MILY BARLOW WAS PLUGGING THE FLEX OF AN oscillating fan into a socket in her office when Barbara arrived. The DCI was on her hands and knees beneath a table on which a computer terminal sat. The monitor of this terminal was glowing with a format that Barbara recognised even from the doorway: It was HOLMES, the program that systematised criminal investigations throughout the country.
The office was already like a steam bath, despite the fact that its single window had been opened to its widest capacity. And three empty Evian bottles told the tale of what Emily had been doing so far to beat the heat.
“The damn building didn't even so much as cool off during the night,” Emily told Barbara as she crawled out from the beneath the table and punched the button on the fan's highest setting. Nothing happened. “What the … Jesus!” Emily went to the door and shouted. “Billy, I thought you said this goddamn thing worked!”
A man's disembodied voice called back. “I said, ‘Give it a try,’ guv. I didn't make any promises.”
“Brilliant.” Emily stalked back to the machine. She punched the off button, then each of the settings in succession. She drove her fist onto the plastic housing of the motor. Finally, the fan blades began a listless rotation. They didn't so much create a breeze as they lethargically massaged what rank air was in the room.
Emily shook her head in disgust, slapped the dust from the knees of her grey cotton trousers, and said, “What've we got?” with a nod towards Barbara's hand.
“Telephone messages received by Querashi over the last six weeks. I had them off Basil Treves this morning.”
“Anything we can use?”
“There's quite a stack. I've only gone through the first third.”
“Christ. We could've got to them two days ago if Ferguson had been remotely cooperative and marginally less interested in sacking me. Give them here, then.” Emily took the collection of messages from her and shouted, “Belinda Warner!” in the direction of the corridor. The WPC came running. Her uniform blouse was already damp from the heat, and her hair hung limply across her forehead. Emily introduced her briskly. She told her to see to the messages—”Organise, collate, log, and report back,”—and then turned back to Barbara. She gave her fellow officer a closer scrutiny and said, “Good God. Disaster. Come with me.”
She barrelled down the narrow stairway, pausing on the landing to shove a window open more fully. Barbara followed her. In the back of the rambling Victorian building, what had probably once been a dining or sitting room had been converted to a combination of workout and locker room. A fitness centre was set up in the middle—complete with exercise bicycle, rowing machine, and a sophisticated four-position weights module. Lockers lined one wall, with two showers, three wash basins, and a mirror standing opposite. A beefy red-head in a complete sweat suit worked the rowing machine, looking like a potential candidate for cardiac care. Otherwise the room was empty.
“Frank,” Emily barked, “you're overdoing it.”
“Got to lose two stone before the wedding,” he panted.
“So? Have some discipline about you at mealtimes. Cut out the fish and chips.”
“Can't do that, guv.” He increased his pace. “It's Marsha's cooking. I can't offend her.”
“She'll be more than offended if you drop dead before she gets you to the altar,” Emily shot back and marched to one of the lockers. She spun through its combination lock, pulled out a small sponge bag, and led the way to the wash basin.
Barbara followed uneasily. She had an idea what was going to transpire, and she didn't much like it. She said, “Em, I don't think—”
“That's clear enough,” Emily retorted. She unzipped the bag and she rummaged through it. On the edge of the basin she placed a bottle of liquid make-up foundation, two thin palm-sized cases, and a set of brushes.
“You can't be wanting to—”
“Look. Just look.” Emily turned Barbara to the mirror. “You look like hell on a January morning.”
“How d'you expect me to look? A bloke beat me up. My nose was smashed. I broke three ribs.”
“And I'm sorry about it,” Emily said. “Getting beaten up couldn't have happened to anyone who deserved it less. But it's no excuse, Barb. If you're going to work for me, then you're going to have to appear at least halfway the part.”
“Em. Bloody hell. I never wear this goop.”
“Chalk it up to another life experience. Here. Face me.” And when Barbara hesitated, ready to protest again: “You're not meeting with the Asians looking like that. This is an order, Sergeant.”
