Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(70)

“He knew everyone in the factory?”

“He had to do. He was the factory director.”

Which meant interviews with everyone, Emily thought, because everyone had enemies, no matter what Akram Malik believed. The trick was to smoke them out. Mentally, she assigned two DCs to the task. They could use this conference room. They would be discreet. She said, “And outside the factory? Who else did Mr. Querashi know?”

Akram considered this. “So few. But there was the Gentlemen's Cooperative. I suggested he join, and he did so at once.”

Emily knew about the Gentlemen's Cooperative. It had featured predominantly in the portrait that Akram Malik's campaign literature had painted of him. It was a social club of the town's businessmen, which Akram Malik had organised shortly after opening his factory. They met weekly for lunch and monthly for dinner, and their purpose was to foster good will, cooperation in commerce, and commitment to the growth of the town and the well-being of its citizens. The point was to discover and encourage commonalities among members, its founder having the philosophy that men at work on a mutual goal are men who live in harmony together. It was interesting, Emily realised, to note the difference between the Gentlemen's Cooperative which Akram Malik had founded and Jum'a which had been founded by his son. She wondered how much at odds the two men were and if this condition extended to the future son-in-law.

“Is your son a member of this group as well?” she asked curiously.

“Muhannad's attendance is not what I would wish,” Malik said. “But he is indeed a member.”

“Less devoted to the cause than Mr. Querashi?”

Malik's face was grave. “You're seeking to connect my son to Mr. Querashi's death, aren't you?”

“How did your son feel about this arranged marriage?” she countered.

For a moment, Akram Malik's face registered a look that suggested he would answer no further questions about his son unless and until he was told what Emily had in mind when she asked them. But he relented. “As Muhannad's own marriage was arranged, he had no difficulty with his sister's being likewise.” He stirred in his chair. “My son, Inspector, has not been the easiest child to rear. He has, I believe, been too much influenced by Western culture. And perhaps one sees this in his behaviour in a way that makes him difficult to understand. But he respects his roots and takes great pride in his blood. He is a man of his people.”

Emily had heard that phrase invoked often enough about IRA hooligans and other wild-eyed political extremists. While it was true that Muhannad's political activism in the town supported his father's contention, the existence of Jum'a suggested that what could be identified as the younger man's pride in his blood could also be a identified as an inclination to cross the line and an ability to manipulate people by playing upon their ignorance and fear. Still, the thought of Jum'a prompted her to ask, “Did Mr. Querashi also belong to your son's fraternity, Mr. Malik?”

“Fraternity?”

“You know about Jum'a, don't you? Was Haytham Querashi part of it?”

“That I would not know.” He unfolded his cap with the same care he'd used to fold it, and he gave all his attention to his fingers’ movement on the thin paper. “Muhannad will be able to tell you that.” He frowned, then, and finally looked up. “But I must confess that the direction you've taken with these questions troubles me. It makes me wonder if my son—who is admittedly far too quick to anger and to allegation when it comes to matters of race—is correct in assuming you will turn a blind eye to the possibility of hate and ignorance being the sole motives behind this crime.”

“I'm not blind to that at all,” Emily said. “Racist crimes are global problems, and I'd be a fool to deny it. But if hate and ignorance are behind Querashi's murder, they were directed at a specific target and not merely any Asian that the killer came across on the street. We need to know Mr. Querashi's contacts in both communities. It's the only way we'll track down his killer. The Gentlemen's Cooperative represents one view of life in Balford-le-Nez. Jum'a, you'll agree, represents another.” She stood. “If you'll take me to Mr. Armstrong …?”

Akram Malik gazed upon her thoughtfully. Under his scrutiny Emily became conscious of the differences between them, not just the standard male-female differences, but the cultural differences that would always define them. They were present in her manner of dress: thin tank-top, grey trousers, no covering on her head. They were present in the freedom afforded her: a woman on her own in a vast world that was hers for the taking. They were present in position she held: the dominant figure in a team comprising mostly men. She and Akram Malik—despite his professed love of the country he'd adopted—may as well have been from different universes.

He got to his feet. “This way,” he said.


BARBARA JOUNCED ALONG the cratered lane and found a place to park her Mini at the far side of a prefabricated building with a sign that announced its business ambiguously as Hegarty's Adult Distractions. She noted the air conditioner set into one of its front windows, and she gave some moments’ consideration to the idea of staggering inside and planting herself in front of it. That would be an adult distraction well worth the effort, she thought.

The heat on the coast was beginning to feel worse than the heat in London, which was borderline inconceivable. If England was going to turn into a tropical environment as part of the global warming that scientists had been predicting for years, Barbara decided that it would be nice to have some of the accoutrements of the tropics as well. A white-jacketed waiter carrying a tray of Singapore slings wouldn't have gone down badly at all.