Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(71)

She looked in her rear view mirror to see how Emily's make-up job on her face was holding up to its exposure to sweat. She expected to see her countenance dissolving a la one of Dr. Jekyll's transmogrifications.

But both foundation and blusher were where they were supposed to be. Perhaps, after all, there was something to be said for playing about with pots of colour each morning in the quest for devastating beauty.

Barbara made her way back over the uneven lane to Malik's Mustards & Assorted Accompaniments. A stop at the Malik residence had allowed her to glean that Sahlah worked at the factory with her father and brother. This information had been passed on by a dowdy, plump woman with one child on her hip, another by the hand, a wandering eye, and a feathery but nonetheless noticeable growth of black hair on her upper lip. She'd looked at Barbara's warrant card and said, “It's Sahlah you want, then? Our little Sahlah? Oh my goodness, whatever has she done that someone from the police should want to talk to her?” But there was a certain delight to her questions, the sort of excitement experienced by a woman who had either little diversion in her life or an axe to grind with her sister-in-law. She'd informed Barbara of their relationship up front, via the announcement that she was the wife of Muhannad, the elder child and the only son of the household. And these—she indicated the children with pride—were the sons of Muhannad. And soon—and here she nodded meaningfully in the direction of her stomach—would be a third son, a third in three years. A third son for Muhannad Malik.

Yadda, yadda, yadda, Barbara thought. She decided that the woman needed a hobby if this was the extent of her conversation. She'd said, “I need a word with Sahlah, if you'll fetch her for me.”

But that wasn't possible. Sahlah was at the factory. “It's always best to keep busy when one's heart is broken, don't you agree?” the woman pronounced. But once again, there was an enjoyment in her expression that was at odds with the statement. She gave Barbara the creeps.

So Barbara took herself off to Malik's Mustards, and as she approached the brick structure now, she removed the jewellery receipt from her bag and slipped it into the pocket of her trousers.

She swung inside the factory, where the air was stale and a potted fern next to the reception desk appeared to be about to give up the ghost. A young woman sat at a computer terminal, looking remarkably cool despite the fact that she was fully clothed from head to foot, her arms covered to the wrists and her dark hair mostly hidden beneath a traditional shawl. This was long hair, though, and a thick braid of it hung down the woman's back to her waist.

There was a name plate on her desk, so Barbara knew she had to look no further for Sahlah Malik. She produced her warrant card and introduced herself. “Could I have a word?”

The girl looked towards a door whose half-glass construction revealed some sort of interior office. “With me?”

“You're Sahlah Malik, aren't you?”

“Yes, but I've spoken to the police already if this is about Haytham. I spoke to them the very first day.” On her desk there was a long computer print out which appeared to list names. She took a yellow felt pen from the desk's centre drawer and began highlighting some names and crossing others out with a pencil.

“Did you tell them about the bracelet, then?” Barbara asked her.

She didn't look up from the print out, although Barbara saw her eyebrows tighten momentarily. It could have been an expression of concentration had the common activity of highlighting names required concentration. On the other hand, it could have been confusion. “Bracelet?” she asked.

“A piece by a bloke called Aloysius Kennedy. Gold. Engraved with the words ‘Life begins now.’ Is this sounding familiar?”

“I don't understand the nature of your question,” the girl said. “What has a gold bracelet to do with Haytham's death?”

“I don't know,” Barbara said. “P'rhaps nothing. I thought you might be able to tell me. This”—she set the receipt on the desk—”was among his things. Locked up among his things, by the way. Can you think why? Or what it was doing in his possession in the first place?”

Sahlah capped the yellow pen and set the pencil to one side before she took the receipt. She had lovely hands, Barbara noted, with fingers that were slender and nails that were clipped to the tips of her fingers but smooth and buffed-looking. She wore no rings.

Barbara waited for her to respond. In her peripheral vision she saw movement in the inner office and looked that way. In a corridor at the far end, Emily Barlow was speaking with a middle-aged Pakistani man wearing what looked like a chef's outfit. Akram Malik? Barbara wondered. He looked old enough and grave enough for the part. She gave her attention back to Sahlah.

“I don't know,” Sahlah said. “I don't know why he had it.” She spoke to the receipt rather than to Barbara. “Perhaps he was seeking a way to reciprocate and this seemed best to him. Haytham was a very good man. A very kind man. It wouldn't have been unlike him to attempt to discover the cost of something so that he could make an equal offering in return.”

“Sorry?”

“Lenā-denā” Sahlah said. “The giving of gifts. It's part of the way we establish our relationships.”

“The gold bracelet was a gift for him? From you? For Mr. Querashi?”