Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(35)

Ten years of solitude, she thought as she observed her cousin. Ten years of wandering in the world alone. What had it been like for him? How had he survived without his relations?

“What's more important, then?” Muhannad was attempting to sound reasonable. He didn't want to be any further at odds with their father than the day's proceedings had already made him. He couldn't risk being cast out himself. Not with a wife, two children, and the need to be gainfully employed. “What's more important, Father? Tracking down the man who murdered one of our own or making certain Azhar is cut off for life? Sahlah is a victim of this crime as much as Haytham. Don't we have an obligation to her?”

When Muhannad looked in her direction again, Sahlah lowered her eyes modestly a second time. But her insides shrivelled. She knew the truth. How could anyone not see her brother for what he was?

“Muhannad, I do not need your instruction in this or any other matter,” Akram said quietly.

“I'm not trying to instruct you. I'm only telling you that without Azhar—”

“Muhannad.” Akram reached for one of the parāthās that his wife had prepared. Sahlah could smell the minced beef that had been folded within the pastry. Her stomach lurched at the odour. “This person you speak of is dead to us. You should not have brought him into our lives, much less into our home. I have no argument with you about the crime that has been committed against Haytham, your sister, and all of our family, if indeed it is a crime.”

“But I told you the DCI said it was murder. And I told you she was forced to admit it because of the pressure we've put on the CID.”

“The pressure you brought to bear this afternoon was not on the CID.”

“But that's how it works. Don't you see that?” The room was stifling. Muhannad's white T-shirt clung to his muscled frame. In contrast, Taymullah Azhar sat in a state of such cool calm that he appeared to have transported himself to another world. Muhannad changed gears. “I'm sorry to have caused you pain, and maybe I should have warned you in advance that there would be a disruption in the meeting—”

“Maybe?” Akram asked. “And what occurred at the meeting wasn't a simple disruption.”

“All right. All right. Maybe I approached it wrong.”

“Maybe?”

Sahlah saw her brother's muscles tense. But he was too old to throw stones at the wall, and there were no tree trunks in the room to be kicked. His face was beaded with sweat, and for the first time Sahlah realised the importance of having someone like Taymuilah Azhar acting as intermediary for the family in future discussions with the police. Tranquillity under duress wasn't Muhannad's strong suit. Intimidation was, but more than intimidation was going to be called for. “Look where the demonstration got us, Father: an interview with the DCI heading the investigation. And an admission of murder.”

“I see that,” Akram acknowledged. “So now you shall offer formal thanks to your cousin for his advice and send him on his way.”

“Bugger that shit!” Muhannad swept three framed pictures from the mantel onto the floor. “What's the matter with you? What are you afraid of? Are you so tied to these bloody westerners that you can't even think that—”

“Enough.” Akram stepped out of character: He raised his voice.

“No! It's not enough. You're afraid that one of these English murdered Haytham. And if that's what happened, you're going to have to do something about it—like feel different about them. And you can't bloody face that because you've been playing at being a sodding Englishman for twenty-seven years.”

Akram was up and across the room so quickly that Sahlah didn't realise what had happened until her father struck Muhannad across his face. It was then that she cried out.

“Stop it!” She heard the fear in her voice. It was fear for both of them, for what they were capable of doing to each other and how what they did had the potential to rip their family apart. “Muni! Abhy-jahn! Stop!”

The two men faced off, Akram with a warning finger held stiffly in front of Muhannad's eyes. It was the posture he'd adopted throughout his son's childhood, but with a difference. Now he held his finger up to his son's face because Muhannad topped him by more than two inches.

“We all want the same thing,” Sahlah said to them. “We want to know what happened to Haytham. And why. We want to know why.” She wasn't sure of the veracity of either of those statements. But she said them anyway because it was more important that her father and brother remain at peace with each other than it was that she speak the complete truth to them. “Why are you arguing, then? Isn't it best to follow the path that'll take us to the truth the quickest? Isn't that what we want?”

The men didn't answer. Upstairs, Anas began to cry, and in response Yumn's feet pattered down the corridor in her expensive sandals.

“It's what I want,” Sahlah said quietly. She didn't add the rest because she didn't have to: I am the injured party because he was to be my husband. “Muni. Abhy-jahn. It's what I want,” she repeated.

Taymullah Azhar rose from his place on the sofa. He was smaller than the two other men, slighter of build and shorter in height. But he seemed their equal in every way as he spoke, even though Akram didn't look at him. “Chachā,” he said.