Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(217)

“No one could be in two places at once,” Barbara had exulted to Emily. “He forgot to tell his wife what his alibi was. And she bloody well gave him a second one. The flaming game's not afoot, Emily. It's bloody well up.”

And now she watched the DCI in her glory at long last. Emily fielded phone calls, constructed a battle plan, and directed her team with a calm assurance that belied the excitement which Barbara knew that she had to be feeling. Hell, she'd been right from the very first. She'd sensed something dodgy in Muhannad Malik, something not right in all of his loud protestations of being a man of his people. Indeed, there was probably some allegory or fable that emphasised the exact hypocrisy of Muhannad's life, but at the moment Barbara was too wired to dredge it up from her memory. Dog in the manger? Tortoise and the hare? Who knew? Who cared? Let's just get this flaming bastard, she thought.

Constables were dispatched in all directions: to the mustard factory, to the Avenues, to the town council rooms, to Falak Dedar Park, to that small meeting hall above Balford Print Shoppe where Intelligence had revealed that Jum'a had its gatherings. Other constables were assigned to Parkeston in the event that their quarry had headed to Eastern Imports.

Descriptions of Malik went out by fax to surrounding communities. The Thunderbird's number plates and the car's unique colour and features were relayed to police stations. The Tendring Standard was phoned for a front-page position for Malik's photograph in case they hadn't run him to ground by morning.

The entire station was mobilised. Everywhere was movement. Everyone worked like a cog in the greater machine of the investigation, and Emily Barlow was that machine's centre.

It was in this sort of mode that she did her best work. Barbara remembered her ability to make quick decisions and to deploy her manpower where it would have the greatest effect. She'd done this in their exercises at Maidenstone when there was nothing at stake but the approval of the instructor and the admiration of colleagues taking the course. Now, with everything at stake—from peace in the community to her very job—she was the personification of tranquility. Only the manner in which she bit off words as she spoke them gave an indication of her tension.

“They were all in on it,” she told Barbara, tossing back a slug of water from an Evian bottle. Her face was shiny with perspiration. “Querashi as well. It's so f*cking obvious. He wanted a share of the lolly that Muhannad was having off everyone who hired his illegals. Muhannad wouldn't play. Querashi did a header down the stairs.” Another slug of water. “Look at how easily it worked, Barb. Malik was in and out of his house all the time: meetings of Jum'a, dealing with Reuchlein, shipping illegals all over the country.”

“Not to mention all the traveling he does for the factory,” Barbara added. “Ian Armstrong told me as much.”

“So if he was out on this night or that night, his family would never think a thing of it, would they? He could leave the house, trail Querashi, see his set-up with Hegarty—without even knowing it was Hegarty he was meeting—and choose his moment to give him the chop. With half a dozen alibis at the ready for any night that he was able to pull it off.”

Barbara saw how all of it fitted together. “And then he showed up with his people in tow, ready to protest the death and make himself look innocent.”

“To make it look like he was what he never could be: a brother Muslim to Muslims, intent upon getting to the bottom of Querashi's murder.”

“Because why the hell would he be dogging your heels in pursuit of Querashi's killer if he was the killer?”

“Or so I was intended to think,” Emily said. “Except I never thought it. Not for an instant.”

She paced to the window where the pillowcase that she'd hung a day earlier still shielded the room from the sun. She yanked on it, pulling it down. She leaned out of the window and watched the street. She said, “This is worst part. I hate this part of it.”

The waiting, Barbara thought. The keeping oneself behind the lines in order to direct the troops as information flowed into the station. It was the downside of having attained Emily's position. The DCI couldn't be everywhere at once. She had to rely on the expertise and the sheer doggedness of her team.

“Guv?”

Emily spun from the window. Belinda Warner was at the door. “Who've we heard from?” she said.

“It's that Asian bloke. He's downstairs again. He—”

“What Asian bloke?”

“You know. Mr. Azhar. He's in reception and he's asking for you. Or the sergeant. He said the sergeant would do. Reception said he's all in a twist.”

“Reception?” Emily echoed. “What the hell is he doing in reception? He's supposed to be with Fahd Kumhar. I left him with him. I gave express orders to—” She cut her own words off. “Jesus,” she said, white-faced.

“What?” Barbara was on her feet. The idea of Azhar in a twist brought her to them. The Pakistani was so controlled that the thought of him in a twist about anything had alerted every one of her senses. “What's going on?”

“He wasn't supposed to leave the station,” Emily said. “He was supposed to be kept with Kumhar till we got our mitts on his cousin. But I goddamn bloody hell left the interview room and I forgot to tell reception he wasn't to leave the building.”