BEING ON THE Balford pleasure pier for the first time since her sixteenth summer wasn't the trip down memory lane that Barbara had expected it might be. The pier was greatly changed, with a rainbow sign over its entrance that spelled SHAW ATTRACTIONS in colourful neon. Still, the bright fresh paint, new planking, crisp-looking deck chairs, refurbished rides and games of chance, and a modern arcade offering everything from old-fashioned penny slides to video games didn't alter the smells that could never wipe from her memory her annual visits to Balford. The scent of fish and chips, hamburgers, popcorn, and candy floss mingled sharply with the brine of the sea. And the sounds were the same as well: children laughing and shouting, arcade games ringing cacophonously, the calliope playing as the roundabout horses rose and fell on their shiny brass poles.
Ahead of her, the pier shot straight out into the sea, widening at its end in spatulate fashion. Barbara walked to this point, where the old Jack ‘Awkins Cafeteria was being renovated and from which location Sahlah Malik had allegedly thrown the bracelet she'd bought for her fiancé.
From the shell of the old cafeteria rose the sound of voices shouting above the pounding of tools against metal and the loud hiss of a blow torch welding reinforcements onto the original infrastructure. Heat seemed to throb from the building, and when Barbara peered inside, she felt it pulsating against her face.
The workers were scantily dressed. Jeans cut off at the thigh, heavy-soled boots, and grimy T-shirts—or none at all—appeared to be the uniform of choice. These were big-muscled men, intent on their jobs. But when one caught sight of Barbara, he set down his tools and shouted, “No visitors! Can't you read? Clear out of here before you get hurt.”
Barbara pulled out her warrant card, more for effect than anything else, since he couldn't have seen what it was at the distance. She shouted back, “Police.”
“Gerry!” The man directed his attention to the welder whose protective headgear and concentration on the flame he was shooting towards the metal seemed to make him oblivious of everything else.
“Gerry! Hey! DeVitt!”
Barbara stepped over three steel girders that were lying on the floor, awaiting placement. She dodged several huge coils of electrical wire and a stack of unopened wooden crates.
Someone yelled, “Keep back! You want to get hurt?”
This apparently got Gerry's attention. He looked up, saw Barbara, and doused the flame on his blow torch. He removed his headgear to reveal a bandana-covered head. He whipped this off and dried first his face with it, then his shining and hairless skull. Like the others, he wore cut-off jeans and an armless T-shirt, and he had the sort of body that would quickly go to seed if exposed to the wrong kind of food or a period of inactivity. Neither appeared to be the case. He was extremely fit-looking and brown from the sun.
Before he, too, had a chance to warn her off, Barbara lifted her warrant card again, saying, “Police. Can I have a word with you blokes?”
He frowned, returning the bandana to his head. He tied it at the back and with the single earring hoop he wore, the overall effect was piratical. He spat onto the floor—to the side, at least—and dug into his pocket for a roll of Polos. He thumbed one out and popped it into his mouth. “Gerry DeVitt,” he said. “I'm the guv here. What d'you need?”
He came no closer, so Barbara knew he couldn't read her identification. She introduced herself, and although his eyebrows made a quick furrowing movement when she said New Scotland Yard, he didn't evidence any other reaction.
He glanced at his watch and said, “We don't have much time to spare.”
“Five minutes,” Barbara said, “perhaps less. No one's in trouble, by the way.”
He evaluated this, then nodded. Much of the work had ceased in the building anyway, so he waved the men over. There were seven of them, sweat-streaked, smelly, and patched with grease.
“Thanks,” Barbara said to DeVitt. She explained what she was seeking: verification that a young woman—probably dressed in traditional Asian garb—had come to the end of the pier on Saturday and had thrown something from it. “This would have been in the afternoon,” Barbara said. “Do you work on Saturdays?”
“We do,” DeVitt said. “What time?”
Since Sahlah had claimed not to know the exact time, Barbara speculated that if her story was accurate and if she had gone into work that day as an excuse to be out of the house alone, it would probably have been late in the afternoon, a possible detour she'd taken on her way home. “I'd say round five o'clock.”
Gerry shook his head. “We're out of here by half past four.” He turned to his men. “Any of you lot see this bird? Any of you still here after five?”
One man said, “You joking, mate?” and others laughed at the thought, it seemed, of hanging about any longer than necessary after a day's work. No one was able to corroborate Sahlah Malik's story.
“We would've noticed her if we were still here,” DeVitt said. He jerked his thumb at the other workers. “This lot? Let a good-looking bird come by and they're hanging by their knees trying to get her attention.” The men guffawed. DeVitt grinned at them and then said to Barbara, “This one you're speaking of: Is she a looker?”
She was very pretty, Barbara confirmed. She was the sort of woman that men looked at twice. And with the costume she was wearing—here on the seaside, where women dressed like Sahlah were rarely seen on their own—she would hardly have gone unnoticed.
“Must've been after we'd cleared out, then,” DeVitt said. “Anything else we can do for you?”
There was not. But Barbara handed the man one of her cards anyway, scrawling the name of the Burnt House Hotel on the back of it. If he remembered anything, if any of them remembered anything at all …
“Is this important information or something?” DeVitt asked curiously. “Does this have to do with—Since it's an Asian you're talking about, does this have to do with that bloke who died?”
She was just checking out some facts, Barbara said. That's all she could tell them at the moment. But if anything relating to that incident came to any of their minds …
“Doubt it will,” DeVitt said as he shoved the card into the back pocket of his jeans. “We steer clear of the Pakistanis. It keeps things simpler.”
“How's that?”
