“I hardly know where to begin,” Malik said.
“Perhaps with his engagement to your daughter,” she suggested.
Malik's jaw tightened slightly. “Surely, you don't mean to suggest that Sahlah is involved in Haytham's death?”
“I understand that this was an arranged marriage. Was she agreeable to it?”
“More than agreeable. And she knew that neither her mother nor I would force her to marry against her will. She met Haytham, she was allowed to spend some time with him alone, and she decided favourably. Quite favourably, in fact. She was eager to marry. Had she felt otherwise, Haytham would have returned to his family in Karachi. That was the arrangement we made with his parents, and both sides agreed to it before he came to England.”
“You didn't think a Pakistani boy born in England would be more suitable for your daughter? Sahlah was born here, wasn't she? She'd be more used to others born here as well.”
“Asian boys born in England are sometimes at odds with their origins, Inspector Barlow. They're often at odds with Islam, with the importance of family, with our culture, with our beliefs.”
“Like your son, perhaps?”
Malik sidestepped. “Haytham lived by the tenets of Islam. He was a fine man. He wished to be a haji. This was an attribute I valued highly in a husband for my daughter. Sahlah felt likewise.”
“And how did your son feel about Mr. Querashi's becoming part of your family? He holds a position here at the factory, doesn't he?”
“Muhannad is our director of sales. Haytham was our director of production.”
“Positions of equality?”
“Essentially. And, as I know you will next ask: there was no conflict of position between them. Their jobs were unrelated to each other.”
“Both of them would want to perform well, I expect,” Emily noted.
“I should hope so. But their individual performances would not change the future. Upon my death, my son will rise to become managing director of the company. Haytham knew this. Indeed, he would have fully expected that to be the case. Thus, Muhannad had no need to fear Haytham's advent among us, if that's what you're suggesting. In fact, the situation was very much the contrary. Haytham took a burden off Muhannad's shoulders.”
“What sort of burden?”
Malik unfastened the top button of his shirt and once again pressed his wrist against his face to dab off the perspiration. The room was airless, and Emily wondered why he didn't open one of the two windows. “Before Haytham's arrival, Muhannad had the extra job of overseeing Mr. Armstrong's work. Mr. Armstrong was only a temporary employee and as he isn't a member of the family, he required more supervision. As director of production, he was responsible for the workings of the entire factory, and while he did a fine job, he knew his employment was temporary and thus did not have reason to be as meticulous as someone with a permanent interest here.” He raised a finger to stop Emily from speaking when she would have asked another question. “I do not mean to imply that Mr. Armstrong's work was unacceptable to us. I wouldn't have asked him back upon Haytham's death had it been so.”
This, of course, was very much the point as well as the detail that which Barbara Havers had stressed. Armstrong had been asked back to Malik's Mustards. “How long do you expect to have Mr. Armstrong working here this time round?”
“As long as it takes to find my daughter another suitable husband who can also work in the factory.”
Which, Emily thought, could take quite some time, cementing Ian Armstrong's position in the business. “And did Mr. Armstrong know Mr. Querashi? Had they ever met?”
“Oh yes, indeed. Ian trained Haytham for five days prior to leaving us.”
“And their relationship?”
“It appeared quite cordial. But then, Haytham was an easy man to like. And he had no enemies here at Malik's Mustards.”
“He knew everyone in the factory?”
“He had to do. He was the factory director.”
Which meant interviews with everyone, Emily thought, because everyone had enemies, no matter what Akram Malik believed. The trick was to smoke them out. Mentally, she assigned two DCs to the task. They could use this conference room. They would be discreet. She said, “And outside the factory? Who else did Mr. Querashi know?”
Akram considered this. “So few. But there was the Gentlemen's Cooperative. I suggested he join, and he did so at once.”
