Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(36)

Akram winced at the appellation. Father's brother. It claimed a tie of blood where he would not acknowledge one.

“I don't wish to bring trouble to your home,” Azhar said, and held Muhannad off with a gesture when he would have interrupted hotly. “Let me serve the family. You won't see me unless it's necessary. I'll stay elsewhere so that you needn't break your vow to my father. I can help because, when necessary, I work with our people in London when they have troubles with the police or the government. I have experience with the English—”

“And we know where that experience took him,” Akram said bitterly.

Azhar didn't flinch. “I have experience with the English that we all can use in this situation. I ask you to let me help. Because I have no direct connection with this man or his death, I have less emotion tied up in it. I can think more clearly and see more clearly. I offer myself to you.”

“He disgraced our name,” Akram said.

“Which is why I no longer use it,” Azhar replied. “I can show my regret in no other way.”

“He could have done his duty.”

“I did my best.”

Instead of answering further, Akram studied Muhannad. He seemed to be taking the measure of his son. Then he turned heavily and looked at Sahlah where she still sat, perched this time on the edge of her seat.

He said, “I would not have had this happen in your life, Sahlah. I see your sorrow. I only want to bring it to an end.”

“Then let Azhar—”

Akram silenced Muhannad by raising his hand between them. “This is for your sister,” he told his son. “Do not let me see him. Do not have him speak to me. And do not bring another moment of disgrace on this family's name.”

With that, he left them. His footsteps heavily struck each stair.

“Old fart.” Muhannad spat the words. “Ignorant, grudge-bearing, bloody-minded old fart.”

Taymullah Azhar shook his head. “He wants to do what's best for his family. It's a concept that I, of all people, understand.”


AFTER EMILY'S MEAL, Barbara and she had moved to the back garden of the house. They'd been interrupted by a telephone call from Emily's paramour, who'd said, “I can't believe you really wanted to cancel tonight, not after last week. When have you ever come so many—” before Emily snatched up the phone, cutting off the answer machine and saying, “Hi. I'm here, Gary.” She'd swung round so that her back faced Barbara. The conversation had been brief, consisting of Emily saying, “No … It's got nothing to do with that. You said she had a migraine and I believed you. … You're imagining things. … It has nothing to do with—Gary, you know how I hate it when you interrupt me. … Yes, well, I've someone here at the moment, so I can't go into it. … Oh for God's sake, don't be ridiculous. Even if that were the case, what would it matter? We agreed at the start how things would be. … This isn't about control. I'm working tonight. … And that, my darling, is none of your business.”

She'd hung up smartly and said, “Men. Jesus. If they didn't have the right equipment to amuse us, they'd hardly be worth the trouble.”

Barbara didn't attempt a clever riposte. Her experience with men's equipment was too limited to offer anything more than a roll of the eyes, which she hoped Emily would read as “Ain't it the truth?”

The DCI had appeared satisfied with this response. She'd grabbed a bowl of fruit and a bottle of brandy from the work top, and saying “Let's get some air,” she led Barbara to the garden.

The garden wasn't in much better condition than the house. But the worst of the weeds had been hacked away, and a flagstone path had been laid in a curve to a horse chestnut tree. Beneath this, Barbara and Emily now sat in low-slung canvas chairs, with the bowl of fruit between them, two glasses of brandy that Emily kept topped up, and a nightingale singing somewhere in the branches above them. Emily was eating her second plum. Barbara was munching a handful of grapes.

It was, at least, cooler in the garden than it had been in the kitchen, and there was even a bit of a view. Cars passed on the Balford Road below them, and beyond it the nighttime lights of the distant summer cottages blinked through the trees. Barbara wondered why the DCI just didn't bring her camp bed, her sleeping bag, her torch, and A Brief History of Time out here.

Emily cut into her thoughts. “Are you seeing anyone these days, Barb?”

“Me?” The question seemed ludicrous. Emily had no trouble with her vision, so surely she could deduce the answer without having to ask the question. Just look at me, Barbara wanted to say, I've the body of a chimpanzee. Who d'you think I'd be seeing? But what she said was, “Who has the time?” and hoped it sounded casual enough for the subject to be dismissed.

Emily glanced her way. A streetlamp burned on the Crescent, and since Emily's was the last house in the row, some of its light made its way into her back garden. Barbara could feel Emily making a study of her.

“That sounds like an excuse,” she said.

“For what?”

“For maintaining the status quo.” Emily lobbed her plum pit over the wall, where it fell into the weeds of the bare lot next door. “You're still alone, aren't you? Well, you can't want to be alone forever.”