Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(210)

“Tell him to stow it,” Emily said.

Azhar said something gently to the man, but Kumhar continued in much the same vein.

“Others have acknowledged their faults. Even though they mixed a righteous action with another that was bad, Allah might still relent towards them. Because Allah—”

“We went this route yesterday,” Emily interrupted. “We're not playing the prayer game today. Tell Mr. Kumhar that I want to know what he's doing in this country without proper documents. And did Querashi know that he's here illegally?”

Which is when Kumhar told her—through Azhar—that his papers had been stolen sometime between yesterday afternoon when he'd been taken from Clacton and this day when he'd been returned.

“That's complete rubbish,” Emily said. “DC Honigman informed me not five minutes ago that the other boarders in Mrs. Kersey's house are English nationals who have no need of his papers and even less interest in them. The front door of the house is always kept locked, day and night, and there's a twelve-foot drop from Mr. Kumhar's window to the back garden with no means of access to that window. Bearing all this in mind, does he want to explain how someone nicked his papers, let alone why?”

“He has no explanation for how it occurred,” Azhar said after listening to a lengthy commentary from the other man. “But he says that documents are valuable items, to be sold on the black market to desperate souls wishing to avail themselves of the greater opportunities for employment and advancement that are found in this country.”

“Right,” Emily drawled, narrowing her eyes speculatively as she examined the Pakistani man from across the room. His hands, she saw, left visible streaks of damp on the table when he moved them. “Tell him,” she said pointedly, “that he's not to worry a bit about his papers. London will be happy to supply him with duplicates. This would have been a tough order years ago, naturally, but with the advent of computer technology, the government will be able to determine that he entered the country in possession of the appropriate visa in the first place. It would help if he supplied us with his port of entry, though. What was it? Heathrow? Gatwick?”

Kumhar licked his lips. He swallowed. As Azhar translated Emily's words, he gave a little mewl.

Emily persisted in this line, saying reasonably, “Of course, we'll need to know exactly what sort of visa was stolen from Mr. Kumhar's room. Otherwise, we won't be able to get him a duplicate, will we? So do ask him under what understanding was he given entry clearance into the country. Is he someone's relative? A working holidaymaker? Perhaps he's come to be a domestic? Or is he a doctor? Or a minister of some sort? Of course, he could be a student or someone's spouse, couldn't he? Except that he has a wife and children in Pakistan, so I suppose that isn't likely. What about having come to this country for private medical treatment? Except that he doesn't look like he has the funds for that sort of thing, does he?”

Kumhar writhed in his chair as he heard Azhar's translations. He didn't respond directly.

“‘Allah promises hellfire to hypocrites and disbelievers,’ “Azhar translated. “‘Allah curses them and sends them to lasting torment.’ “

More bloody praying, Emily thought. If the little bastard actually thought that prayers were going to do a single thing to save him in his current situation, he was more of a fool than he looked. She said, “Mr. Azhar, tell this man that—”

“May I try something with him?” Azhar interrupted. He'd been examining Kumhar in his quiet way when Emily spoke. Now he looked at her, his gaze even and guileless.

Emily snapped suspiciously, “What?”

“My own …prayer, as you call it.”

“If I know the translation.”

“Of course.” He turned back to Kumhar. He spoke and then offered the English translation. “‘Triumphant are those who turn repentant to Allah, those who serve Him, those who praise Him …those who enjoin the right and who forbid the wrong.’ “

“Yes, right,” Emily said. “That's quite enough of duelling prayer mats.”

But Azhar said, “If I might tell him one thing more: That there is little point to hiding within a maze of lies, since one can so easily lose one's way.”

“Tell him,” she said, “but add this as well: The game is up. He can tell the truth or be on the first plane back to Karachi. It's his decision.”

Azhar relayed this information. Tears sprang into Kumhar's eyes. His lower teeth gnawed at his upper lip. And a torrent of words poured out of him.

“What's he saying?” Emily demanded when Azhar did not translate at once.

Azhar seemed to turn from the other man with difficulty. But he finally did so, slowly. “He's saying that he doesn't want to lose his life. He's asking for protection. Roughly, he's saying what he said yesterday afternoon. ‘I am no one. I am nothing. Protect me please. I am friendless in this land. And I have no wish to die like the other.’ “

Finally, Emily felt the sweet rush of triumph. “Then he does know something about Querashi's death.”

“That appears to be the case,” Azhar said.


BARBARA DECIDED THAT a nice little round of Divide and Rule might be what was needed. Mrs. Malik either didn't know where her son was, or she was unwilling to hand him over to the police. Muhannad's wife, on the other hand, seemed to be so intent upon illustrating that she and her husband thought each other's thoughts and wore each other's knickers that she was likely to impart one or more valuable titbits of information, all in the name of proving her own importance to the man she'd married. But to get her to do this, Barbara knew that she had to separate the younger from the older woman. This proved easier than she'd anticipated. Muhannad's wife made the suggestion that they conduct their interview alone.