Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(94)

Trevor looked up from the spider. Barbara noticed for the first time that he had a tattoo beneath his left ear. It was a spider's web with an unpleasantly realistic-looking crawlie picking its way towards the centre. “Did I kill him because he gave me the sack? That what you're asking?” Trevor worked his fingers over the spider's pipe-cleaner legs, plucking at the covering until it resembled hairs. “I'm not stupid, you know. I seen the Standard today. I know the police are calling this a murder. I figgered you'd be round to poke at me, or someone like you. And here you are. I got a motive, don't I?”

“Why don't you tell me about your relationship with Mr. Querashi, Trevor?”

“I nicked some jars from the labelling and packing room. I worked in shipping, so it was dead easy. Querashi caught me and sacked me, he did. And that's the story of our relationship.” Trevor gave a sarcastic emphasis to the final word.

“Wasn't that risky, pinching jars from the packing room when you didn't work in the packing room?”

“I didn't nick them when anyone was there, did I? Just a jar here and a jar there during breaks and lunch. And just enough to have something to flog in Clacton.”

“You were selling them? Why? Did you need extra money? What for?”

Trevor pushed himself away from the table. He went to the window and thrust back the curtains. Lit by the day's pitiless sun, the room displayed cracked walls and hopelessly shabby furnishings. In spots, the rug on the floor was worn through to its backing. For some reason, a black line had been painted onto it, dividing the sleeping from the working areas.

“My dad can't work. And I got this stupid wish to keep the family off the streets. Charlie helps by doing odd jobs round the neighbourhood, and sometimes Stella gets hired to baby-sit. But there's eight of us here and we get hungry. So Mum and I sell what we can at the market square in Clacton.”

“And the jars from Malik's became part of what you could sell.”

“Tha's right. Just part of the lot and at a cut-rate price. I don't see that it did any harm anyways. It's not like Mr. Malik sells his jellies and stuffs round here. Just to posh shops and snooty hotels and restaurants.”

“So you were actually doing the consumer a favour?”

“Maybe I was.” He leaned his bum against the window sill and played with the cigarette in his mouth, turning it with his thumb and index finger. The window was wide open, but they may as well have been having their conversation inside an oven. “It seemed safe enough to flog them in Clacton anyways. I didn't expect Querashi to turn up there.”

“So you were caught trying to sell the jars in the market square? Querashi caught you there?”

“Right. Big as life, he was. ‘Course, he didn't expect to see me in Clacton any more'n I expected to see him there. And considering what he was up to, I figgered he'd turn an eye away from my little character lapse and forget all about it. Specially since he was having a little character lapse of his own.”

Barbara's fingertips tingled at this remark, the way they always tingled when a new direction was unpredictably unveiled. But she also felt wary. Trevor was watching her closely to gauge her reaction to the titbit he'd just dropped. And the very closeness of his scrutiny suggested he'd had more than this single run-in with the police. Most people were at least discomposed when answering official questions. But Trevor seemed completely at ease, as if he'd known in advance what she'd ask and what he'd say in reply.

“Where were you on the night that Mr. Querashi died, Trevor?”

A flicker in his eye told her she'd disappointed him in not nosing after the scent of Querashi's “little lapse of character.” That was good, she thought. Suspects weren't supposed to be the ones directing the investigation.

“At work,” Trevor said. “Clean-up on the pier. You c'n ask Mr. Shaw if you don't believe me.”

“I have done. Mr. Shaw says you report for work at half past eleven. Is that what you did on Friday night? D'you have a time card there, by the way?”

“I punched it when I always punch in.”

“At half past eleven?”

“Somewheres thereabouts, yeah. And I didn't leave, if you want to know. I work with a crew of blokes and they'll tell you that I didn't leave once all night.”

“What about before half past eleven?” Barbara asked him.

“What about it?”

“Where were you then?”

“When?”

“Before half past eleven, Trevor.”

“What time?”

“Just account for your movements, please.”

He took a final draw on his cigarette before he flipped it out of the window and into the street below. His forefinger took the cigarette's place. He gnawed at it thoughtfully before he replied. “I was home till nine. Then I went out.”

“Out where?”

“Nowheres special.” He spit a sliver of fingernail to the floor. He examined his handiwork as he continued. “I got this girl I sort of see off and on. I was with her.”

“She'll corroborate?”

“Huh?”

“She'll confirm that you were with her on Friday night?”

“Sure. But it's not like she was a date or anything. She's not my girlfriend. We just get together now and again. We talk. Have a smoke. See what's what with the world.”