Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(7)

“Dad and I are going away, you see. It's just for a few days. We're leaving straightaway. But since I rang and invited you out for an ice cream, I thought I should tell you that we couldn't go till later. In case you rang me back. That's why I'm here.”

“Ah. Sure.” Barbara retrieved her cigarette from the ashtray and eased into one of the table's two accompanying chairs. She'd not yet opened yesterday's post, merely moving it on top of an old Daily Mail, and she saw that at the head of the pile was an envelope marked: Looking for Love? Aren't we all, she thought sardonically, and screwed the fag into her mouth.

“That's okay, isn't it?” Hadiyyah asked anxiously. “Dad said it was okay for me to come tell you. I didn't want you to think I'd invite you somewhere and then not be round to see did you want to go. That would be mean, wouldn't it?”

A little line appeared between Hadiyyah's heavy black eyebrows. Barbara observed the weight of worry settle on her small shoulders, and she reflected on the way that life moulds people to be who they are. No eight-year-old girl with her hair still in plaits should have to trouble herself so much about others.

“It's more than okay,” Barbara said. “But I plan to hold you to the invitation. Where strawberry ice cream's concerned, I draw the line at letting friends off the hook.”

Hadiyyah's face brightened. She gave a little skip. “We'll go when Dad and I get back, Barbara. We're going away for a few days. Just a few days. Dad and I. Together. Did I already say?”

“You did.”

“I didn't know about it when I rang you, see. Only what happened is that Dad got a phone call and he said ‘What? What? When did this occur?’ and the next thing I knew, he said we were going to the sea. Imagine, Barbara.” She clasped her hands to her bony little chest. “I've never been to the sea. Have you?”

The sea? Barbara thought. Oh yes indeed. Mildewed beach huts and suntan lotion. Donning damp swim suits with scratchy crotches. She'd spent every childhood summer holiday at the sea, trying for a tan and managing only a mixture of peeling skin and freckles.

“Not recently,” Barbara said.

Hadiyyah bounced to her. “Why don't you come? With me and Dad? Why don't you come? It'd be such fun!”

“I don't really think—”

“Oh it would, it would. We could make castles in the sand and swim in the water. We could play catch. We could run on the beach. If we take a kite, we could even—”

“Hadiyyah. Have you managed to say what you've come to say?”

Hadiyyah stilled herself at once and turned to the voice at the door. Her father stood there, watching her gravely.

“You said you would require only one minute,” he observed. “And there is a point at which a brief visit to a friend becomes an intrusion upon her hospitality.”

“She's not bothering me,” Barbara said.

Taymullah Azhar appeared to observe her—rather than just notice her presence—for the first time. His slender shoulders adjusted, the only indication of his surprise. “What's happened to you, Barbara?” he asked quietly. “Have you been in an accident?”

“Barbara broke her nose,” Hadiyyah informed him, going to her father's side. His arm went round her, his hand curved at her shoulder. “And three of her ribs. She's got bandages all up and all down, Dad. I told her she should come with us to the sea. It'd be good for her. Don't you think?”

Azhar's face shuttered immediately at this suggestion. Barbara said quickly, “A nice invitation, Hadiyyah. But my sea-going days are completely kaput.” And to the girl's father, “A sudden trip?”

“He got a phone call,” Hadiyyah began.

Azhar interposed. “Hadiyyah, have you said goodbye to your friend?”

“I told her how I didn't know we were going till you came in and said that—”

Barbara saw Azhar's hand tighten on his daughter's shoulder. “You've left your suitcase open on your bed,” he told her. “Go and put it in the car at once.”

Hadiyyah lowered her head obediently. She said, “Bye, Barbara,” and scooted through the door. Her father nodded at Barbara and began to follow.

“Azhar,” Barbara said. And when he stopped and turned back to her, “Want a fag before you go?” She held the packet out towards him and met his eyes square on. “One for the road?”

She watched him weigh the pros and cons of remaining another three minutes. She wouldn't have attempted to detain him had he not seemed so anxious to keep his daughter quiet about their journey. Suddenly Barbara's curiosity was piqued, and she sought a way to satisfy it. When he didn't answer, she decided that a prod was in order. She said, “Heard anything from Canada?” as a form of coercion. But she hated herself the moment she'd said it. Hadiyyah's mother had been on holiday in Ontario for the eight weeks that Barbara had been acquainted with the child and her father. And daily Hadiyyah had scoured the post for cards and letters—and a birthday present—that never came. “Sorry,” Barbara said. “That was rotten of me.”

Azhar's face was what it always was: the most unreadable of any man's in Barbara's acquaintance. And he had no compunction about letting a silence hang between them. Barbara bore it as long as she could before she said, “Azhar, I apologised. I was out of line. I'm always out of line. I do out of line better than anything else. Here. Have a fag. The sea will still be there if you leave five minutes later than you planned.”