Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(72)

“As his fiancée, I would present him with a token. He would do likewise to me.”

But again there remained the question of where the bracelet was now. Barbara hadn't seen it among Querashi's belongings. She hadn't read in the police report about its being found upon the body. Would someone really stalk a victim and carefully arrange his death for possession of a gold bracelet? People had died for less, to be sure, but in this case … Why was it that the thought seemed so unlikely?

“He didn't have the bracelet,” Barbara said. “It wasn't on his body and it wasn't in his room at the Burnt House. Can you explain why?”

Sahlah used the yellow pen against another name. “I hadn't yet given it to him,” she said. “I would have done on the day of the nikāb.”

“Which is what?”

“When our marriage contract would have been formally signed.”

“So you have the bracelet.”

“No. There was no point to keeping it. When he was killed, I took it …” Here she paused. Her fingers touched the edges of the computer print out, straightening them perfectly. “This will sound absurd and melodramatic, like something out of a nineteenth century novel. When Haytham was killed, I took the bracelet and threw it from the pier. From the end of the pier. I suppose it was a way of saying goodbye.”

“When was this?”

“On Saturday. The day the police told me what had happened to him.”

This begged the question of the receipt, however. “So he didn't know you had a bracelet to give him?”

“He didn't know.”

“Then what was he doing with the receipt?”

“I can't say exactly. But he would have known I was going to give him something. It's traditional.”

“Because of … what did you call it?”

“Lenā-denā. Yes. Because of that. And he wouldn't have wanted his gift to me to be out of balance with my gift to him. That would have been an insult to my family and Haytham was careful about that sort of thing. I imagine”—and here she looked at Barbara for the first time since their discussion had begun—”I imagine that he did some small detective work on his own to discover what I'd purchased for him and where. It wouldn't have been that difficult. Balford's a small town. The shops that carry items worthy of an occasional like a nikāh are easy enough to unearth.”

Her explanation was reasonable, Barbara thought. It made perfect sense. The only problem with it was that neither Rachel Winfield nor her mother had said anything that could come close to supporting this conjecture.

“From the end of the pier,” Barbara said. “What time of day was this?”

“I have no idea. I didn't look at a watch.”

“I don't mean the exact time. But was it morning? Afternoon? Night?”

“Afternoon. The police came to us in the morning.”

“Not at night, then?”

Perhaps she saw too late where Barbara was heading, because her gaze faltered. But she seemed to realise the difficulty she'd be causing herself if she changed her story. She said, “It was the afternoon.”

And a woman dressed as Sahlah dressed would doubtless have been noticed … by someone. The pier was being renovated. That very morning Barbara had herself seen the workmen perched on a building being constructed at the very place Sahlah had claimed she'd disposed of the gold bracelet. So there had to be someone on the pier who could corroborate her story.

Movement in the inner office caught her attention again. It wasn't Emily this time, but two Asian men who'd come into Barbara's line of vision. They walked to a drafting table, where they engaged in an earnest discussion with a third Asian man who was working there. The sight of them reminded Barbara of the name.

“F. Kumhar,” she said to Sahlah. “Does someone of that name work here?”

“Not in the office,” Sahlah said.

“The office?”

“It wouldn't be someone in either accounting or sales. Those are the office positions.” She indicated the windowed door. “But as to the factory itself … that's production. I know the regular employees in production, but not those we bring in for extra work like labelling when a big order goes out.”

“These are part-time people?”

“Yes. I don't always know them.” She gestured to the printout on her desk. “I've never seen the name among these, but as we don't pay the part-time people by computer, I wouldn't have done.”

“Who knows the part-timers, then?”

“The director of production.”

“Haytham Querashi,” Barbara said.

“Yes. And Mr. Armstrong before him.”


WHICH WAS HOW Barbara and Emily crossed paths at Malik's Mustards, with Sahlah leading Barbara back to meet Mr. Armstrong.

If size of office was anything to go by—as it was in New Scotland Yard, where importance of position was measured by the number of windows one had—then Ian Armstrong was occupying a position of some prominence, however impermanently. When Sahlah tapped on the door and a voice called out entrance, Barbara saw a room large enough to accommodate a desk, a round conference table, and six chairs. As it was an interior office, there were no windows. Either the heat or Emily Barlow's questions were making Ian Armstrong's face drip.