Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(229)

Emily parked, studied the house for a moment without speaking. Then she looked at Barbara. “We haven't a shred of evidence for this. Not one speck. Exactly what d'you propose to do?”

That was certainly the question, all right. Barbara considered its ramifications. Especially, she considered the question in light of the DCFs intention to pillory her for Muhannad's escape. She had two options, as she saw the situation. She could let Emily walk the plank on this one, or she could move beyond her ignoble preferences, beyond what she really wanted to do. She could take her revenge or assume responsibility; she could go at the DCI in kind or give her the coup that would save her career. The choice was hers.

Of course, she wanted the former. She ached for the former. But her years with Inspector Lynley in London had shown that an ugly job can be well completed and the doer can still stand whole at the end.

“There's a lot you might learn from working with Lynley “ Superintendent Webberly once had said.

The words were never more true than in this moment, when they gave her the answer to Emily's question.

“We do exactly what you said, Emily. We just blow smoke. And we do it till the fox comes out of its den.”

Akram Malik answered their knock at his door. He seemed years older than he had when they'd seen him at the factory. He looked at Barbara, then at Emily. He said tonelessly but with such a study of pain underscoring his words that the tone of it wasn't necessary for them to ascertain its presence, “Please. Do not tell me, Inspector Barlow. He could not be any more dead to me now.”

Barbara felt a surge of compassion for the man.

Emily responded. “Your son isn't dead, Mr. Malik. As far as I know, he's on his way to Germany. We'll try to apprehend him. We'll extradite him if we can. We'll put him on trial and he'll go to gaol. But we're not here to talk to you about Muhannad.”

“Then …”He drew his hand down over his face and examined the sweat that glistened on his palm. The night was as hot as the day had been. And not one window in the house was open.

“May we come in?” Barbara asked. “We'd like a word with the family. With everyone.”

He stepped back from the door. They followed him into the sitting room. His wife was there, her fingers plucking uselessly at an embroidery ring that held a complicated pattern of lines and curves, dots and squiggles that she was sewing onto gold fabric. It was a moment before Barbara realised they were Arabic words that she was fashioning into a sampler, similar to the others that hung on the wall.

Sahlah was also there. She had a photograph album open on a glass-topped coffee table. She was in the process of removing photographs from it. Round her on the bright Persian carpet lay her brother's likeness, scrupulously incised from picture after picture as his place in the family was eradicated. The sight of this gave Barbara the chills.

She walked to the mantel, where earlier she'd seen the photographs of Muhannad, his wife, and his children. The picture of the family's son and his wife was still in place, not a victim yet of Sahlah's scissors. Barbara picked this up and saw what she hadn't noted before: where the couple had posed for the picture. They stood on the Balford Marina, a picnic basket at their feet and Charlie Spencer's Zodiacs lined up behind them.

She said, “Yumn's home, isn't she, Mr. Malik? Could you fetch her? We'd like to speak to all of you together.”

The two older people looked at each other apprehensively, as if the request implied that more horrors were in the offing. Sahlah was the one who spoke, but she directed her words to her father, not to Barbara. “Shall I fetch her, Abhy-jahn?” She held her scissors upright between her breasts, the personification of patience as she waited for her father to direct her.

Akram said to Barbara, “I apologise, but I see no need for Yumn to face anything more tonight. She's become a widow; her children are fatherless. Her world has been shattered. She's gone to bed. So if you have something to tell my daughter-in-law, I must ask you to tell me first and allow me to judge whether she's fit enough to hear it.”

“I'm not willing to do that,” Barbara said. “You're going to have to fetch her or DCI Barlow and I are going to have to park ourselves here until she's ready to join us.” She added, “I'm sorry,” because she did feel sympathy for his position. He was so obviously caught in the middle, the human rope in a tug-of-war whose adversaries were duty and inclination. His cultural duty was to protect the women of his family. But his adopted inclination was English: to do what was proper, to accede to a reasonable request made to him by the authorities.

Inclination won. Akram sighed. He nodded at SahlaL She set her scissors on the coffee table. She closed the photo album upon her work. She left them. An instant later, they heard her sandaled feet on the stairs.

Barbara looked at Emily. The DCI communicated wordlessly. Don't think this changes a thing between us, Emily was telling her. You're finished as a cop if I have my way.

Do what you have to do, was Barbara's silent reply. And for the first time since meeting Emily Barlow, she actually felt free.

Akram and Wardah waited uneasily. The husband bent stiffly to gather up the severed pictures of Muhannad. He tossed these into the fireplace. The wife set aside her embroidery, weaving the needle into the fabric before she folded her hands in her lap.

Then Yumn was clattering down the stairs in Sahlah's wake. They could hear her protestations, her quavering voice. “How much more am I meant to bear in one evening? What have they come to tell me? My Muni did nothing. They have driven him from us because they hate him. Because they hate us all. Who will be next?”