten seconds too long for Cliff's liking …

However, those days were now behind him. Cliff made this decision as he strode to the car. Across the rutted lane, he could see six police cars sitting in front of the mustard factory, and he gave thanks that his part in the investigation was now at an end. He'd head for home and forget about it all, he decided. He'd had a close call, and he'd be a real boofhead if he didn't see what had happened in the past few days as a gilt-edged invitation from on high to turn over a new leaf.

He found himself whistling as he drove south through Balford, buzzing along the seafront, then cruising up the High Street. His life was definitely looking up. With the Haytham business completely behind him and his head finally straight on what he intended to do with the rest of his life, he knew he was ready to devote himself to Gerry. They'd been through a bad patch—him and Ger—but that's all it was, plain and simple.

He'd had to bring to bear all the fancy dancing he knew in order to convince Gerry that his suspicions were groundless. He'd begun his efforts at placation by using anger. When his lover had brought up the idea of being tested for HIV, Cliff's response had been outrage, finely tuned to illustrate that a grievous blow had been dealt him.

“Are we going to have this one again, Ger?” he'd demanded that morning in the kitchen. “I'm not cheating on you, okay? Jesus Christ. How d'you think it feels—”

“You think HIV can't touch you.” Gerry was the maddening voice of reason as always. “But it can and it will. Have you watched anyone die of AIDS, Cliff? Or do you leave the cinema when that scene comes on?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing, mate? I said I'm not cheating. If you don't believe me, maybe you ought to tell me why.”

“I'm not stupid, okay? I work days at the pier. I work nights at that house. Want to tell me what you do while I'm gone?”

Cliff had felt ice running in his veins, so close was Gerry coming to the truth, but he'd rallied well enough. “You want to tell me what you're on about? What's your point? Just spit it out, Ger.” This demand had been a calculated risk. But in Cliff's experience, the time to bluff was when he had absolutely no idea what cards his opponent was holding. In this case, he knew what Gerry's suspicions were, and the only way he could sway Gerry to see those suspicions as groundless was to force them into the open in order to beat them down with a decent display of righteous rage. “Go on, then. Spit it all out, Gerry.”