Emily knew about the Gentlemen's Cooperative. It had featured predominantly in the portrait that Akram Malik's campaign literature had painted of him. It was a social club of the town's businessmen, which Akram Malik had organised shortly after opening his factory. They met weekly for lunch and monthly for dinner, and their purpose was to foster good will, cooperation in commerce, and commitment to the growth of the town and the well-being of its citizens. The point was to discover and encourage commonalities among members, its founder having the philosophy that men at work on a mutual goal are men who live in harmony together. It was interesting, Emily realised, to note the difference between the Gentlemen's Cooperative which Akram Malik had founded and Jum'a which had been founded by his son. She wondered how much at odds the two men were and if this condition extended to the future son-in-law.
“Is your son a member of this group as well?” she asked curiously.
“Muhannad's attendance is not what I would wish,” Malik said. “But he is indeed a member.”
“Less devoted to the cause than Mr. Querashi?”
Malik's face was grave. “You're seeking to connect my son to Mr. Querashi's death, aren't you?”
“How did your son feel about this arranged marriage?” she countered.
For a moment, Akram Malik's face registered a look that suggested he would answer no further questions about his son unless and until he was told what Emily had in mind when she asked them. But he relented. “As Muhannad's own marriage was arranged, he had no difficulty with his sister's being likewise.” He stirred in his chair. “My son, Inspector, has not been the easiest child to rear. He has, I believe, been too much influenced by Western culture. And perhaps one sees this in his behaviour in a way that makes him difficult to understand. But he respects his roots and takes great pride in his blood. He is a man of his people.”
Emily had heard that phrase invoked often enough about IRA hooligans and other wild-eyed political extremists. While it was true that Muhannad's political activism in the town supported his father's contention, the existence of Jum'a suggested that what could be identified as the younger man's pride in his blood could also be a identified as an inclination to cross the line and an ability to manipulate people by playing upon their ignorance and fear. Still, the thought of Jum'a prompted her to ask, “Did Mr. Querashi also belong to your son's fraternity, Mr. Malik?”
“Fraternity?”
“You know about Jum'a, don't you? Was Haytham Querashi part of it?”
“That I would not know.” He unfolded his cap with the same care he'd used to fold it, and he gave all his attention to his fingers’ movement on the thin paper. “Muhannad will be able to tell you that.” He frowned, then, and finally looked up. “But I must confess that the direction you've taken with these questions troubles me. It makes me wonder if my son—who is admittedly far too quick to anger and to allegation when it comes to matters of race—is correct in assuming you will turn a blind eye to the possibility of hate and ignorance being the sole motives behind this crime.”
“I'm not blind to that at all,” Emily said. “Racist crimes are global problems, and I'd be a fool to deny it. But if hate and ignorance are behind Querashi's murder, they were directed at a specific target and not merely any Asian that the killer came across on the street. We need to know Mr. Querashi's contacts in both communities. It's the only way we'll track down his killer. The Gentlemen's Cooperative represents one view of life in Balford-le-Nez. Jum'a, you'll agree, represents another.” She stood. “If you'll take me to Mr. Armstrong …?”
Akram Malik gazed upon her thoughtfully. Under his scrutiny Emily became conscious of the differences between them, not just the standard male-female differences, but the cultural differences that would always define them. They were present in her manner of dress: thin tank-top, grey trousers, no covering on her head. They were present in the freedom afforded her: a woman on her own in a vast world that was hers for the taking. They were present in position she held: the dominant figure in a team comprising mostly men. She and Akram Malik—despite his professed love of the country he'd adopted—may as well have been from different universes.
He got to his feet. “This way,” he said.
BARBARA JOUNCED ALONG the cratered lane and found a place to park her Mini at the far side of a prefabricated building with a sign that announced its business ambiguously as Hegarty's Adult Distractions. She noted the air conditioner set into one of its front windows, and she gave some moments’ consideration to the idea of staggering inside and planting herself in front of it. That would be an adult distraction well worth the effort, she thought.
The heat on the coast was beginning to feel worse than the heat in London, which was borderline inconceivable. If England was going to turn into a tropical environment as part of the global warming that scientists had been predicting for years, Barbara decided that it would be nice to have some of the accoutrements of the tropics as well. A white-jacketed waiter carrying a tray of Singapore slings wouldn't have gone down badly at all.
She looked in her rear view mirror to see how Emily's make-up job on her face was holding up to its exposure to sweat. She expected to see her countenance dissolving a la one of Dr. Jekyll's transmogrifications.
