Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(68)
The girl's gaze went to one of two doorways that led off the reception area. Its upper half comprised bevelled glass through which Emily could see several desks and what appeared to be an advertising campaign spread out on an easel.
“He's here, isn't he?” Emily said. “I was told he'd be stepping into the position that Mr. Querashi's death left vacant.”
The girl agreed that Armstrong was working at the factory that morning. When Emily asked to see him, she pressed a few keys to exit whatever she'd been doing at her terminal. She excused herself and slipped silently through the other of the two doors, this one plain and leading into a corridor that ran the width of the factory.
Emily noticed the plaque then. It was bronze, and it hung on a wall that was given to a photographic mural of a harvester working in a vast yellow field of what were undoubtedly mustard plants. Emily read the plaque's inscription: LO! HE PRODUCETH CREATION, THEN REPRODUCETH IT, THAT HE MAY REWARD THOSE WHO BELIEVE AND DO GOOD WORKS WITH EQUITY. This was followed by an additional inscription in Arabic, beneath which were the words WE WERE BLESSED WITH A VISION THAT BROUGHT us TO THIS PLACE ON THE 15TH OF JUNE, and thereafter the year.
“He has been good to us,” a voice said behind Emily. She turned and saw that Sahlah hadn't produced Ian Armstrong as requested, but rather her father. She hovered behind him.
“Who?” Emily asked.
“Allah.” The name was spoken with a simple dignity that Emily couldn't help admiring. After saying it, Akram Malik came across the room to greet her. He was dressed for cooking, in medical-looking whites with a stained apron tied round his waist and a paper cap moulded to his head. The lenses of his glasses were speckled with something from the kitchen, and he took a moment to wipe them on his apron as he nodded his daughter back to her work.
“Sahlah tells me you've come to see Mr. Armstrong,” Akram said, dabbing his wrist against both his cheeks and his forehead in what Emily at first thought was some sort of Muslim greeting, until she realised he was simply removing the perspiration from his face.
“She said he's here today. I doubt our interview will take much more than a quarter hour. There was no real need to disturb you, Mr. Malik.”
“Sahlah did the appropriate thing in fetching me,” her father said in a tone that indicated Sahlah Malik did the appropriate thing by knee jerk reflex. “I'll take you to Mr. Armstrong, Inspector.”
He indicated the bevelled glass door with a nod, and he led Emily through it to the office beyond. This contained four desks, numerous filing cabinets, and two drafting tables in addition to the easels Emily had seen from reception. At one of the tables, an Asian man was working at some sort of design with calligraphy pens, but he ceased his work and rose respectfully as Akram led Emily through the office. At the other table, one middle-aged woman in black and two younger men—all of them Pakistani like the Maliks—were considering a set of glossy colour photographs in which the company's products were displayed in a variety of vignettes from picnic lunches to New Year's Eve dinners. They too set their work aside. No one spoke.
Emily wondered if the word had gone out that the police had come calling. Certainly, they'd have had to be expecting a visit from Balford CID. One would think they might have prepared themselves for it. But, like Sahlah in reception, everyone managed to look as if the next stop in his life's itinerary was destined to be the gallows.
Akram guided her into a small corridor off which three offices opened. Before he had a chance to leave her with Armstrong, however, Emily seized the opportunity with which Sahlah had presented her.
“If you've a moment, Mr. Malik, I'd like a word with you as well.”
“Of course.” He gestured to an open doorway at the end of the corridor. Emily could see a conference table and an antique dresser whose shelves held not crockery but, rather, a display of the company's products. It was an impressive arrangement of jars and bottles containing sauces, jellies, mustards, chutneys, butters, and vinaigrettes. The Maliks had come a long way from their first efforts at simple mustard production in the erstwhile bakery on Old Pier Street.
Malik shut the door behind them, but not completely. He left two inches open, perhaps in deference to being alone in the conference room with a woman. He waited until Emily had sat at the table before he did likewise, removing his paper cap and folding it twice into a neat triangle.
“How may I be of help to you, Inspector Barlow?” he asked. “My family and I are anxious to get to the bottom of this tragedy. Please be assured that we have every intention of assisting you in whatever way we can.”
His English was remarkable for a man who'd spent the first twenty-two years of his life in a remote Pakistani village with a single well and neither electricity, indoor plumbing, nor telephones. But Emily knew from the literature he'd provided during his campaign for town council as well as from the door-to-door canvassing he'd done that Akram Malik had studied the language for four years with a private tutor when he'd arrived in England. “The good Mr. Geoffrey Talbert,” he'd called him. “From him I learned to love my adopted country, the richness of its heritage, and its magnificent language.” The claim had played well with a public disinclined to trust foreigners, and it had served Akram's purposes even better: He'd won his seat easily, and there was little doubt that his political aspirations didn't end in the stuffy council room of Balford-le-Nez.