Barbara felt like minced beef being made into meatballs, but she submitted herself to Emily's ministrations. The DCI made a quick job of it, purposefully wielding sponges and brushes, deftly applying colour. The entire procedure took less than ten minutes, and when she was finished, Emily stood back and studied her handiwork with a critical eye.
“You'll do,” she said. “But that hair, Barb. It's beyond redemption. It looks like you cut it yourself in the shower.”
“Well … yeah,” Barbara said. “I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Emily raised her eyes heavenward but made no comment. She repacked her cosmetics. Barbara took the opportunity to examine her own appearance.
“Not bad,” she said. The bruises were still there, but they were greatly reduced in colour. And her eyes—which she generally thought of as pig-like—actually appeared an acceptable size. Emily was right: Her hair was a disaster. But otherwise, she wouldn't terrify innocent maidens and toddlers. “Where'd you get that stuff?” she said in reference to Emily's make-up.
“Boots,” the DCI replied. “You have heard of Boots, I suppose? Come on. I'm expecting a report on the postmortem from my man who stood in on it. And I'm hoping for something from forensic as well.”
The report was in. It lay in the centre of Emily's desk, its pages rustling in desultory fashion from the fan's efforts with the stifling air. Emily scooped it up and scanned the paperwork as she ran her fingers back through her hair. The report had come in with another set of photographs. Barbara retrieved these.
They depicted the corpse, disrobed and prior to dissection. Barbara saw that the beating he'd taken was a thorough one. There was bruising evident on his chest and his shoulders as well as the bruising she'd seen in the earlier photographs of his face. The discolourations were of an uneven nature, however. And neither their sizes nor their shapes suggested contact from someone's fists.
As Emily continued to read, Barbara ruminated. A weapon must have been used on Querashi. But if so, what sort? While the bruising didn't appear consistent with marks made by flailing fists, it also didn't appear consistent, full stop. One mark might have been made by a tyre iron, another by a board, a third by the back of a shovel, a fourth by the heel of a boot. All of which suggested an ambush, more than one assailant, and mortal combat.
“Em,” she said contemplatively, “for him to look this bad, there'd've been signs all over the pillbox—inside and out—that he'd been in a fight. What did your crime scene team pick up in there? Were there blood splatters? Maybe something used to whack him?”
Emily looked up from the report. “Nothing. Not a sprat.”
“What about something on the top of the Nez? Bushes tramped down? Ground stomped over?”
“Nothing there either.”
“Then on the beach?”
“There might have been something in the sand initially. But the tide took care of that.”
Was it really possible that mortal combat could occur without leaving its traces anywhere but on the body? And even if combat had occurred on the beach itself, how practical was it to assume that every indication of an ambush had been washed away with the tide? Barbara wondered about these questions as she looked at the condition of the corpse. It was certainly bruised, but the inconsistency of the bruises directed her thinking to another possibility.
She picked up a close shot of Querashi's bare leg and then an enlargement of one section of that leg. A ruler marked the area of flesh that the pathologist wished the police to note. Here, on the shin, was a hair's-width cut.
In comparison with the contusions and scrapes on the upper part of his body, a two-inch cut on his leg seemed small potatoes. But taken in conjunction with what she and Emily already knew about the crime scene, the cut provided an intriguing detail for them to consider.
Emily slapped the report onto her desk. “Not much that we didn't already know. The broken neck killed him. Preliminarily, there's nothing obvious in the blood. He says to give the clothes a going-over, though. He recommends having a close look at the trousers.”
