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

She pressed the first button. Here was the Princess Royal, looking slightly less equine than usual as she inspected a Caribbean hospital for disadvantaged children. Boring. Here was a documentary on Nelson Mandela. Another snore. She picked up the pace and surfed through an Orson Welles film, a Prince Valiant cartoon, two chat shows, and a golf tournament.

And then her attention was rivetted to the sight of a phalanx of police constables facing down a mass of dark-skinned protestors. She thought she was about to settle in for a good wallow with either Tennison or Morse when a red band appeared at the bottom of the screen with the word LIVE superimposed on it. A breaking news story, she realised. She watched it curiously.

She told herself it was no different than an archibishop's attention being drawn to a story about Canterbury Cathedral. She was, after all, a cop. Still, she felt a twinge of guilt—she was supposed to be on holiday, wasn't she?—as she avidly watched the story unfold.

Which is when she saw ESSEX printed on the screen. Which is when she twigged that the dark-skinned faces below the protest signs were Asian. Which is when she upped the volume on the television.

“—body was found yesterday morning, apparently in a pillbox on the beach,” the young reporter was saying. She appeared to be one or two leagues out of her depth, because as she spoke, she smoothed her carefully coiffed blonde hair into place and cast apprehensive glances at the swarm of people behind her, as if afraid they might seek to recoif her without her permission. She put a hand to her ear to block out the noise.

“Now! Now!” the protestors were shouting. Their signs—crudely lettered—called for JUSTICE AT ONCE! and ACTION! and THE REAL TRUTH!

“What began as a very special town council meeting ostensibly called to discuss redevelopment issues,” Blondie recited into her microphone, “disintegrated into what you see behind me now. I've managed to make contact with the protest leader, and—” Blondie was jostled to one side by a burly constable. The picture veered crazily as the camera operator apparently lost his footing.

Angry voices shouted. A bottle soared in the air. A chunk of concrete followed. The phalanx of police constables raised their protective Plexiglas shields.

“Holy shit,” Barbara murmured. What the hell was happening?

The blonde reporter and the cameraman regained their footing. Blondie pulled a man into the camera's range. He was a muscular Asian somewhere in his twenties, long hair escaping from a ponytail, one sleeve ripped away from his shirt. He shouted over his shoulder, “Get away from him, damn you!” before turning to the reporter.

She said, “I'm standing here with Muhannad Malik, who—”

“We've no bloody intention of putting up with evasions, distortions, and outright lies,” the man broke in, speaking into the microphone. “The time has come for our people to demand equal treatment under the law. If the police won't see this death for what it is—a hate crime and an out-and-out murder—then we intend to seek justice in our own way. We have the power, and we have the means.” He swung away from the microphone and used a loud hailer to shout to the people in the crowd. “We have the power! We have the means!”

They roared. They surged forward. The camera swung wildly and flickered. The reporter said, “Peter, we need to get to safer ground,” and the picture switched to the station's news studio.

Barbara recognised the grave-faced newsreader at the pinewood desk. Peter Somebody. She'd always loathed him. She loathed all men with sculptured hair.

“To recap on the situation in Essex,” he said. And he did just that, as Barbara lit another cigarette.

The body of a man, Peter explained, had been discovered in a pillbox on the beach in Balford-le-Nez by an early morning walker. So far, the victim had been identified as one Haytham Querashi, recently arrived from Karachi, Pakistan, to wed the daughter of a wealthy local businessman. The town's small but growing Pakistani community were calling the death a racially motivated crime—hence, nothing short of a murder—but the police had yet to declare what sort of investigation they were pursuing.

Pakistani, Barbara thought. Pakistani. Again she heard Azhar say, “… a minor upheaval among my relations.” Yes. Right. Among his Pakistani relations. Holy shit.

She looked back at the television, where Peter was continuing to drone on, but she didn't hear him. What she heard was the tumble of her own thoughts.

They told her that having a substantial Pakistani community outside of a metropolitan area was such an anomaly in England that for there to be two such communities along the coast in Essex would be wildly coincidental. With Azhar's own words telling her that he was on his way to Essex, with his departure preceding this newsflash of what was clearly a riot-in-the-making, with Azhar heading off to deal with “a minor upheaval” within his family … There was a limit to Barbara's toleration for coincidence. Taymullah Azhar was on his way to Balford-le-Nez.

He planned, he'd said, to offer his “expertise in these matters.” But what expertise? Brick throwing? Riot planning? Or did he expect to get involved in an investigation by the local police? Did he hope for access to the forensic lab? Or, more ominous, did he intend to become involved in the sort of community activism she'd just witnessed on the television, the sort that invariably led to big violence, arrest, and a stretch in the nick?

“Damn,” Barbara muttered. What in God's name was the man thinking? And what in bloody hell was he doing, taking a very special eight-year-old girl along for the ride?