Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(227)

Emily turned from her scrutiny of the filing cabinets. She levelled a cool gaze onto Barbara. “Who's your superior officer, Sergeant?”

“My …? What? Who? You are, Em.”

“I don't mean here. I mean in London. What's his name?”

“DI Lynley.”

“Not Lynley. Above him. Who is it?”

“Superintendent Webberly.”

Emily picked up a pencil. “Spell it for me.”

Barbara felt a chill pass through her. She spelled out Webberly's name and watched the DCI write it. “Em,” she said, “what's going on?”

“Discipline is what is going on, Sergeant. Or in more specific terms, what's going on is what happens when you pull a gun on a superior officer, when you decide to obstruct a police investigation. You're responsible for a killer's escaping justice, and I intend to see that you pay the price.”

Barbara was dumbstruck. “But, Emily, you said …” Her words died off. What, indeed, had the DCI said? You got us out on the North Sea, Sergeant. Which is where we needed to be to learn the truth. And the DCI was living that truth. Barbara had merely failed to understand what it was, until now.

“You're turning me in,” Barbara said hollowly. “Jesus, Emily. You're turning me in.”

“I am indeed.” Emily continued writing steadily, a living demonstration of those qualities that Barbara had so admired. She was competent, efficient, and completely relentless. She'd made it to DCI so quickly on the strength of her willingness to wield the power that went with her position. No matter the circumstances and no matter the cost. What, Barbara thought, had ever prompted her to conclude that she herself would be the single exception to the rule of Emily's performance on the job?

She wanted to argue with the DCI, but she realized that she didn't have it in her. And Emily's steely expression told her that even if she had, there would be no point.

“You're a real piece of work,” Barbara finally said, “Do what you have to do, Emily.”

“Believe me, I intend to.”

“Guv?” At the door to the DCI's office, a detective constable stood. He held a telephone chit in his hand. His expression was troubled.

“What is it?” Emily asked. Her glance sharpened on the paper he held. “Damn it, Doug, if that bloody Ferguson's—”

“Not Ferguson,” Doug said. “We've had a call from Colchester. Looks like it came in round eight and the chit got put with some others in communications. I only got it ten minutes ago.”

“What about it?”

“I just returned the call. Tidying up loose ends. I did Colchester the other day, about Malik's alibi, remember?”

“Get on with it, Constable.”

He flinched at her tone. “Well, I did it again today when we were trying to track him down.”

Barbara felt her trepidations rising. She read caution all over the DCs features. He looked as if he was expecting a round of kill-the-messenger upon the conclusion of his remarks.

“Not everyone was home in Rakin Khan's neighbourhood when I was there either time, so I left my card. That's what this phone call was all about.”

“Doug, I'm not interested in the minutiae of your day's activities. Get to the point or get out of my office.”

Doug cleared his throat. “He was there, Guv. Malik was there.”

“What are you talking about? He couldn't have been there. I saw him myself on the sea.”

“I don't mean today. I mean on Friday night. Malik was in Colchester. Just like Rakin Khan claimed from the first.”

“What?” Emily flung her pencil to one side. “Bullshit. Are you out of your mind?”

“This”—again he indicated the chit—”is from a bloke called Fred Medosch. He travels, in sales. He has a bed-sit in the house directly across the street from Khan's. He wasn't home the first time I was there. And he wasn't home when I was trying to track down Malik today.” The constable paused, shifting on his feet. “But he was home on Friday night, Guv. And he saw Malik. In the flesh. At ten-fifteen. Inside Khan's house with Khan and another bloke. Blond, round specs, a little hunched at the shoulders.”

“Reuchlein,” Barbara breathed. “Bloody hell/’ Emily, she saw, had gone dead pale.

“No way,” she murmured.

Doug looked miserable. “His bed-sit looks right into the front window of Khan's house. Its dining room window, Guv. And it was hot that night, so the window was open. Malik was there. Medosch described him right down to the ponytail. He was trying to sleep, and those blokes were loud. He looked over to see what was going on. That's when he saw him. I've phoned Colchester CID. They're heading over with a picture of Malik, just to make sure. But I thought you'd want to know up front. Before the press office puts out word that …you know.”

Emily pushed away from her desk. “It's impossible,” she said. “He couldn't have been …How did he do it?”

Barbara knew what she was thinking. It was the first thought that had struck her as well. How could Muhannad Malik possibly have been in two places at once? But the answer was obvious: He hadn't been.

“No!” Emily said insistently. Doug faded from the room. Emily got up from her chair and walked to the window. She shook her head. She said, “God damn.’