Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(28)

“What's the Asians’ main concern?”

“It depends on who you talk to. They're intent on exposing whatever they can: a cover-up, a spate of footdragging by the local coppers, a CID conspiracy, or the start of ethnic cleansing. Have your pick.”

Barbara sat on one of the two metal chairs. “Which comes close?”

The DCI shot her a look. “Brilliant, Barb. You sound just like them.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to suggest—”

“Forget it. The whole bloody world's on my back. Why not you as well?” From a drawer, Emily took a small knife which she wielded against the banana, adding slices to the yoghurt, nuts, and fruit. “Here's the situation. I'm trying to keep the leaks to a minimum. Things are dicey as hell in the community, and if I'm not careful about who knows what and when, there's a loose cannon in town who'll start firing away.”

“Who is it?”

“A Muslim. Muhannad Malik.” Emily explained his relationship to the deceased man and described the importance of the Malik family—and hence Muhannad himself—in Balford-le-Nez. His father, Akram, had brought the family to the town eleven years before with the dream of starting their own business. Unlike many Asian newcomers who confined themselves to restaurants, markets, dry cleaners, or petrol stations, when Akram Malik dreamed, he dreamed big. He saw that in a depressed part of the country, he might not only be welcomed as a source of future employment but he might also make his mark. He'd started small, making mustard in the back room of a tiny bakery on Old Pier Street. He'd ended up with a complete factory in the north section of the town. There he manufactured everything from savoury jellies to vinaigrettes.

“Malik's Mustards and Assorted Accompaniments,” Emily finished. ‘Other Asians followed him here. Some of them relatives, others not. We've a growing community of them now. With all the interracial headaches.”

“Muhannad's one of them?”

“A migraine. I'm up to my neck in political bullshit because of that prick.” She reached for a peach and began to slice it, tucking wedges of fruit along the rim of the yoghurt bowl. Barbara watched her, considered her own healthless dinner, and managed to subdue her guilt.

Muhannad, Emily informed her, was a political activist in Balford-le-Nez, fiercely dedicated to equal rights and fair treatment for all of his people. He'd formed an organisation whose putative purpose was support, brotherhood, and solidarity among youthful Asians, but he was a real hot head when it came to anything remotely suggestive of a racial incident. Anyone who harassed an Asian found himself in short order going eyeball-to-eyeball with one or more relentless Nemeses whose identity victims were always conveniently unable to recall. “No one can mobilise the Asian community like Malik,” Emily said. “He's been dogging my heels since Querashi's body was found, and he'll be dogging them till I make an arrest. Between seeing to him and seeing to Ferguson, I've had to manufacture time to conduct the investigation.”

“That's rough,” Barbara said.

“What it is is a pisser.” Emily tossed the knife into the kitchen sink and carried her meal to the table.

“I had a talk with a local girl at the Breakwater,” Barbara said as Emily went to the fridge and brought out two cans of Heineken. She passed one to Barbara and popped the top on her own. She sat with natural and unconscious athleticism, lifting one leg over the seat of the chair rather than easing her way into it with studied feminine grace. “There's some talk that Querashi had a mishap with drugs. You know what I mean: ingested heroin prior to leaving Pakistan.”

Emily spooned up some of her yoghurt concoction. She rolled her beer can across her forehead, where the perspiration was glistening on her skin. She said, “We haven't yet got the final word from toxicology about Querashi. There may be a drug tie. With the harbours nearby, we've got to keep it in mind. But drugs didn't kill him, if that's what you're thinking.”

“D'you know what did?”

“Oh yeah. I know.”

“Then why're you playing your cards so close? I saw there's been no cause of death given, so it's still not clear if you've even got a murder. Is that where things still stand?”

Emily swallowed some beer and eyed Barbara carefully. “How much of a holiday are you on, Barb?”

“I can hold my tongue, if that's what you're asking.”

“What if I'm asking more?”

“D'you need my help?”

Emily had scooped up more yoghurt, but she set her spoon back in the bowl and meditated on it before answering slowly. “I may do.”

This was far better than greasing her way in, Barbara realised. She jumped at the opportunity the DCI was unknowingly offering. “Then you've got it. Why're you holding the press off? If it isn't drugs, is it sex related? Suicide? Accident? What's going on?”

“Murder,” she said.

“Ah. And when the word gets out, the Asians're going to hit the streets again.”

“The word is out. I told the Pakistanis this afternoon.”

“And?”

“And they'll be breathing, peeing, and sleeping for us from this moment onward.”

“Is it a racial killing, then?”

“We don't know yet.”