Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(39)

“A happy marriage?”

“You tell me. Your parents inform you that they've matched you up with a mate for life. You meet this person and the next thing you know, you're locked into marriage. Does that sound like a recipe for happiness to you?”

“Not really. But they've been doing it for centuries, so it can't be all bad. Can it?”

Emily cast her a glance that was eloquent in its wordlessness. They sat in silence, listening to the nightingale's song. In her mind, Barbara rearranged the facts that Emily had been laying before her. The body, the car, the keys in the bushes, the pillbox on the beach, a broken neck.

She finally said, “You know, if someone in Balford has an agenda for racial trouble, it doesn't really matter who you arrest, does it?”

“Why's that?”

“Because if they want to use an arrest to stir trouble, they're going to use an arrest to stir trouble. Put an Englishman in the nick, and they riot because the murder's an issue of racial violence. Arrest a Pakistani, and the arrest's an issue of police prejudice. The prism's just turned a bit. What they're examining through the prism remains the same.”

Emily stopped fingering the peach. She examined Barbara. When she next spoke, it seemed she'd reached a sudden and adroit conclusion. “Of course” she said. “How are you on committees, Barb?”

“What?”

“You said earlier you were ready to help. Well, I've a need for an officer with a talent for committee work and I think you're that officer. How are you at dealing with Asians? I could use another hand in all this, if only to swat my guv off my back.”

Before Barbara could riffle through her life history and produce an answer, Emily continued. She'd agreed to regular meetings with members of the Pakistani community during the course of the investigation. She needed an officer to serve that group. Barbara, if she agreed, would be that officer.

“You'll have to deal with Muhannad Malik,” Emily said, “and he'll be hot to push you as hard and as far as he can, so keeping your wits about you is crucial. But there's another Asian, a bloke from London called Something Azhar, and he appears to be able to keep a collar on Muhannad, so you'll get some help from him whether he realises he's helping or not.”

Barbara could only imagine how Taymullarh Azhar would react to seeing her bruise-battered face at the first meeting between the Asians and the local rozzers. She said, “I don't know. Committees aren't exactly my thing.”

“Nonsense.” Emily brushed her objections aside. “You'll be brilliant. Most people see reason when the facts are laid in front of them in the proper order. I'll work with you to decide what the proper order is.”

“And it'll be my neck if things come to a crisis?” Barbara asked shrewdly.

“Things won't come to a crisis,” Emily countered. “I know you can handle whatever comes up. And even if that weren't the case, who could be better than Scotland Yard to assure the Asians they're getting the red carpet treatment? Will you do it?”

That was the question, all right. But she would be of service, Barbara realised. Not only to Emily, but to Azhar. Who indeed could better navigate the waters of the Asians’ hostility than someone acquainted with one of the Asians? “All right,” she said.

“Brilliant.” Emily held her wrist up to the dim light from the street-lamp. She said, “Hell. It's late. Where're you staying, Barb?”

“I haven't booked anywhere yet,” Barbara said, and she hurried forward lest Emily think she was hinting for an invitation to share the dubious comforts of her gentrification project. “I thought I'd try for a room along the seafront. If there's going to be a cool breeze within the next twenty-four hours, I'd like to be the first to know.”

“Even better,” Emily said. “Inspired, in fact.” Before Barbara could question what was so inspired about longing for a breeze to cool the stifling air, Emily went on. The Burnt House Hotel would be perfect for her needs, she said. It had no immediate access to the strand, but it sat at the north end of the town above the sea, with nothing to impede a breeze should one decide to blow in its direction. Since it had no immediate access to sand and water, it was always the last hotel to book up once the tourist season—such as it was these days in Balford-le-Nez—began. And even if that weren't the case, there was one other point about the Burnt House that made it a desirable domicile for New Scotland Yard's Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers during her sojourn in Balford.

“What's that?” Barbara asked.

The murdered man had stayed there, Emily told her. “So you can help me out with some nosing round.”


RACHEL WINFIELD OFTEN wondered where normal girls went for advice when the larger moral questions in life loomed in front of them demanding answers. Her fantasy was that normal girls went to their normal mothers. What happened was this: The normal girls and their normal mothers sat together in the kitchen and they shared a pot of tea. What went with the tea was conversation, and the normal daughters and their normal mothers chatted companionably about whatever subject was near and dear to their hearts. That was the key: hearts in the plural. The communication between them was a two-way street, with mother listening to daughter's concerns and then giving daughter the benefit of her own experience.