Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(37)

“Why not? You are. Being alone's not holding you back.”

“Right. It's not. But there's being alone, and there's being alone,” Emily said wryly. “If you know what I mean.”

Barbara knew what she meant well enough. While she lived by herself, Emily Barlow had never been without a man on the string for more than one month. But that was because she had it all: good looks, a fine body, a singular mind. Why was it that women who slew men by virtue of simply existing always thought that other women had the same power?

She craved a cigarette. It was beginning to seem like days since she'd last had one. What the bloody hell did non-smokers do to buy time, to displace unwanted attention, to avoid discussion, or simply to quell nerves? They said, “Pardon, but I don't want to discuss it,” which wouldn't exactly be the best response in a situation in which Barbara was hoping to work closely with the DCI heading up a murder investigation.

“You don't believe me, do you?” Emily asked when Barbara made no response.

“Let's just say that experience has encouraged my scepticism. And anyway—” She hoped the gust of air she expelled would give the impression of insouciance. “I'm happy enough with things as they are.”

Emily reached for an apricot. She rolled it round her palm. “Are you.” The words were a thoughtful statement.

Barbara chose to interpret this remark as a two-word termination of their discussion. She sought a clever transition into a new topic. Something along the lines of “Speaking of murder” would have done, except that they hadn't spoken of murder since leaving the kitchen. Barbara was reluctant to press in that direction, her quasi-professional stature in the case being more tenuous than she was used to, but she also wanted to get back to the real matter at hand. She'd come to Balford-le-Nez because of a police investigation, not to consider the ramifications of solitude.

She went for the direct approach, adopting the pretence that there had been no interruption in their discussion of the death on the Nez in the first place. “It's the racial bit that I'm wondering about,” she said, and lest Emily think she was expressing concerns that her social life might become an arena for miscegenation, she went on with “If Haytham Querashi had only recently come to England—and that's what the telly reported, by the way—then that suggests he may not have known his killer. Which in turn suggests the sort of random racial violence one hears about in America. Or in any big city around the world, for that matter, times being what they are.”

“You're thinking like the Asians, Barb,” Emily said, taking a bite of her apricot. She washed the fruit down with a swig of brandy. “But the Nez is no place for a random act of violence. It's deserted at night. And you saw the pictures. There're no lights, either on the clifftop or on the beach. So if someone goes there alone—and let's assume for the moment that Querashi went there by himself—he goes with one of two reasons. To be alone for a walk—”

“Was it dark when he left the hotel?”

“It was. With no moon to speak of, by the way. So we cross out the walk unless he was planning to stumble along like a blind man, and we theorise that he was there to be alone for a think.”

“Perhaps he was getting cold feet about the upcoming marriage? He wanted to call it off and was wondering how?”

“That's a good theory. Reasonable, as well. But there's another point we have to consider: His car was tossed. Someone tore it to pieces. What does that suggest to you?”

There seemed only one possibility. “That he'd gone there deliberately to meet someone. He'd taken something with him to deliver. He didn't hand it over as prearranged and he paid with his life. After which someone searched his car for whatever he was supposed to hand over.”

“None of which suggests a racial killing to me,” Emily said. “Those killings are arbitrary. This killing wasn't.”

“But that doesn't mean someone English didn't kill him, Em. For a reason having nothing to do with race.”

“Don't remind me. But it also doesn't mean someone Asian didn't kill him.”

Barbara nodded but continued with her own line of thought. “If you bring in someone English for the crime, the Asian community will see it as a racial killing because the death looks racial. And if that happens, everything'll explode. Right?”

“Right. So while it complicates the hell out of matters, I have to say I'm relieved that the car was tossed. Even if the crime was racial in nature, I can interpret it otherwise till I know for sure. That'll buy me time, keep a lid on things, and give me a chance to strategise. Momentarily, at least. And only if I can keep Ferguson off the bloody phone for twenty-four hours.”

“Could a member of Querashi's community have killed him?” Barbara reached in the fruit bowl for another handful of grapes. Emily settled into her chair with her brandy glass balanced on her stomach and her head tilted up to examine the black webbing of chestnut leaves that hung above them. Somewhere safely hidden by these leaves, the nightingale continued his liquid song.

“It's not out of the question,” Emily said. “I think it's even likely. Who else did he know well enough for murder other than Asians?”

“And he was supposed to marry the Malik daughter, wasn't he?”