Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(67)

She'd groaned. At eight in the morning her office had been like Alec Guinness's sweat box on the River Kwai, and a quarter hour's search for a fan in the choking, dust-filled air of the old station's attic had done nothing to improve her disposition. Stirring Ferguson into the mix of heat and aggravation was almost too much flavour for the recipe of her morning to have to bear.

“Don, are you going to give me a free hand in this?” she'd asked. “Or will you and I be playing report-to-the-teacher every morning and afternoon?”

“Watch your mouth,” Ferguson warned. “You'd do well to keep in mind who's sitting at the other end of this telephone line.”

“I'm not likely to forget it. You don't give me the chance. Do you keep this sort of short rein on the others? Powell? Honeyman? What about our lad Presley?”

“They've more than fifty years of experience among them. They don't need watching over. Least of all Presley.”

“Because they're male.”

“Don't let's turn this into a sexual issue. If you've a chip on your shoulder, I suggest you knock it off before someone else with more clout does it for you. Now, where are we, Inspector?”

Emily cursed him soundly under her breath. Then she'd brought him up to date without reminding him how remote was the possibility of there having been a major break in the case between his last call on the previous evening and this one in the morning.

He said thoughtfully, “And you say this woman's from Scotland Yard? I like that, Barlow. I like it very much. It has just the right ring of sincerity, doesn't it?” Emily could hear the sound of him swallowing and the clink of a glass against the telephone receiver. Donald Ferguson was passionate about Fanta Orange. He drank it steadily all day, always with an odd, paper-thin slice of lemon and always with a single cube of ice. This was probably his fourth of the morning. “Right. Then what about Malik? What about this screamer from London? Are you riding their shirttails? I want you on them, Barlow. If they sneezed last week, I want you to know the colour of the handkerchief that collected the snot. Is that clear?”

“Intelligence have already given me a report on Muhannad Malik.” Emily took pleasure in having managed to be one step ahead of him. She recited the salient details on the young Asian. “And I put a request in yesterday to gather what we can on the other: Taymullah Azhar. As he's from London, we'll have to liaise with SOU, but I expect having Sergeant Havers on our team will help with that.”

Ferguson's glass clinked again. Doubtless, he was taking the opportunity to manhandle his surprise into submission. He'd always been the sort of man who claimed women's hands had been shaped by God to curve perfectly over the handle of a Hoover. The fact that a female had actually been capable of thinking ahead and anticipating the investigation's needs was no doubt wreaking havoc with the preconceived notions that the superintendent held dear.

“Is there anything else?” she asked amiably. “I've got the day's activities briefing in five minutes. I don't like to be late for it. But if you've a message for the team …?”

“No message,” Ferguson said brusquely. “Get on with it, then.” He slammed down the phone.

Now at the mustard factory, Emily smiled at the memory. Ferguson had supported her promotion to DCI because circumstances—in the form of a negative Home Office evaluation of Essex Constabulary's commitment to equal opportunity—had forced his hand. He'd let her know privately that every decision she made would undergo examination beneath the lens of his personal microscope. It was j-o-y in its purest form to better the little worm in at least one round of the game he'd determined they'd be playing with each other.

Emily shoved open the door to Malik's Mustards, where the reception desk was occupied by a young Asian woman in a creamy linen tunic and matching trousers. Despite the day's temperature, which was not particularly lowered by the thick walls of the factory building, she wore an amber shawl over her head. Perhaps in a bow to couture, however, she'd arranged it fashionably in folds round her shoulders. When she looked up from the computer terminal at which she was working, her earrings of bone and brass clinked softly. They matched an intricate necklace she wore. A name plate on her desk identified her: S. MALIK. This would be the daughter, Emily thought, the fiancée of the murdered man. She was a pretty girl.

Emily introduced herself and flipped open her identification. She said, “You're Sahlah, aren't you?”

A strawberry birthmark high on the girl's cheek deepened in hue as she nodded. Her hands had been hovering over her terminal's keyboard, but she quickly lowered them to the wrist rest in front of the keys and kept them there, her thumbs and her knuckles pressed together.

She certainly looked the picture of guilt. Her hands were saying, Shackle me now. Her expression was crying, Oh no please no. “I'm sorry about your loss,” Emily said. “This can't be an easy time for you.”

“Thank you,” Sahlah said quietly. She looked at her hands, seemed to realise how odd their position was, and eased them apart. It was a surreptitious movement, but Emily didn't miss it. “May I help you with something, Inspector? My father's working in the experimental kitchen this morning, and my brother hasn't yet arrived.”

“I don't need them, actually, but you can help me with Ian Armstrong.”