Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(216)

He'd cursed her, his slag of a sister. She'd driven him to it. What did she expect to happen when she acted like a whore with a Westerner? Forgiveness? Understanding? Acceptance? What? She'd let those hands—unclean, defiled, corrupt, disgusting—touch her body. She'd willingly met that mouth with her own. She lay with that bloody piece of shit Shaw under a tree on the bare f*cking ground and she expected him—her brother, her elder, her lord—to walk away from the knowledge? From the sound of their breathing and moaning together? From the scent of their sweat? From the sight of his hand lifting her nightgown and sliding sliding sliding up her leg?

So yes, he'd grabbed her. Yes, he'd dragged her into the house. And yes, he'd taken her because she deserved to be taken, because she was a whore, and because above all she was meant to pay the way all whores pay. And once—one night—was not enough to impress her with the knowledge of who was the real master of her fate. One word from me and you die, he'd told her. And he didn't even need to muffle her cries with his palm as he was prepared to do. She knew she had to pay for her sin.

Once Yumn had spoken, he'd gone in search of her. It was the very last thing he knew he should do, but he had to find her. He was in a fever to find her. His eyes were throbbing, his heart was thundering, and his head was pounding with all of their voices.

Abort, Malik.

Am I meant to be treated like a dog?

She's ungovernable, my son. She has no sense of—

The police were here to search the factory. They were asking for you.

Abort, Malik.

Look at me, Muni. Look at what your mother—

Before I knew it, she had ruined the plants. I don't understand why—

Abort, Malik.

…your father's perfect little virgin.

Abort.

Virgin? Her? In a few more weeks she won't be able to hide the—

They wouldn't say what they were looking for. But they had a warrant. I saw it myself.

Your sister's pregnant.

Abort. Abort.

Sahlah wouldn't speak of it. She wouldn't accuse him. She wouldn't dare. An accusation would ruin her because from it would rise the truth about Shaw. Because he—Muhannad, her brother—would speak that truth. He would accuse. He would relate exactly what he had seen pass between them in the orchard and he'd allow their parents to conclude the rest. Could they trust the word of a daughter who betrayed them by sneaking out of the house at night? Of a daughter who acted like a common slag? Who was more likely to be telling the truth? he would demand. A son who did his duty to his wife, his children, and his parents, or a daughter who daily lived a lie?

Sahlah knew what he would say. She knew what their parents would believe. So she wouldn't speak of it, and she wouldn't accuse.

Which gave him a chance to find her. But she wasn't at the factory. She wasn't at the jewellery shop with her hag-faced friend. She wasn't in Falak Dedar Park. She wasn't on the pier.

But on the pier he'd heard the news about Mrs. Shaw and he'd gone to the hospital. He was just in time to see them coming out, the three of them. His father, his sister, and Theo Shaw. And the look that passed between his sister and her lover as he opened the door of their father's car for her had told him what he needed to know. She'd told. The little bitch had told Shaw the truth.

He'd spun away before they could see him. And the voices roared.

Abort, Malik.

What am I to do? Tell me, Muni.

At the moment, Mr. Kumhar hasn't identified anyone he wishes to be notified.

When one among us has died, it is not up to you to see to his resurrection, Muhannad.

′ found dead on the Nez.

I work with our people in London when they have troubles with—

Abort, Malik.

Muhannad, come and meet my friend Barbara. She lives in London.

This person you speak of is dead to us. You should not have brought him into our house.

We go for ice creams on Chalk Farm Road and we've been to the cinema and she even came to my birthday party. Sometimes we go to see her mum in—

Abort, Malik.

We told her we were going to Essex. Only Dad didn't tell me you lived here, Muhannad.

Abort. Abort.

Will you come again? Can I meet your wife and your little boys? Will you come again?

And there—there, where he least expected to find it—was the answer he was seeking. It silenced the voices and calmed his nerves.

It sent him hurtling towards the Burnt House Hotel.


“ALL RIGHT,” Emily said fiercely. Her face lit with a radiant smile. “Well done, Barbara. God damn. All right.” She shouted for Belinda Warner. The WPC came bounding into the office.

Barbara felt like crowing. They had Muhannad Malik by the short and curlies, presented to them like the Baptist to Salome with no dancing required. And by his very own dimwitted wife.

Emily began giving orders. The DC working the Colchester end—who'd been combing the streets round Rakin Khan's home in an attempt to find someone who could either corroborate Muhannad's alibi for Friday night or sink it forever—was to be called home. The constables sent to the mustard factory to go through everyone's personnel file for an examination of their paperwork were to be taken off that scent. The blokes working on the beach hut break-ins to clear the slate of Trevor Ruddock were to put that endeavour on the back burner. Everyone was to join the search for Muhannad Malik.