But both foundation and blusher were where they were supposed to be. Perhaps, after all, there was something to be said for playing about with pots of colour each morning in the quest for devastating beauty.
Barbara made her way back over the uneven lane to Malik's Mustards & Assorted Accompaniments. A stop at the Malik residence had allowed her to glean that Sahlah worked at the factory with her father and brother. This information had been passed on by a dowdy, plump woman with one child on her hip, another by the hand, a wandering eye, and a feathery but nonetheless noticeable growth of black hair on her upper lip. She'd looked at Barbara's warrant card and said, “It's Sahlah you want, then? Our little Sahlah? Oh my goodness, whatever has she done that someone from the police should want to talk to her?” But there was a certain delight to her questions, the sort of excitement experienced by a woman who had either little diversion in her life or an axe to grind with her sister-in-law. She'd informed Barbara of their relationship up front, via the announcement that she was the wife of Muhannad, the elder child and the only son of the household. And these—she indicated the children with pride—were the sons of Muhannad. And soon—and here she nodded meaningfully in the direction of her stomach—would be a third son, a third in three years. A third son for Muhannad Malik.
Yadda, yadda, yadda, Barbara thought. She decided that the woman needed a hobby if this was the extent of her conversation. She'd said, “I need a word with Sahlah, if you'll fetch her for me.”
But that wasn't possible. Sahlah was at the factory. “It's always best to keep busy when one's heart is broken, don't you agree?” the woman pronounced. But once again, there was an enjoyment in her expression that was at odds with the statement. She gave Barbara the creeps.
So Barbara took herself off to Malik's Mustards, and as she approached the brick structure now, she removed the jewellery receipt from her bag and slipped it into the pocket of her trousers.
She swung inside the factory, where the air was stale and a potted fern next to the reception desk appeared to be about to give up the ghost. A young woman sat at a computer terminal, looking remarkably cool despite the fact that she was fully clothed from head to foot, her arms covered to the wrists and her dark hair mostly hidden beneath a traditional shawl. This was long hair, though, and a thick braid of it hung down the woman's back to her waist.
There was a name plate on her desk, so Barbara knew she had to look no further for Sahlah Malik. She produced her warrant card and introduced herself. “Could I have a word?”
The girl looked towards a door whose half-glass construction revealed some sort of interior office. “With me?”
“You're Sahlah Malik, aren't you?”
“Yes, but I've spoken to the police already if this is about Haytham. I spoke to them the very first day.” On her desk there was a long computer print out which appeared to list names. She took a yellow felt pen from the desk's centre drawer and began highlighting some names and crossing others out with a pencil.
“Did you tell them about the bracelet, then?” Barbara asked her.
She didn't look up from the print out, although Barbara saw her eyebrows tighten momentarily. It could have been an expression of concentration had the common activity of highlighting names required concentration. On the other hand, it could have been confusion. “Bracelet?” she asked.
“A piece by a bloke called Aloysius Kennedy. Gold. Engraved with the words ‘Life begins now.’ Is this sounding familiar?”
“I don't understand the nature of your question,” the girl said. “What has a gold bracelet to do with Haytham's death?”
“I don't know,” Barbara said. “P'rhaps nothing. I thought you might be able to tell me. This”—she set the receipt on the desk—”was among his things. Locked up among his things, by the way. Can you think why? Or what it was doing in his possession in the first place?”
Sahlah capped the yellow pen and set the pencil to one side before she took the receipt. She had lovely hands, Barbara noted, with fingers that were slender and nails that were clipped to the tips of her fingers but smooth and buffed-looking. She wore no rings.
Barbara waited for her to respond. In her peripheral vision she saw movement in the inner office and looked that way. In a corridor at the far end, Emily Barlow was speaking with a middle-aged Pakistani man wearing what looked like a chef's outfit. Akram Malik? Barbara wondered. He looked old enough and grave enough for the part. She gave her attention back to Sahlah.