Emily went behind her desk and punched a number into the phone. She waited, rubbing the back of her neck with a limp washing flannel that she dug from her pocket. She muttered, “This heat,” and then after a moment she said, “DCI Barlow here. Is that Roger?” into the receiver. “Hmm. Yes. Bloody miserable. But at least you've got air conditioning where you are. Try it over here for some real suffering.” She balled up the flannel and shoved it away. “Listen, have you got something for me? … On the Nez killing, Roger. … You do recall it? … I know what you said, but we're being advised by the Home Office bone man to give his clothes a going-over … What? Come on, Rog. Dig it out for me, won't you? … I understand, but I'd rather not wait for the report to be typed.” She rolled her eyes. “Roger … Roger … damn it. Would you just get the bleeding information for me?” She covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Barbara. “Prima donnas, this lot. You'd think they'd been trained by Joseph Bell.”
She went back to listening, reaching for a notebook on which she began to scribble. She interrupted twice, once to ask how long, once to ask if there was a way to tell how recently the damage had been done. She rang off with a brusque “Thanks, Rog,” telling Barbara, “One of the trouser legs had a rip in it.”
“What sort of rip? Where?”
“Five inches from the bottom. A straightforward tear. It was fresh, he said, because the threads were broken but they weren't worn or smooth the way you'd expect if the trousers had gone through a wash.”
“The pathologist has given you a photo of his leg,” Barbara told her. “There's a cut on the shin.”
“To match the tear in the trousers?”
“That's where my money is.” Barbara handed over the pictures. Those that had been taken on the Nez on Saturday morning were sitting on the edge of Emily's desk. As the DCI looked at the photos of the body itself, Barbara sorted out the pictures of Querashi in the pillbox and went on to those of the location. She saw where the victim had left his car—at the top of the cliff, abutting one of the white poles that bordered the car park. She noted the distance from the car to the café, and then from the car to the edge of the cliff. And then she noticed what she had seen without registering upon her first viewing of these same photographs on the previous night. She certainly should have remembered them from her own long ago visit to the Nez with her brother: a set of concrete steps that carved a diagonal gash down the face of the cliff.
She could see that, unlike the pleasure pier, the Nez stairs had undergone no renovation. The handrails on either side of them were pitted and rusting, and the stairs themselves were not faring well as the North Sea continued to erode the cliff. They bore deep-looking cracks. They bore dangerous gouges. They also bore the truth.
“The stairs,” Barbara said quietly. “Hell, Em. He must have fallen down the stairs. That's got to be why the body's so bruised.”
Emily looked up from the pictures of the corpse. “Look at his trousers, Barb. Look at his leg. Christ. Somebody used a trip wire on him.”
? ? ?
“BLOODY HELL. WAS anything like that found at the scene?” Barbara asked.
“I'll have a go with the evidence officer and see,” Emily replied. “But it's a public place. Even if a wire was left there—which I doubt—-it'd be easy enough for a decent defence lawyer to explain away.”
“Unless it's got fibres from Querashi's trousers on it.”
“Unless,” Emily acknowledged. She made a note.
Barbara scanned the other photographs of the site. “The killer must have moved the body to the pillbox after Querashi took the tumble. Were there signs, Em? Footprints in the sand? Any indication that the body had been dragged from the stairs?” Then she realised the answer herself. “There wouldn't have been. Because of the tide.”
“Right.” Emily rooted in one of her desk's drawers and brought out a magnifying glass. She studied the picture of Querashi's leg. She ran her finger down the autopsy report and said, “Here it is. The cut's four centimetres long. Received some brief time prior to death.” She set the report to one side and looked at Barbara, but the expression on her face indicated that what she really saw was the Nez, the Nez in darkness without a light to guide the unsuspecting walker past, over, or around a wire that had been strung across the stairs to cause a fatal fall. “What size of wire are we looking for?” she asked rhetorically. She glanced at the oscillating fan that continued its anaemic efforts. “An electrical wire?”
“That wouldn't have cut him,” Barbara pointed out.
“Unless it'd been stripped,” Emily said. “Which it would have been, to be camouflaged by the dark.”
“Hmm. I s'pose. But what about fishing line? Something strong, like for sport fishing. But thin as well. And flexible.”
“There you go,” Emily agreed. “There're piano strings as well. Or whatever it is they use for making sutures. Or wire used for binding up crates.”
