Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(63)

She took up the receipt again and gave it a second observation. Rachel and her mother said nothing, but another look passed between them and Barbara could feel a tension that she wanted to pursue.

The reaction of the women told her that, in one way or another, they had a connection with the murdered man. But what sort of connection might it be? she wondered. She knew the risks inherent in drawing premature conclusions—especially drawing premature conclusions that were prompted by something as potentially baseless as personal appearance—but it was difficult to see Rachel Winfield in the guise of Querashi's putative lover. It was difficult to see Rachel Winfield in the guise of anyone's lover. No devastating beauty herself, Barbara knew the role that an appealing countenance played in attracting men. So it seemed logical to conclude that, whatever the connection might be, it wasn't a romantic or sexual one. On the other hand, the young woman had a nice body, so there was that to consider as well. And under cover of darkness … But Barbara realised that she was getting ahead of herself. The real question was Querashi's possession of the receipt and what it was doing among his belongings when the bracelet wasn't.

Thinking of the receipt, she glanced at the till. Next to this with its cover curled open lay a booklet of receipts heretofor unused. Barbara registered their colour. They were white. And the receipt from Querashi's room was yellow.

She saw upon this latter paper what she might have noted before had she not been concentrating on the name Sablah Malik, the phrase ‘Life begins now,’ and the cost of the item. Printed in minuscule letters at the bottom of the page were two more words: Business Copy.

“This is the shop's receipt, isn't it?” she asked Rachel Winfield and her mother. “The customer gets the original white one from the book by the till. The shop keeps the yellow as a record of the sale.”

Connie Winfield interjected hastily, “Oh, we're never as clever as that, are we, Rache? We just tear the receipt off and shove one of the two copies over. I don't expect we mind much which one they get, so long as we keep one for ourselves. Isn't that so, love-boodle?”

But Rachel, it seemed, had realised her mother's mistake. She blinked hard when Barbara reached for the receipt book. Those documenting previous sales were folded back along with the booklet's cover. Barbara leafed through them. Every copy left in was yellow.

She saw they were numbered and she riffled through the pages to find the original of the copy she had in her possession. It was receipt number 2395: 2394 and 2396 were in book in yellow, and 2395 wasn't there in either colour.

Barbara closed the book, saying, “Is this always in the shop? What do you do with it when you lock up for the night?”

“It goes under the cash drawer in the till,” Connie said. “Fits snug as a bug. Why? Have you found something wrong with it? God knows me and Rache are a bit loose when it comes to our bookkeeping, but we've never done something illegal.” She laughed. “You can't cook the books when the chef's yourself, if you know what I mean. There's no one to cheat. ‘Course, I suppose we could cheat the artists if we had a mind to, but that'd catch up with us in the end because we give them an accounting twice a year and they have the right to go over our books themselves. So if we have any sense at all—and I like to think that we do, mind you—we can—”

“This receipt was among a dead man's belongings,” Barbara cut in.

Connie gulped and raised a closed fist to her sternum. And she kept her eyes so fixed to Barbara that it seemed only too clear whose face she was determined not to glance at. Even when she spoke, she didn't look at her daughter. “Fancy that, Rache. How d'you suppose it happened? Are you talking about that bloke from the Nez, Sergeant? I mean, you're the police and that bloke's the only dead man round here that the police are interested in. So it must be him. He must be the dead man. Yes?”

“The same,” Barbara said.

“Fancy that,” Connie breathed. “I couldn't say for money how he came to have one of our receipts. What about you, love-boodle? D'you know anything about this, Rache?”

One of Rachel's hands closed over a fold in her skirt. It was one of those Asian skirts, Barbara noted for the first time, the translucent sort that were sold in open air markets all over the country. The skirt didn't exactly tie the girl to the Asian community. But it also didn't extricate her from a situation in which her reluctance to speak was indicating that she was—however tangentially—involved.

“Don't know a thing,” Rachel said faintly. “P'rhaps that bloke picked it up off the street or something. It has Sahlah Malik's name on it. He would have recognised that. P'rhaps he meant to give it back to her and he never had the chance.”

“How would he have known Sahlah Malik?” Barbara asked.

Rachel's hand jerked on the skirt. “Didn't you say that him and Sahlah—”

“The story was in the local rag, Sergeant,” Connie put in. “Rache and I c'n both read, and the paper said this bloke was here to marry Akram Malik's daughter.”

“And you know nothing more than what you read in the paper?” Barbara asked.

“Not a thing more,” Connie said. “You, Rache?”

“Nothing,” Rachel said.

Barbara doubted that. Connie was too determinedly loquacious. Rachel was too taciturn. There was a fishing expedition to embark upon here, but she would have to return when she had better bait. She took out one of her cards. Scrawling the name of the Burnt House on it, she told the two women to phone her if anything jogged their memories. She gave the Kennedy bracelet a final scrutiny and tucked the receipt for AK-162 among her own belongings.