Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(213)

“How does he define ‘proper papers?’” Emily asked.

Kumhar circumvented the question. He'd hoped at first to be able to come to this wonderful country legitimately, he said. He'd sought ways to do this. He'd sought sponsors. He'd even attempted to offer himself as a bridegroom to a family unaware of his marital status, with the plan of marrying bigamously. Of course, it wouldn't really have been a bigamous union, polygyny being not only legal but also appropriate for a man with the means to support more than one wife. Not that he had the means, but he would. Someday.

“Spare me the cultural asides,” Emily said.

Yes, of course. When his plans were not enough to get him to England legitimately, his father-in-law had informed him of an agency in Karachi that specialised in …well, they called it assisting in the immigration problem. They had, he learned, offices round the world.

“In every desirable port of entry,” Emily noted, recalling the cities that Barbara Havers had listed as locales for World Wide Tours. “And in every undesirable port of exit.”

One could look at it that way, Kumhar said. He visited the Karachi office and explained his needs. And for a fee, his problem was taken care of.

“He was smuggled into England,” Emily said.

Well, not directly into England. He hadn't the money for that, although direct entry was available to those with ￡5,000 to pay for a British passport, a driving licence, and a medical card. But who except the extremely fortunate could produce that amount of money? For what he'd managed to scrape together in five years of saving and doing without, he was able to purchase only an overland passage from Pakistan to Germany.

“To Hamburg,” Emily said.

Again he offered no direct answer. In Germany, he said, he waited—concealed in a safe lodging—for passage to England, where—in time and with sufficient effort on his part, he was told—he would be given the documents he needed to remain in the country.

“You came in through Parkeston Harbour,” Emily concluded. “How?”

By ferry, in the back of a lorry. The immigrants hid among goods being shipped from the continent: car-tyre fibre, wheat, maize, potatoes, clothing, machine parts. It made no difference. All that was required was a lorry driver willing to take the risk for a considerable compensation.

“And your documents?”

Here, Kumhar began to jabber, clearly unwilling to carry his story any further. He and Azhar engaged in a rapid-fire exchange that Emily interrupted with “Enough. I want a translation. Now.”

Azhar turned to her, his face grave. “This is more of the same that we've already heard. He's afraid to say more.”

“Then I'll say it for him,” Emily said. “Muhannad Malik's involved in this up to his eyeballs. He's smuggling illegals into the country and holding their forged documents hostage. Translate that, Mr. Azhar.” And when the man didn't speak at once, his eyes darkening with each accusation she made against his cousin, she said icily, “Translate. You wanted to be a part of this. So be a part of this. Tell him what I said.”

Azhar spoke, but his voice was altered, subtly toned by something that Emily couldn't identify but strongly suspected was preoccupation. Of course. He'd be wanting to get the word out to his detestable cousin. These people stuck together like flies over cow dung no matter what the offence. But he couldn't leave the nick until he knew for certain what the real word was. And by that time they'd have Muhannad under lock and key.

When Azhar had finished the translation, Fahd Kumhar began to weep. It was true, he said. Upon arrival in England, he'd been taken to a warehouse. There, he and his fellow travellers were met by a German and two of their own countrymen.

“Muhannad Malik was one?” Emily asked. “Who was the other?”

He didn't know. He'd never known. But this other wore gold—watches and rings. He dressed well. And he spoke Urdu fluently. He did not come often to the warehouse, but when he did, the two others deferred to him.

“Rakin Khan,” Emily breathed. The description couldn't have fit anyone else.

Kumhar hadn't known either man's name at first. He learned Mr. Malik's identity only because they themselves—and here he indicated Emily and Azhar—had given it yesterday during the interview they'd already had together. Prior to that, he'd known Malik only as the Master.

“Wonderful sobriquet,” Emily muttered. “Doubtless he came up with it himself.”

Kumhar continued. They were told that arrangements had been made for them to work until such a time as they had sufficient funds to pay for the proper documents.

“What sort of work?”

Some went to farms, others to factories, others to mills. Wherever they were needed, they went. A lorry would come for them in the middle of the night. They would be taken to the location for work. They would be returned when the labour was completed, sometimes in the night of that same day, sometimes days later. Mr. Malik and the other two men took their wages. From these, they extracted a payment for the documents. When the documents were paid off, the immigrant would be given them and allowed to leave.

Except, in the three months that Fahd Kumhar had been working off his debt, no one had left. At least not with the proper papers. Not a single person. More immigrants came, but no one managed to earn enough to buy his freedom. The work increased as more fruit needed picking and more vegetables needed harvesting, but no amount of work appeared to be enough to pay off their debts to the people who had arranged their entry into the country.