Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(51)

Barbara kneaded the dough of her friendship with Emily until it rose appropriately, sounding as if they were something between soul mates and twins once joined at the hip. When she was certain he got the I'd-do-anything-for-Em impression, she went on to say, “Em's asked me to serve on a committee that's been set up to keep the Asian community informed on the progress of the case.” And again she waited for his reaction.

“Why you?” Azhar set his spoon beside his egg cup. Barbara noted that half the egg was uneaten. “Have the local police inadequate manpower?”

“All of CID will be working the investigation itself,” Barbara told him, “which is, I expect, what the Asian community wants. Wouldn't you think so?”

Azhar removed the napkin from his lap. He folded it neatly and placed it next to his plate. “Then it seems we're here on similar missions, you and I.” Azhar looked at his daughter. “Hadiyyah, are you finished with your cereal? Yes? Good. Mrs. Porter looks as if she wishes to make plans with you for today.”

Hadiyyah looked stricken. “But I thought that Barbara and I—”

“Barbara has just told us that she's here on business, Hadiyyah. Go to Mrs. Porter. Help her out to the lawn.”

“But—”

“Hadiyyah, I believe my words were clear.”

She shoved back her chair and, droopy-shouldered, trudged across the room to Mrs. Porter, who indeed was struggling with her aluminium zimmer, attempting with trembling hands to square it in front of her chair. Azhar waited until Hadiyyah and the elderly woman had disappeared through the french doors that led to the lawn above the sea. Then he turned back to Barbara.

As he did so, Basil Treves whisked into the dining room with Barbara's breakfast and deposited it in front of her with a flourish. He said, “If you need me, Sergeant …” and nodded meaningfully towards reception, which Barbara interpreted as indicating he'd been standing with telephone in hand, ready to punch the triple nines should Taymullah Azhar step out of line.

“Thanks,” Barbara said, and tucked into her eggs. She decided to wait for Azhar to speak. Better to see how much he was willing to reveal about his business in Balford than to play her cards of information before she had an idea of what his own hand was.

He was the incarnation of laconism. And as far as Barbara could tell, he hid nothing from her: The murdered man had been engaged to marry Azhar's cousin; Azhar had come to town at the request of the family; he was assisting them in a similar capacity to what Barbara would be doing for the local police.

Barbara didn't tell him that she'd already exceeded her designated job description of liaison officer. Liaison officers didn't prowl round victim's bedrooms, paw through their belongings, and bag items of interest. She said instead, “This couldn't be better, then. I'm glad you're here. The police need to be put clearly into the picture about Querashi. You can help, Azhar.”

He looked immediately wary. “I serve the family.”

“No question about that. But you're a step removed from the killing, so you've got more objectivity than the family has. Right?” She hastened on before he could answer. “And at the same time, you're on the inside of the group closest to Querashi, so that gives you information as well.”

“The family's interests come first, Barbara.”

“I dare say the family are interested”—she put gentle and ironic emphasis on the word—”in getting to the bottom of who offed Querashi.”

“Of course they're interested. They're more than interested.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Barbara slathered butter on a triangle of toast. She forked up a portion of fried egg. “So here's how things work. When someone is murdered, the police are after the answers to three questions: Who had the motive? Who had the means? Who had the opportunity? You can help the police get at the answers.”

“By betraying my family, you mean,” Azhar said. “So Muhannad is right after all. The police wish to find guilt among the Asian community, don't they? And as you are working with the police, you too—”

“The police,” Barbara interrupted with determination, and she pointed her knife at him to emphasise the fact that she wasn't about to submit to an attempt to manipulate her with charges of racism, “want to get to the truth no matter where it leads them. You'd do your family a good turn by making that clear to them.” She munched on the toast and watched him watching her. Inscrutable, she thought. He'd have made a fine cop. She said past a wad of toast in her cheek, “Look, Azhar, we need to understand Querashi. We need to understand the family. We need to understand the community at large. We're going to be looking at everyone he came into contact with, and some of those people are going to be Asian. If you intend to get sweaty collared every time we start treading on Pakistani turf, we'll get nowhere. Fast.”

He reached for his cup—he'd been drinking coffee—but he merely rested his thin fingers against its handle rather than picking it up. “You're making it clear that the police don't wish to view this as a racially motivated incident.”

“And you, my man, are jumping to conclusions from here to hell and back again. Which is not a good habit for a liaison officer to get into, is it?”

Despite himself, a smile quirked one corner of his mouth. He said, “Accepted, Sergeant Havers.”