Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(47)

But since Haytham Querashi had been murdered and since the conditions suggested the death was no random act, Barbara had already concluded that the man had gone to the Nez to meet someone. The only piece of information Treves had added was that Querashi may have made this a regular rendezvous. And, reluctant as she was to admit it, that was an extremely valuable titbit. She threw the hotelier a bone. “Mr. Treves, you're in the wrong profession.”

“Really?”

“Believe it.” And those two words weren't even a lie.

Thus buoyed, Treves came to inspect the contents of the bedside table with her: a yellow-bound book with a matching satin marker that, opened, displayed several lines bracketed off and an entire text that was written in Arabic; a box of two dozen condoms, half of which were gone; and a five by seven manila envelope. Barbara placed the book into an evidence bag as Treves tut-tutted over the condoms and everything that possession of such sexual paraphernalia seemed to imply. As he clucked, Barbara upended the manila envelope into her palm. Two keys fell out, one not much larger than the length of her first knuckle to the tip of her thumb, the other quite tiny, fingernail size. This second had to be the key to the leather case on the chest of drawers. She closed her fingers round both of the keys and contemplated her next move. She wanted a look inside the case, but she preferred the look to be a private one. So before she took action, she had to take care of her bearded Sherlock.

She thought about how best to do this while still keeping the man's good will. He wouldn't take kindly to the dawning knowledge that, as he knew the victim, he was one of the suspects in Querashi's murder until an alibi or other evidence eliminated him.

She said, “Mr. Treves, these keys may be crucial to our investigation. Would you step into the corridor and keep watch, please? The last thing we want at a moment like this is eavesdroppers or spies. Give me the word if the coast is clear.”

He said, “Of course, of course, Sergeant. I'm only too happy …” and hurried off to fulfill his commission.

Once he gave her the all clear, the heave ho, and the anchors aweigh, she took a closer look at the keys. They were both brass, the larger of them attached to a chain on which a metal tag also hung. This was stamped with the number 104. Locker key? Barbara wondered. And what sort of locker? Railway locker? Bus station locker? Personal locker somewhere on the seafront, the sort of metal cupboard in which people stowed their clothes while they were swimming in the sea? They were all possibilities.

The second key she slid into the lock on the small leather case. The key turned smoothly. She flicked the catch on the case to the right. The lid unlatched. She eased the case open.

“Finding anything useful?” Treves’ whisper came from the doorway, 007 in its intensity. “All clear on this side of things, Sergeant.”

“Keep guard, Mr. Treves,” she whispered back.

“Will do,” he murmured. She could tell that he was beginning to feel he'd been born to live the cloak-and-dagger life.

“I'm depending on you,” she said, and went for a between-the-teeth articulation, which she hoped would heighten the sense of intrigue which appeared necessary to keep him in line. “If anyone stirs … And I mean anyone at all, Mr. Treves—”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Carry on without fear, Detective Sergeant Havers.”

She smiled. What a goofball, she thought. She added the keys to the evidence bag. Then she turned to the leather case.

It contents were neatly arranged: a pair of gold cuff links, a gold money clip with something engraved in Arabic on it, a small gold ring—perhaps intended for a woman—with a ruby in the centre, one gold coin, four gold bangles, a cheque book, and a yellow piece of paper that was folded in half. Barbara paused to consider Querashi's predilection for gold and what, if anything, such a predilection meant and how, if possible, such a predilection might fit into the overall scheme of what had happened to the man. Avarice? she wondered. Blackmail? Kleptomania? Foresight? Obsession? What?

The cheque book, she saw, was for a local branch of Barclays. It was the sort of book with a receipt stub running along the left side of the cheques. Only one had been written and documented on a receipt, ￡400 to an F. Kumhar. Barbara examined the date and did her maths: three weeks prior to Querashi's death.

Barbara slid the cheque book into the evidence bag and took up the folded bit of yellow paper. This turned out to be a receipt from a local shop. It was called Racon Original and Artistic Jewellery and beneath this name were the italicised words “Balford's Finest.” Barbara thought at first that the receipt went with the small ruby ring. Perhaps a memento purchased by Querashi for his future bride? But upon inspection, she saw that the receipt wasn't made out to Querashi. Instead, it was made out to Sahlah Malik.

The receipt did not make clear what had been purchased. Whatever it was, it had been identified only by two letters and a number: AK-162. And next to these was a phrase written in inverted commas: “Life begins now.” At the bottom of the receipt was the price that Sahlah Malik had paid: ￡220.

Intriguing, Barbara thought. She wondered how Querashi had come to have the receipt in his possession. Obviously, it was the receipt for something purchased by the man's fiancée, and “Life begins now” was probably what she intended to have engraved on it. Wedding ring? That was the most logical surmise. But did Pakistani husbands wear them? Barbara had never seen one on Taymullah Azhar, but that didn't mean much because not every man in her own culture wore one, so who was to say what the Asian custom was? But even if the receipt was for a wedding ring, having it in his possession indicated that Querashi planned to return whatever it was that Sahlah had purchased. And the act of returning a gift engraved with the hopeful and trusting words “Life begins now” suggested a real fissure in the wedding plans.