Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(26)
“What sort of substitute?”
“Someone to liaise between you—the family and the community—and the investigating officers. Will you accept that?” And go on your bloody way, she added silently. And keep your fellows in line, at home, present at their jobs, and off the damn streets.
Azhar exchanged a look with his cousin. Muhannad shrugged abruptly. “We accept,” Azhar said, getting to his feet. “With the proviso that this individual will be replaced by you should we find it necessary to reject him as biased, ignorant, or deceptive.”
Emily had agreed to the condition, after which the two men had left her. She'd blotted her face with a tissue and rubbed it to bits against the sweat on the back of her neck. Picking the tissue fragments off her damp skin, she returned her phone calls. She talked to her superintendent.
Now, having read the intelligence report on Muhannad Malik, she jotted down the name Taymullah Azhar and requested a similar report on him. Then she looped the strap of her hold-all over her shoulder and switched out the lights in her office. Having dealt with the Muslims, she'd bought a little time. And time counted for everything when dealing with murder.
BARBARA HAVERS FOUND the Balford police station on Martello Road, a lane of shambled red-brick structures that marked yet another route to the sea. The station was housed in one of these. It was a gabled and many-chimneyed Victorian building that had doubtless once housed one of the town's more prominent families. An antique blue light whose glass shade was embellished with the white word Police identified the building's current use.
As Barbara pulled to a halt in front of it, evening floodlights came on, arcing shells of incandescence against the station's fa?ade. A female figure was coming out of the front door, and she paused to adjust the strap of a bulky shoulder bag. Barbara hadn't seen Emily Barlow in eighteen months, but she recognised her instantly. Tall, wearing a white tank top and dark trousers, the DCI had the broad shoulders and the well-defined biceps of the dedicated triathlete that she was. She may have been approaching forty, but her body was timelocked at twenty. In her presence—even at a distance and in the growing darkness—Barbara felt as she'd felt when they'd taken their courses together: a candidate for liposuction, a wardrobe makeover, and six intense months with a personal trainer.
“Em?” Barbara called quietly. “Hullo. Something told me I'd find you still hard at it.”
At the initial sound of Barbara's voice, Emily's head rose sharply. But by the end of the other woman's greeting, she'd stepped away from the station door and approached the pavement. She said, “Good God. Is that Barb Havers? What the devil are you doing in Balford?”
How exactly would it play? Barbara wondered. I'm trailing an exotic Pakistani and his kid in the hopes of keeping them out of the nick. Oh yes, DCI Emily Barlow was certain to go for that strange tale in a major way. “I'm on holiday,” Barbara settled upon saying. “I've just got in. I read about the case in the local rag. I saw your name and thought I'd come along to suss out the situation.”
“That sounds like a busman's holiday.”
“Can't keep my fingers out of the pie. You know how it is.” Barbara fished in her bag for her cigarettes but remembered at the last moment not only that Emily didn't smoke but also that she was always willing to go one or two rounds with anyone who did. Barbara relinquished the Players and fumbled for the Juicy Fruit instead. “Congratulations on the promotion,” she added. “Bloody hell, Em. You're climbing fast.” She folded the stick of gum into her mouth as the DCI joined her.
“Congratulations may be premature. If my super has his way, I'm back to constable.” Emily frowned. “What happened to your face, Barb? You look like hell.”
Barbara made a mental note to remove the bandages as soon as she was within spitting distance of a mirror. “I forgot to duck. On my last case.”
“I hope he looks worse. Was it a he?”
Barbara nodded. “He's in the nick for murder.”
Emily smiled. “Now, that's excellent news.”
“Where are you heading?”
The DCI shifted her weight and the weight of her hold-all and ran a hand through her hair in the habitual manner that Barbara remembered. It was jet-black hair, dyed punk and cut punk, and on any other woman her age it would have looked absurd. But not on Emily Barlow. Emily Barlow didn't do absurd, in appearance or in anything else. “Well,” she said frankly, “I was supposed to meet a gentleman friend for a few discreet hours of moonlight, romance, and what usually follows moonlight and romance. But to tell you the truth, his charms have just about run their course, so I cancelled. Somewhere along the line I knew he'd start whingeing about the wife and kiddies, and I just wasn't up to holding his hand through another attack of the galloping guilts.”
The reply was vintage Emily. She'd long ago relegated sex to just another aerobic activity. Barbara said, “Have you time for chat, then? About what's going on?”
The DCI hesitated. Barbara knew she would be considering the request for its propriety. She waited, understanding that Emily was unlikely to agree to any action that would jeopardise either the case itself or her newly acquired position. She finally glanced back at the building and seemed to come to a decision of some sort. She said, “Have you eaten, Barb?”