Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(52)

“Good. So let's agree to something up front. If I ask you a question, that's what it is, okay? A question. It doesn't mean that I'm heading in any direction at all. I'm just trying to understand the culture so I can understand the community. Okay?”

“As you wish.”

Barbara decided to take this as his wholehearted agreement to lay bare any and all facts at his fingertips. There was no point forcing him into signing with his blood a contract of cooperation. Besides, he seemed to be accepting her somewhat broad interpretation of her role as police liaison, and while she had him in that state, she wanted to get as much information out of him as she could.

She tucked into her eggs and forked up a wedge of bacon to accompany them. “Let's suppose, just for a moment, that this wasn't a racially motivated crime. Most people are murdered by someone they know, so let's suppose that was the case with Querashi. Are you with me?”

Azhar turned his cup in his saucer. He'd still not drunk from it. He was watching Barbara. He nodded slightly.

“He hadn't been in England long.”

“Six weeks,” Azhar said.

“And he'd been working at the mustard factory with the Maliks during that time.”

“Correct.”

“So can we agree that the majority of his acquaintances here in England—not all, but the majority, okay?—were probably Asians?”

His expression was sombre. “For the moment, we can agree on that probability.”

“Good. And his marriage was to be an Asian marriage. Isn't that the case?”

“It is.”

Barbara sliced into more bacon and dipped it into the egg yolk. “I need to understand one thing, then. What happens if an Asian engagement—an arranged engagement—is broken?”

“What do you mean, broken?”

“I mean what happens if one of the parties calls off an arranged marriage?”

It seemed like a simple enough question, but when he didn't answer immediately, Barbara looked up from the triangle of toast to which she was administering a generous dollop of blackcurrant jam. His face was expressionless, but it seemed too controlled. Damn the man. He was jumping to conclusions despite what she'd said about needing to gather information.

Impatiently, she said, “Azhar—”

“Do you mind?” He took out a packet of cigarettes. “May I? Since you're eating …?”

“Fire it up. If I could smoke and eat simultaneously, believe me, I'd be doing it.”

He used a small silver lighter against the tobacco. He turned in his chair to gaze in the direction of the french doors. Outside on the lawn, Hadiyyah was throwing a red and blue beach ball into the air. He seemed to be considering how best to answer the question, and seeing this, Barbara felt the pinch of irritation. If their every conversation was going to be a round of the political correctness minuet, they'd still be sitting in Balford at Christmas.

“Azhar, do I need to rephrase this?” she asked him.

He turned back to her. “Haytham and Sahlah had both submitted themselves to the arrangement for their marriage,” he said, rolling the tip of his cigarette against the table's ashtray although the ash of it didn't need to be dislodged. “If Haytham decided to reject the arrangement, he would in effect be rejecting Sahlah. This would be viewed as a grave insult to her family. To my family.”

“Because the family arranged the marriage in the first place?” Barbara poured herself a cup of tea. It was viscous and had the look of a brew that had been bubbling away like a hell broth for the better part of a week. She loaded it up with sugar and milk.

“Because Haytham's actions would cause my uncle to lose face and thus lose the respect of the community. Sahlah herself would be branded as discarded by her intended husband, which would do nothing to heighten her desirability to other men.”

“What about Haytham? What would he suffer?”

“In rejecting the marriage, he would be defying his own father. This could result in his being cast out from his family if the marriage had been considered an important liaison.” The act of inhaling and expelling smoke served to screen Azhar's face. But Barbara could see that he was observing her through the smoke as he went on. “To be outcast is to have no contact with the family. No one communicates with the outcast for fear of being cast out as well. On the street, one turns away. At the home, doors are not opened. Telephone calls are not returned. Post is sent back unacknowledged.”

“Like being dead?”

“Completely unlike. The dead are remembered, mourned, and revered. The outcast never existed in the first place.”

“Rough,” Barbara acknowledged. “But would this have been a problem for Querashi? Isn't his family in Pakistan? He wouldn't have been seeing them anyway, right?”

“It would have been Haytham's intention to bring his family to England as soon as he had the money to do so. Sahlah's dowry would have provided him that money.” Azhar looked back to the french doors. Hadiyyah was hopping across the lawn, bouncing the beach ball on her head. He smiled at the sight and kept his gaze on her as he continued. “Thus, Barbara, I think it unlikely that he was attempting to back out of marriage to Sahlah.”

“But what if he'd fallen in love with someone else? I can understand the whole arranged marriage business, and I can see how someone might agree to do his duty and all that—hell, look at the flaming monarchy and the mess they've made of their lives in the name of duty—but what if someone else came along and he fell in love with her before he really knew what was happening? People do that, you know.”