In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(227)

The velvet heart sat in the centre, where Barbara had placed it when Hadiyyah had presented it to her on Sunday evening. There it waited for her reflections upon it, a self-satisfied little valentine of sorts, edged with white lace and filled with implication. Barbara had avoided thinking about it for more than thirty-six hours, and since she'd not seen either Hadiyyah or her father during that time, she'd been able to skip mentioning it in all conversations as well. But she couldn't exactly do that forever. Good manners, if nothing else, demanded that she make some sort of remark to Azhar the next time she saw him.

What would it be? After all, he was a married man. True, he wasn't living with his wife. True, the woman he'd been living with since he'd been living with his wife was not his wife. True, that woman had apparently done a permanent runner, leaving behind a charming eight-year-old girl and a sombre—albeit thoughtful and kind—thirty-five-year-old man in need of adult female companionship. However, none of that went any distance towards making the situation into something that could be addressed easily under the time-honoured rules of etiquette. Not that Barbara had ever bothered to concern herself with the time-honoured rules of etiquette. But that was because she'd never really been in a spot where rules applied. Not man-woman rules, that is. And not man-woman-child rules. And certainly not man-wife-nonwife-child-additionalwoman rules. But still, when she next saw Azhar, she needed to be prepared. She needed to have something quick, useful, direct, meaningful, casual, and reasonable to say. And it had to spring from her tongue spontaneously, as if the thought that prompted it had come upon her that instant.

So … What would it be? Thanks awfully much, old bean … just what are your intentions?. … How sweet of you to think of me.

Bloody hell, Barbara thought, and crammed the rest of her Pop-Tart into her mouth. Human relationships were murder.

A sharp knock sounded once on her door. Barbara started and looked at her watch. It was far too early for religious zealots to be out on the streets, and the British Gas meter reader had been the social highlight of her previous week. So who … ?

Chewing, she got to her feet. She opened the door. Azhar was standing there.

She blinked at him and wished she'd taken her rehearsal of grateful remarks more seriously. She said, “Hullo. Er … Morning.”

He said, “You returned quite late last night, Barbara.”

“Well … yeah. The case was tied up. I mean, it was tied up as much as these things can be tied up when we make an arrest. Which is to say the materials have to be drawn together still, in order to give them to the Crown Prosecutors. But as for the actual investigation—” She forced herself to stop. “Yeah. We made an arrest.”

He nodded, his expression serious.“This is good news.”

“Good news. Yes.”

He looked beyond her. She wondered if he was trying to suss out whether she'd celebrated the investigation's conclusion with a chorus line of dancing Greek boys who were still lounging somewhere within. But then she remembered her manners and said, “Oh. Come in. Coffee? I've only got instant, I'm afraid,” and she added, “this morning,” as if every other day she stood in the kitchen furiously grinding beans.

He said no, he couldn't stay long. Just a moment, in fact, because his daughter was dressing and he would be needed to plait her hair.

“Right,” Barbara said. “But you don't mind if I … ?” And she indicated the electric kettle, using her Prince of Wales mug to do so.

“No. Of course. I have interrupted your breakfast.”

“Such as it is,” Barbara admitted.

“I would have waited until a time more convenient, but I found this morning that I could no longer do so.”

“Ah.” Barbara went to the kettle and switched it on, wondering about his gravity and what it portended. While it was true that he'd been grave at their every meeting all summer, there was something added to his gravity this morning, a way of looking at her that made her wonder if she had Pop-Tart frosting on her face somewhere. “Well, have a seat if you'd like. And there're fags on the table. You're sure about the coffee?”

“Perfectly. Yes.” But he helped himself to one of her cigarettes and watched her in silence as she made her second cup of coffee. It was only when she joined him at the table—the velvet heart like an unmade declaration between them—that he spoke again. “Barbara, this is difficult for me. I am uncertain how to begin.”

She slurped her coffee and tried to look encouraging.

Azhar restlessly reached for the velvet heart. “Essex.”

“Essex,” Barbara repeated helpfully.

“Hadiyyah and I were at the seaside on Sunday. In Essex. As you know,” he reminded her.

“Yeah. Right.” Now was the moment to say Thanks for the heart, but it wouldn't come out. “Hadiyyah told me what a good time you had. She mentioned you dropped in at the Burnt House Hotel as well.”

“She dropped in,” he clarified. “That is to say that I took her there to wait with the good Mrs. Porter—you remember her I believe—”

Barbara nodded. Sitting behind her zimmer frame, Mrs. Porter had looked after Hadiyyah while her father acted as liaison between the police and a small but restless Pakistani community during the course of a murder enquiry. “Right,” she said. “I remember Mrs. Porter. Nice of you to go to see her.”