“In other words, almost anything thin, strong, and flexible.” Barbara produced the evidence bag with its collection of goodies from Querashi's room. “Have a go with this, then. It's from his room at the Burnt House. The Maliks wanted inside, by the way.”
“I'll bet they did,” Emily said cryptically. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the bag. “Have you logged this in with the evidence officer?”
“On my way in. He says to tell you he wouldn't say no to a fan for the lock-up, by the way.”
“In his dreams,” Emily muttered. She flipped through the yellow-covered book from Querashi's bedside table. “So it wasn't a crime of passion. And it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment fight. It was premeditated murder from the first, orchestrated by someone who knew where Querashi was going when he left the Burnt House Hotel on Friday night. Possibly the very person he was going to the Nez to meet. Or someone who knew that person.”
“A man,” Barbara said. “Since the body was moved, it had to have been a man.”
“Or a man and a woman working together,” Emily pointed out. “Or even a woman alone if the body was dragged from the stairs to the pillbox. A woman could have managed that.”
“But then, why move him?” Barbara asked.
“To delay the discovery, I should think. Although”—Emily sounded reflective—”if that was the object, why leave the car so obviously tossed? It was a signpost indicating something was wrong. Anyone who came upon it would notice it and having noticed it, would be hyper-aware of everything else about the location.”
“Perhaps the car-tosser was in a hurry and couldn't worry about someone noticing.” Barbara watched as Emily ran her finger down the page in the book that had been marked with the satin ribbon. The DCI tapped her nail against the bracketed section. “Or perhaps the tossing was just an excuse to find the body.”
Emily looked up. She blew an errant hair off her forehead. “We're back to Armstrong again, right? Jesus, Barb, if he's involved in this, the Asians are going to tear up the town.”
“It works, though, doesn't it?” Barbara said. “You know the sort of game I mean. He pretends to be out there for a stroll, and he comes upon the car, ‘Goodness me,’ he exclaims, ‘what have we here? It looks like someone made a real mess of this car. I wonder what else I might find on the beach?’ “
“Okay, it plays,” Emily said. “But only just. Look at how elaborate a set-up he would have been engineering: track Querashi from the day of his arrival, memorise his movements, choose the right evening, set the wire, hide till he fell, move the body, toss the car, and then return the next morning before anyone happens on the scene in order to pretend to find the body. Does that sound remotely reasonable to you?”
Barbara shrugged. “How desperate was he to have his job back?”
“Accepted. Fine. But I've spoken to the man, and I'm willing to swear he isn't clever enough or sharp enough to plan something this detailed.”
“But he's back to being production manager of this factory, isn't he? You said yourself he was doing a decent job there before Querashi turned up. If that's the case, he's got to have some decent beans in his pot.”
“Damn!” Emily was flipping through the rest of the book. “Great. Sanskrit. It's all the same.” She strode to the door. “Belinda Warner!” she shouted. “Find me someone who can decode Pakistani.”
“Arabic,” Barbara said.
“What?”
“The writing. It's Arabic.”
“Whatever.” Emily dug out the condoms, the two brass keys, and the leather case from the evidence bag. “This one's a bank key, I expect,” she noted, indicating the larger key with the tagged number 104 on it. “It looks to me like a key to safe deposit box. We've got Barclays, Westminster, Lloyds, and Midland. Here and in Clacton.” She made a note regarding this.
“Were his fingerprints on the car?” Barbara asked as Emily wrote.
“Whose?”
“Armstrong's. You had the Nissan impounded, right? So you've got to know. Were his prints on it, Em?”
“He has an alibi, Barb.”
“They were on the car, right? And he has a motive. And—”
“I said he has an alibi!” Emily snapped. She tossed the evidence bag onto her desk. She went to a small cooler that sat next to the door. She opened it, brought out a tin of juice. She tossed it to Barbara.