“I don't know,” Sahlah said. “I don't know why he had it.” She spoke to the receipt rather than to Barbara. “Perhaps he was seeking a way to reciprocate and this seemed best to him. Haytham was a very good man. A very kind man. It wouldn't have been unlike him to attempt to discover the cost of something so that he could make an equal offering in return.”
“Sorry?”
“Lenā-denā” Sahlah said. “The giving of gifts. It's part of the way we establish our relationships.”
“The gold bracelet was a gift for him? From you? For Mr. Querashi?”
“As his fiancée, I would present him with a token. He would do likewise to me.”
But again there remained the question of where the bracelet was now. Barbara hadn't seen it among Querashi's belongings. She hadn't read in the police report about its being found upon the body. Would someone really stalk a victim and carefully arrange his death for possession of a gold bracelet? People had died for less, to be sure, but in this case … Why was it that the thought seemed so unlikely?
“He didn't have the bracelet,” Barbara said. “It wasn't on his body and it wasn't in his room at the Burnt House. Can you explain why?”
Sahlah used the yellow pen against another name. “I hadn't yet given it to him,” she said. “I would have done on the day of the nikāb.”
“Which is what?”
“When our marriage contract would have been formally signed.”
“So you have the bracelet.”
“No. There was no point to keeping it. When he was killed, I took it …” Here she paused. Her fingers touched the edges of the computer print out, straightening them perfectly. “This will sound absurd and melodramatic, like something out of a nineteenth century novel. When Haytham was killed, I took the bracelet and threw it from the pier. From the end of the pier. I suppose it was a way of saying goodbye.”
“When was this?”
“On Saturday. The day the police told me what had happened to him.”
This begged the question of the receipt, however. “So he didn't know you had a bracelet to give him?”
“He didn't know.”
“Then what was he doing with the receipt?”
“I can't say exactly. But he would have known I was going to give him something. It's traditional.”
“Because of … what did you call it?”
“Lenā-denā. Yes. Because of that. And he wouldn't have wanted his gift to me to be out of balance with my gift to him. That would have been an insult to my family and Haytham was careful about that sort of thing. I imagine”—and here she looked at Barbara for the first time since their discussion had begun—”I imagine that he did some small detective work on his own to discover what I'd purchased for him and where. It wouldn't have been that difficult. Balford's a small town. The shops that carry items worthy of an occasional like a nikāh are easy enough to unearth.”
Her explanation was reasonable, Barbara thought. It made perfect sense. The only problem with it was that neither Rachel Winfield nor her mother had said anything that could come close to supporting this conjecture.
“From the end of the pier,” Barbara said. “What time of day was this?”
“I have no idea. I didn't look at a watch.”
“I don't mean the exact time. But was it morning? Afternoon? Night?”
“Afternoon. The police came to us in the morning.”
“Not at night, then?”
Perhaps she saw too late where Barbara was heading, because her gaze faltered. But she seemed to realise the difficulty she'd be causing herself if she changed her story. She said, “It was the afternoon.”
And a woman dressed as Sahlah dressed would doubtless have been noticed … by someone. The pier was being renovated. That very morning Barbara had herself seen the workmen perched on a building being constructed at the very place Sahlah had claimed she'd disposed of the gold bracelet. So there had to be someone on the pier who could corroborate her story.
Movement in the inner office caught her attention again. It wasn't Emily this time, but two Asian men who'd come into Barbara's line of vision. They walked to a drafting table, where they engaged in an earnest discussion with a third Asian man who was working there. The sight of them reminded Barbara of the name.
“F. Kumhar,” she said to Sahlah. “Does someone of that name work here?”
“Not in the office,” Sahlah said.
“The office?”
“It wouldn't be someone in either accounting or sales. Those are the office positions.” She indicated the windowed door. “But as to the factory itself … that's production. I know the regular employees in production, but not those we bring in for extra work like labelling when a big order goes out.”
“These are part-time people?”
“Yes. I don't always know them.” She gestured to the printout on her desk. “I've never seen the name among these, but as we don't pay the part-time people by computer, I wouldn't have done.”
“Who knows the part-timers, then?”
“The director of production.”
“Haytham Querashi,” Barbara said.
“Yes. And Mr. Armstrong before him.”