Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(54)

“You wish to believe someone within Sahlah's family committed this crime, perhaps Sahlah herself or someone acting for Sahlah.”

“I hear Muhannad's got something of a temper.”

“But there were several reasons why Haytham Querashi was chosen for her, Barbara. And foremost among them is that the family needed him. Every member of the family. He had expertise that they wanted for their factory: a business degree from Pakistan and experience in running the production side of a large factory. This was a mutually beneficial relationship: The Maliks needed him and he needed the Maliks. No one would have been likely to forget that, no matter what Haytham planned upon doing with the condoms in his pocket.”

“And they couldn't have got that same expertise from an Englishman?”

“They could have done, naturally. But my uncle's desire is to maintain this as a family business. Muhannad already serves in an important position. He cannot do two jobs. There are no other sons. Akram could bring in an Englishman, yes, but that would not be keeping the job within the family.”

“Unless Sahlah married him.”

Azhar shook his head. “Which would never be allowed.” He extended his cigarette lighter, and Barbara realised she'd not lit the fag that she'd been in such a tearing hurry to enjoy. She leaned into the flame. “So you see, Barbara,” Azhar concluded smoothly, “the Pakistani community had every reason to keep Haytham Querashi alive. It is only among the English that you will find the motive to kill him.”

“Is that so?” Barbara asked. “Well, let's not saddle our horses till we've put on our spurs, all right, Azhar?”

Azhar smiled. It looked as though he smiled in spite of an inner wisdom telling him not to. “Do you always address yourself to your work with this degree of passion, Sergeant Barbara Havers?”

“It makes the day just fly right by,” Barbara retorted.

He nodded and played his cigarette round the edge of the ashtray. Across the room, the last of the elderly couples were tottering towards the door. Basil Treves was hovering at the sideboard. He made busy noises as he filled six glass cruets from a plastic drum.

“Barbara, do you know how Haytham died?” Azhar asked quietly, eyes still on his cigarette's tip.

His question took Barbara by surprise. What took her more by surprise was her instant inclination to tell him the truth. She pondered for a moment, asking herself where this inclination had come from. And she found her answer in that nanosecond of warmth she'd felt between them when he'd asked her about the passion she applied to her work. But she'd learned the hard way to discount any warmth she might feel for another human being, especially a man. Warmth led to weakness and irresolution. Those two qualities were dangerous in life. They could be fatal when it came to murder.

She temporised with, “The postmortem's scheduled for this morning.” She waited for him to say, “And when they receive the report …?” But he didn't say it. He merely read her face, which she attempted to keep clear of incriminating information.

“Dad! Barbara! Look!”

Saved by the bell, Barbara thought. She looked towards the french doors. Hadiyyah was standing just outside with her arms extended to the sides and the red and blue beach ball sitting on her head.

“I can't move,” she announced. “I can't move a muscle. If I move, it'll fall. Can you do this, Dad? Can you do this, Barbara? Can you balance like this?”

That was the question, all right. Barbara scrubbed her napkin across her mouth and got to her feet. “Thanks for the conversation,” she said to Azhar, and then to his daughter, “The real pros can steady it on their noses. I expect you to have that mastered by dinner.” She took a final hit of her fag and stubbed it out in the ashtray. With a nod to Azhar, she left the room. Basil Treves followed her.

“Ah, Sergeant …?” He appeared Dickensian, Uriah Heepish in tone and posture with his hands clasped high on his chest as usual. “If I could have a moment …? Just over here …?”

Over here was reception, a cavelike cubicle built under the stairs. Treves padded behind the counter and bent to retrieve something contained within a drawer. It was a sheaf of pink chits. He handed them to Barbara and leaned over the counter to speak conspiratorially. “Messages,” he breathed.

Barbara gave momentary thought to the disturbing connotation behind the cloud of gin he exhaled. She glanced at the chits and saw that they were torn from a book, carbon copies of telephone messages received. For an instant she wondered how she could have come to amass such a collection in so short a time, especially since no one from London knew where she was. But then she saw that they were made out to H. Querashi.

“I was up before the birds,” Treves whispered. “Went through the message book and pulled all of his. I'm still working on his outgoing phone calls. How much time do I have? And what about his post? We don't generally record letters received by residents, but if I put my thinking cap on, I might be able to recall something helpful to our needs.”

Barbara didn't miss the plural possessive pronoun. “Everything and anything is helpful,” she said. “Letters, bills, phone calls, visitors. Anything.”

Treves’ face lit up. “As to that, Sergeant …” He glanced about. No one was near. The television in the lounge was playing the BBC morning news at a volume that would have drowned out Pavarotti bellowing Pagliacci, but Treves still maintained his air of caution. “Two weeks before he died, there was a visitor. I hadn't thought about it because they were engaged, after all, so why shouldn't she …? Although it did seem unusual to see her all got up that way. I mean, she doesn't usually. Not that she goes about in public that much. The family wouldn't have that, would they? So how am I to say that it was unusual in this case?”