Barbara had never seen Emily frazzled, but she'd also never seen her under real pressure. She was suddenly aware for the first time—and acutely so—that she wasn't working with Inspector Lynley, whose ease of manner had always encouraged his subordinates to argue their points of view freely and with as much passion as the subject warranted. The DCI was a different beast. Barbara knew it behooved her to remember that fact. “Sorry,” she said. “I tend to push.”
Emily sighed. “Listen, Barb. I want you in on this. I need someone on my side. But you're chasing a goose if you go after Armstrong. And you're giving me aggro. Which I'm already getting in spades from Ferguson.” Emily opened her juice and downed a gulp. She said with studied patience, “Armstrong claimed his prints were on the car because he had a look inside. He'd found it standing there with its door open, and he was worried someone might be in trouble.”
“Do you believe him?” Barbara made her next point delicately. Her position on this case was a tenuous one. She wanted to maintain it. “Because he could have tossed that car himself.”
“He could have done,” Emily said flatly, and she went back to the evidence bag.
“Guv?” a woman's voice shouted from somewhere in the building. “Bloke called Kayr al Din Siddiqi at London University. You hear that, Guv? He can do Arabic if you fax something over.”
“Belinda Warner,” Emily said drily. “The girl can't type a bloody report, but give her a phone and she's magic. Right,” she shouted back, and sent the yellow-bound book to the copier machine. She pulled Haytham Querashi's cheque book from the evidence bag.
Seeing it, Barbara realised there was another direction to head in besides the road signposted to Ian Armstrong's door. She said, “Querashi wrote a cheque two weeks ago. He's entered it on the stub. Four hundred pounds to someone called F. Kumhar.”
Emily found the entry and frowned down at it. “Not exactly a fortune, but not a paltry sum. We'll need to track him down. Or her.”
“The cheque book was locked inside that leather case, by the way, and there was a jewellery receipt locked with it. From Racon Jewellery, here in town. The receipt has Sahlah Malik's name on it.”
“Odd to lock up a cheque book,” Emily said. “It's not as if anyone but Querashi could have used it.” She tossed it to Barbara. “Have a go with it. See to the jewellery receipt as well.”
It seemed a generous offer, considering the moment of friction between them over Ian Armstrong's potential guilt. And Emily increased the generosity of it with her next words. “I'll have a second go with Mr. Armstrong. Between the two of us, we should finally be able to make some decent headway today.”
“Right,” Barbara said, and she wanted to thank the other woman: for seeing to her battered face, for allowing her to work at her side, for even considering her take on the case. But instead she said, “I mean, if you're sure.”
“I'm sure,” Emily said with the ease and the confidence Barbara remembered. “As far as I'm concerned, you're one of us.” She slipped her sunglasses on and took up her key ring. “Scotland Yard has a professional caché that the Asians are going to respect and even my super might acknowledge. I need them off my back. I need him off my back. I want you to do what you can to make that happen.”
Calling out to her subordinates that she was heading off to put Mr. Armstrong through his paces, Emily shouted, “And I've got the mobile if you want me,” in the direction of the back of the building. She nodded at Barbara and shot down the stairs.
Alone in the DCI's office, Barbara fingered through the items from the evidence bag. She thought about what conclusions she could draw from those items when they were presented in conjunction with Emily's determination that a trip wire had been used to murder Haytham Querashi. A key potentially to a safe deposit box, a passage in Arabic, a cheque book with an Asian name inscribed in it, and one very curious jewellery receipt.
That last seemed the best place to start. If there were details to be eliminated in the search for a killer, it was always wise to go with the most accessible of them first. It gave one the decided feeling of success, no matter how irrelevant to the case it was.
Barbara left the fan Rolfing the intemperate air. She descended the stairs and went out to the street, where her Mini was soaking in the day's growing heat like a tin on the top of a barbecue.
The steering wheel was hot to the touch and the worn seats embraced her like the hug of an inebriated uncle. But the engine started with less mechanical coquetry than usual, and she drove down the hill and turned right in the direction of the High Street.