Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(212)

“What sort of nasty business?” Barbara asked.

“She was busy at night. When she assumed the house was asleep, she became quite busy, our little Sahlah. She went out. And more than once, someone came in. Someone joined her in her room. She thinks that no one knows this, of course. What she doesn't know is that when my Muni goes out in the evenings, I don't sleep well until he returns to our bed. And my ears are sharp. Quite quite sharp. Aren't they, my lovely little ones?” And she playfully poked her sons’ bellies. Anas splashed water across the front of her tunic in return. She laughed gaily and splashed back. “And little Sahlah's bed goes squeak, squeak, squeak, doesn't it, darlings?” More splashing followed. “Such a restless sleeper our auntie is. Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. Haytham found out about that nasty squeaking, didn't he, boys? And he and our Sahlah had words and words.”

What a cobra, Barbara thought. Someone needed to take a cosh to the woman's head, and she expected there would be more than one volunteer in the household should she ask who would like to wield one. Well, two could play innuendo poker. Barbara said, “Have you a chā, Mrs. Malik?”

Yumn's hands hesitated in the creation of more waves for her boys. She said, “A chā? How odd. Whatever makes you ask such a question?”

“You're wearing fairly traditional garb. I was wondering. That's all. Get out and about much? Go visiting friends in the evening? Stop by one hotel or another for an evening coffee? By yourself, that is? And when you do, do you wear a chā? One sees them all the time in London. But I don't recall seeing any here at the sea.”

Yumn reached for a large plastic jug on the floor nearby. She took out the bathplug and filled the jug from the tap. She began pouring water over the boys, who squealed and shook themselves like wet puppies. She didn't reply until she had both of the children thoroughly rinsed and wrapped in large white towels. She lifted one to each hip and started out of the room, saying to Barbara, “Come with me.”

She didn't lead the way back to the boys’ room, however. Instead, she went to the far end of the corridor, to a bedroom at the back of the house. The door was closed, and she opened this imperiously and gestured Barbara inside.

It was a small room with a single bed against one wall, a chest of drawers, and a table against another. Its diamond-paned window was open, overlooking the back garden and, beyond this garden, a brick wall with a gate that opened onto a neat, weedless orchard.

“This is the bed,” Yumn said, as if revealing a place of infamy. “And Haytham knew what went on within it.”

Barbara turned from the window, but she didn't examine the object in question. She was about to say, “And we both know how Haytham Querashi came by that piece of information, don't we, sweetie,” when she noticed that the table across the room from the bed appeared to be a craft centre of some sort. She walked to this curiously. Yumn continued.

“You can imagine how Haytham would feel, learning that his beloved—presented to him by her father as chaste—was little more than a common …well, my language is too strong, perhaps. But no stronger than my feelings.”

“Hmm,” Barbara said. She saw that three miniature plastic chests of drawers contained beads, coins, shells, stones, bits of copperas, and other small ornaments.

“Women carry our culture forward through time,” Yumn was continuing. “Our role is not only as wives and mothers, but as symbols of virtue for the daughters that follow us.”

“Yes. Right,” Barbara said. Next to the three chests was a rack of implements: tiny spanners, long-nosed pliers, a glue gun, scissors, and two wire cutters.

“And if a woman fails in this role, she fails herself, her husband, and her family. She stands disgraced. Sahlah knew this. She knew what awaited her once Haytham broke their engagement and stated his reasons for doing so.”

“Got it. Yes,” Barbara said. And next to the rack of tools was a row of large spools.

“No man would want her after that. If she wasn't cast out of the family altogether, she'd be a prisoner of it. A virtual slave. At everyone's command.”

Barbara said, “I need to speak to your husband, Mrs. Malik,” and she rested her fingers on the prize she'd found.

Among the spools of thin chain, string, and bright yarn stood one damning spool of very fine wire. It was more than suitable for tripping an unsuspecting man in the dark on the top of the Nez.

Bingo, she thought. Bloody flaming hell. Barlow the Beast had been right from the first.


EMILY HAD TO allow both of them to smoke. It appeared to be the only way to get Kumhar relaxed enough to spill his guts. So with her chest feeling tighter, her eyes watering, and her head beginning to pound, she endured the fumes from his Benson and Hedges. It took three fags before he came anywhere close to speaking what might have been the truth. Before that, he tried to claim he'd come through customs at Heathrow. Then he switched to Gatwick. Then, when he was unable to produce the flight number, the airline, or even the date of entry into the country, he was finally reduced to telling the truth. Azhar translated. His face remained expressionless throughout. To his credit, however, his eyes appeared more and more pained as the interview continued. Emily was leery of this pain, though. She knew enough of these Asians to see them for the actors they were.

There were people who helped, Kumhar began. When one wanted to immigrate to England, there were people in Pakistan who knew the short cuts. They could cut through the waiting time and waive the requirements and ensure one of having proper papers. … All of this for a price, of course.