Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(73)

Armstrong was saying, “… no real necessity for taking Mikey to the doctor last Friday. That's my son's name, by the way. Mikey.”

“Was he running a fever?” Emily nodded as Barbara slipped into the room. Sahlah pulled the door shut and departed.

“Yes, but children do run high temperature, don't they?” Armstrong's eyes flicked to Barbara before returning to Emily. He didn't seem to notice the perspiration that was dribbling from his forehead, down one cheek.

For her part, Emily looked as if freon rather than blood were coursing through her veins. Coolly, she sat at the conference table with a small tape player before her, recording Ian Armstrong's answers.

“One can't rush a child to the casualty ward simply because his forehead's hot,” Armstrong explained. “Besides, the boy's had so many ear aches that we know what to do at this point. We have drops. We use heat. He soon settles after that.”

“Can anyone other than your wife confirm this? Did you phone your in-laws looking for advice on Friday? What about your own parents? A neighbour? Or a friend?”

His expression clouded. “I … If you'll give me a moment to think …”

“Take your time, Mr. Armstrong,” Emily said. “We want to be accurate.”

“It's just that I've never been involved in anything like this, and I'm feeling a bit jittery. If you know what I mean.”

“Indeed,” Emily said.

As the DCI waited for the man's reply to her question, Barbara took note of the office. It was functional enough. Product posters hung framed on the walls. The desk was serviceable steel as were the filing cabinets and the shelves. The table and chairs were relatively new but inexpensive-looking. The only items of note were on Armstrong's desk. These were framed photographs, and there were three of them. Barbara sidled round to have a look. A sour-looking woman with blonde hair curled in a retro fashion from the early sixties was depicted in one, a child speaking earnestly to Father Christmas was in another, and the third displayed the happy family together in a stair-step arrangement with child on mother's lap and father standing behind them with hands on mother's shoulders. Armstrong looked rather startled in this photograph, as if he'd come to his position of paterfamilias quite by accident and much to his surprise.

He was certainly settling in at the factory, for a temporary employee. Barbara could imagine him bustling in that very morning with his photos stowed inside a briefcase, dusting them off with a handkerchief and humming happily as he set them in position prior to getting down to work.

It seemed a fantasy at odds with his current behaviour, however. He kept glancing anxiously at Barbara as if with the concern that she was about to go through his desk. Emily finally introduced them. Armstrong said, “Oh. Another …?” and then hastily swallowed whatever else he had in mind. Finally he said, “My in-laws.” And then he went on with growing strength. “I can't be completely accurate about the time, but I'm certain I spoke to them on Friday night. They knew Mikey was ailing, and they phoned us.” He smiled. “I'd forgotten because you asked if I'd phoned them and it was just the opposite.”

“The approximate time?” Emily asked.

“When they phoned? It would have been sometime after the news. On ITV.”

Which came on at ten o'clock, Barbara thought. She watched the man through narrowed eyes and wondered how much of this he was manufacturing on the spot and how quickly he'd pick up the phone to get his in-laws’ cooperation with the tale once she and Emily left his office.

While Barbara considered this proposition, Emily switched gears. She moved on to Haytham Querashi and Armstrong's relationship with the murdered man. It was, according to the temporary production manager, a fine relationship, an excellent relationship; they were practically blood brothers to hear Armstrong describe it.

“And he didn't have any enemies here at the factory, as far as I could tell,” Armstrong concluded. “Indeed, if the truth be told, the factory workers were delighted to have him.”

“And not sorry to see you leave?” Emily asked.

“I suppose that would be the case,” Armstrong admitted. “The majority of our workers are Asian, and they'd prefer one of their own overseeing them, far more than an Englishman. This isn't unnatural when you think of it, is it?”

He looked from Emily to Barbara, as if waiting for one of them to reassure him. When neither woman did, he went back to his previous thought, “So there was no one, really. If you're looking for a motive among the workers here, I can't say how you'll be able to find one. I've only been back a few hours, and from what I've been able to tell, there's been nothing but a true sense of mourning among his people.”

“What about someone called Kumhar?” Barbara asked. She joined Emily and Armstrong at the table.

“Kumhar?” Armstrong frowned.

“F. Kumhar. Are you familiar with the name?”

“Not at all. Is it someone who works here? Because I know everyone in the factory. … Well, one has to because of the job. And unless it's someone hired during Mr. Querashi's tenure, someone whom I've yet to meet …”

“Miss Malik seems to feel it would be someone brought in part time when work gets heavy. She mentioned special labelling needs.”