Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(207)
Only Cliff couldn't take his eyes off this bloke. He was tan and fit and his muscles gleamed in the afternoon sun. He looked just like a sculpture come to life. Jesus, Cliff thought, why couldn't Gerry ever look like this?
Still the other man waited for a response. As if he could sense the conflict in Cliff, he offered a smile. He said, “Bloody hot today, isn't it? But I love it hot. What about you?”
Christ, Cliff thought. Oh God. Oh God.
Damn that Gerry. He would always cling. He would always demand. He would always examine with his microscope and trot out his endless flaming questions. Why couldn't he ever just trust a bloke? Didn't he see what he could drive someone to?
Cliff flicked his glance to the toilets across the square. Then his gaze went back to the other.
“Can't get hot enough for me,” he said.
And then he sauntered—because he knew he sauntered better than anything—over to the gents.
HE LAST THING EMILY WANTED TO PUT UP WITH WAS yet another in-your-face with one of the Asians, but when DC Honigman brought a quivering Fahd Kumhar back to the nick for another session in the interview room, Muhannad Malik's cousin was right on the DCs heels. Kumhar took one look at Emily and began spewing the same sort of mindless gibberish he'd engaged in on the previous day. Honigman gripped the bloke at the armpit, gave a little twist to the skin he had hold of, and growled at him to stow his mumbo-jumbo, which did absolutely nothing to quiet the man. Emily ordered the DC to toss the Asian into a cell until she could deal with him. And Taymullah Azhar confronted her.
She wasn't in the mood to be confronted. She'd arrived back at the station to yet another phone call from Ferguson, demanding Chapter and verse on her search of the mustard factory. He was about as pleased with the news that she'd turned up nothing as she herself had been. His real concern, of course, was not so much the murder of Haytham Querashi as the outcome of his scheduled interview for the assistant chief constable's position. And what underlay his questions and comments was the fact that he faced the selection panel in less than forty-eight hours and he wanted to face it flush with triumph at having the Balford murder resolved.
He said, “Barlow, good Christ. What's going on? I'm hearing sod bloody all from you to tell me that you lot aren't chasing your tails over there. You know the routine, don't you? Or do I have to recite it? If you can't guarantee me a suspect by tomorrow morning, I'm sending Presley over.”
Emily knew that she was supposed to quake with fear at the threat, after which she was supposed to produce a candidate for arrest—any bloody candidate, thank you very much—in order to give Ferguson the opportunity to paint himself in the most positive light for the muckety-mucks who held his promotion in the balance. But she was too incensed to play the game. Having to deal with yet another of Ferguson's obsessive attempts to have his professional feathers oiled made her want to crawl through the telephone line and kick the superintendent's arse black and blue.
So she said, “Send Presley over, Don. Send half a dozen DCIs with him if you think that'll make you look good to the committee. But just get off my back, all right?” And having said that, she slammed down the phone.
Which was the moment that Belinda Warner passed along the unwelcome information that one of the Pakistanis was in reception, insisting upon having a word with her. Which was why she was facing Taymullah Azhar now.
He'd followed DC Honigman to Clacton when Emily had refused to allow him to escort Fahd Kumhar back to his digs himself. Distrusting the honour of the police in general and of Balford DCI in particular, he'd intended to plant himself outside Kumhar's boarding house till Honigman departed, whereupon he meant to check on the Pakistani man's condition: mental, emotional, physical, and otherwise. So, waiting on the street for the detective constable's departure, he'd seen Honigman with Kumhar in tow once again. And he'd trailed them back to the nick.
“Mr. Kumhar was weeping,” he told Emily. “It's quite obvious that he's under considerable strain. You'll agree it's essential that once again he know his—”
Emily cut into the song and dance about legalities. She said impatiently, “Mr. Azhar, Fahd Kumhar is in this country illegally. I expect you know what that does to his rights.”
Azhar looked alarmed at this sudden turn of events. He said, “Are you saying that his current detention has nothing to do with the murder of Mr. Querashi?”
“What I'm saying is what I've already said. He's not a visitor, he's not a working holidaymaker, he's not a domestic servant, a student, or somebody's spouse. He has no rights.”
“I see,” Azhar said. But he wasn't a man to admit defeat, as Emily quickly realised when he went on. “And how do you plan to make this point clear to him?”
Blast the bloody man, Emily thought. He stood there in front of her—sang-froid incarnate, despite his nanosecond of alarm a moment earlier—and calmly waited for her to draw the only conclusion that she could draw from the fact that Fahd Kumhar spoke practically no English. She cursed herself for having sent Professor Siddiqi on his way back to London. Even if she got DC Hesketh on the mobile, by this time they'd probably be all the way to Wanstead. She'd lose at least another two hours that she could ill afford to lose if she ordered him to turn round and bring the professor back to Balford for another session with Kumhar. And this is exactly what Taymullah Azhar was betting that she didn't want to do.