Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(21)
Barbara ran her finger down the moisture on the side of her lemonade glass and considered her own question. What she knew about Taymullah Azhar she knew from conversations with his daughter. From Hadiyyah's remark “Dad's got a late class tonight,” she had initially concluded that he was a student. This conclusion wasn't based so much on preconception as it was based on the man's apparent age. He looked like a student, and when Barbara had discovered that he was a professor of microbiology, her amazement had been associated more with learning his age than with not having had a racial stereotype affirmed. At thirty-five, he was two years older than Barbara herself. Which was rather maddening since he looked ten years younger.
But age aside, Barbara knew there was a certain na?veté that accompanied Azhar's profession. The ivory tower aspect of his career protected him from the realities of day-to-day living. His concerns would revolve round laboratories, experiments, lectures, and impenetrable articles written for scientific journals. The delicate dance of policework would be as foreign to him as nameless bacteria viewed beneath a microscope would be alien to her. The politics of university life—which Barbara had come to know at a distance from working a case in Cambridge the previous autumn—were nothing like the politics of policing. An impressive list of publications, appearances at conferences, and university degrees didn't have the same cachet as experience on the job and a mind for murder. Azhar would no doubt discover this fact the first moment he spoke to the officer in charge, if that indeed was his intention.
The thought of that officer sent Barbara back to the newspaper again. If she was going to muscle in with warrant card at the ready in the hope of buffering Taymullah Azhar's presence on the scene, it would help to know who was running the show.
She began a second, related story on the third page of the paper. The name she was seeking was in the first paragraph. Indeed, the entire story was about the officer in charge. Because not only was this the first “suspicious demise” that had occurred on the Tendring Peninsula in more than five years, it was also the first investigation to be headed by a woman.
She was the recently promoted Detective Chief Inspector Emily Barlow, and Barbara muttered, “Holy hell hallelujah,” then allowed herself a delighted grin when she saw the name. For she had done her last three detective courses at the training school in Maidstone, right at Emily Barlow's side.
This, Barbara concluded, was surely a sign: a bolt from the blue, a message from the gods, handwriting—in red neon lights, if you will—scrawled on the wall of her own future. This wasn't just a case of already being acquainted with Emily Barlow and thereby having an entree to the investigation based on a passing familiarity with the head of the team. This was also a case of the galloping meant-to-be's, having all the hallmarks of a spate of fortuitous on-the-job training that bore the potential of sending Barbara's career shooting off like a rocket. Because the simple fact was that nowhere was there a woman more competent, more suited for criminal investigations, and more gifted in the politics of policework than was Emily Barlow. And Barbara knew that what she could learn by working at Emily's side for a week was more valuable than anything covered in a textbook on criminology.
Emily's sobriquet had been Barlow the Beast during the detective courses they'd taken together. In a world in which men rose to positions of authority by simple virtue of being men, Emily had blasted her way through the ranks in the CID by proving herself equal to the opposite sex in every way. “Sexism?” she said one night in answer to Barbara's question on the topic. She'd been exercising furiously on a rowing machine, and she didn't slow her pace even a fraction as she replied. “It doesn't come up. Once blokes know you'll go for their cobblers if they step out of line, they don't. Step out of line, that is.”
And on she strode with one object in mind: attaining the position of Chief Constable of Police. Since Emily Barlow had made DCI at thirty-seven, Barbara knew that she would have no trouble reaching her goal.
Barbara bolted down the rest of her dinner, paid, and left Suzi a generous tip. Her spirits higher than they'd been in days, she went back to the Mini and started off with a roar. She could keep an eye on Hadiyyah now; she could see to it that Taymullah Azhar didn't cross any lines that could cause him trouble. And as an added bonus to her efforts, she could watch Barlow the Beast at work on a case and hope that something of the DCI's remarkable Stardust might rub off on a sergeant's shoulders.
“Do I NEED to send Presley to assist you, Inspector?”
DCI Emily Barlow heard the pointed question from her detective superintendent and translated it mentally prior to answering. What he really meant was “Did you manage to placate the Pakistanis? Because if you didn't, I have another DCI who can do the job adequately in your place.” Donald Ferguson was up for promotion to the Assistant Chief Constable's position, and the last thing he wanted was the heretofor well-greased pathway of his career to become suddenly cratered by political potholes.
“I don't need anyone's assistance, Don. The situation's under control.”
Ferguson barked a laugh. “I've got two men in hospital and a pod of Pakis ready to blow. Don't tell me what's under control, Barlow. Now how do things stand?”
“I told them the truth.”
“That's a brilliant move.” On the other end of the telephone line, Ferguson's voice was honeyed with sarcasm. Emily pondered why the Super was still at work at this time of evening since the Pakistani demonstrators had long since dispersed and the superintendent had never been a man for burning the midnight oil. She knew he was in his office because she'd returned his phone call there, and she'd quickly memorised the number when it had become apparent to her that returning telephonic visitations from on high was going to be part of her new job. “That's really brilliant, Barlow,” he continued. “May I ask how long you think it will be before he takes his people to the streets again?”