He shrugged. “They've got their ways and we've got ours. Mix the two and what you've got is trouble. Blokes like us”—and he indicated his workers with a wave of his arm—”don't have time for trouble. We work hard, have a pint or two afterwards, and then go home so we can work hard tomorrow.” He scooped up his headgear and his blow torch once again, saying, “If this bird you're asking about's an important part of things, you'd best have a word with the rest of the pier. One of them might've seen her pass by.”
She would do that, Barbara told them. She nodded her thanks and picked her way out of the building. Bust, she thought. But DeVitt was right. The attractions on the pier were open from morning until late at night. Unless Sahlah had swum or boated out to the end of the pier and climbed up to it in order to toss the bracelet dramatically into the sea from on high, she would have had to walk past all of them.
It was strictly plod work, the sort of questioning that Barbara had always loathed. But she began doggedly working her way from attraction to attraction, beginning with a teacup ride called the Waltzer and ending with a take-away snack stall. The land end of the pier was covered, a roof of Plexiglás arching over the arcade, the roundabout, and the kiddie rides. Here the noise was intense, and Barbara had to shout to make herself heard. But no one was able to confirm Sahlah's story, not even Rosalie the Romany Palm Reader, who sat on a three-legged stool in front of her den, dressed in swathes of colourful shawls, sweating, smoking, fanning herself with a paper plate, and watching every passerby for his potential to cross her palm with a five-pound note. If anyone had seen Sahlah Malik, Rosalie was the most likely candidate. But she hadn't seen her. She did, however, offer Barbara a reading: palm, tarot cards, or general aura. “You could do with a reading, luv,” she said sympathetically. “Believe you me. Rosalie can tell.”
Barbara begged off, saying that if the future was going to be as charming as the past, she'd much rather be in the dark about it.
She stopped at Jack Willies Wet Fish and Seafood, and bought a basket of deep fried whitebait, a snack she hadn't eaten in years. They were served with a suitable sheen of grease and a small pot of tartar sauce for dipping. Barbara took them back to the open-air section of the pier and lounged on one of the bright orange benches. She munched away and thought about the situation.
Since no one had been able to report seeing the Pakistani girl on the pier, there were three possibilities. The first had the most potential to muddy the waters: Sahlah Malik was lying. If this was the case, Barbara's next step was to ascertain why. The second possibility was the least plausible: Sahlah was telling the truth, even though not a single person on the pier remembered having seen the girl. Barbara had noted from her sojourn on the pier so far that the typical garb among visitors seemed to run heavily to black leather—despite the heat—and body rings. So unless Sahlah had come to the pier incognito—which was possibility number three—then what Barbara was left with was possibility number one: Sahlah was lying.
She finished her whitebait and wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. Leaning against the bench, she lifted her face to the sun and thought further, in another direction, back to F. Kumhar.
The only female Muslim name beginning with F that she could think of was Fatimah, although there had to be others. But assuming that the F. Kumhar to whom Querashi had written a cheque for ￡400 was a woman, and assuming that the cheque was somehow tied into Querashi's murder, what could one reasonably deduce the cheque had been written for? Certainly an abortion was a possibility: He'd been meeting someone illicitly; he was carrying condoms; he had more prophylactics in his bedside table. But what else was possible? A purchase of some sort, perhaps the lenā-denā gift that Sahlah was expecting to receive from him, a gift that he himself had not yet picked up. A loan of money to someone in need, a fellow Asian who could not turn to other members of her family for help. A down payment on an object to be delivered after Querashi's marriage: a bed, a sofa, a table, a fridge.
Even if F. Kumhar was a man, the possibilities weren't much different. What did people purchase? Barbara wondered. Naturally, they purchased concrete items like objects, property, food, and clothing. But they also purchased abstract items like loyalty, betrayal, and sedition. And they purchased the absence of items as well, by securing silence, temporising, or departure.
In any case, there was only one way to know what Querashi had purchased. She and Emily were going to have to track Kumhar down. Which reminded Barbara of the secondary purpose she'd had in coming to the Balford pier: tracking down Trevor Ruddock.
She blew out a breath and swallowed, tasting the lingering flavour of the whitebait and feeling the greasy deposit they'd left on the roof of her mouth. She realised that she should have bought a drink with which to wash the lard-laden mess down her gullet, preferably something scalding hot that would have thoroughly melted it and sent it on its havoc-wreaking way through her digestive system. In a half hour, she'd doubtless begin paying the price for her impulsive purchase at Jack Willies Wet Fish and Seafood. Perhaps a Coke would appease her stomach, which was already beginning to grumble in an ominous fashion.
She rose, watching the flight of two gulls who soared above her and alighted on the roof that covered the land end of the pier. She noted for the first time a set of windows and an upper storey above the arcade. They appeared to be for offices. They were one last place for her to seek someone who had witnessed an Asian girl walking on the pier and the first place she needed to head to seek Trevor Ruddock before someone on the pier put the word out to him that a tubby detective was on his tail.
The stairs to the upper storey were inside the arcade, tucked between Rosalie's palm reading establishment and a hologram exhibition. They led up to a single door upon which a black sign was printed with the single word MANAGEMENT.
Inside, a corridor was lined with windows, which were open to catch whatever faint breeze might finally stir the torrid air. Offices opened off this passage, and from them emanated the sounds of telephones ringing, conversations developing, office machinery running, and fans oscillating. Someone had designed the office space well, because the horrific noise of the arcade directly below was almost entirely muffled.
Barbara could see, however, how unlikely it would be that anyone up here might have observed Sahlah Malik on the pier. Glancing into one of the offices to her right, she noted that its windows offered a view of the sea, south Balford, and the colourful tiers of beach huts on the shore. Unless someone had happened along the corridor at the precise moment that Sahlah had been walking past the Red Baron airplane ride below, the only hope of her having been observed came from the office at the far end, the windows of which seemed to overlook both the pier immediately below it and the sea to its side.
“May I help you with something?” Barbara turned to see a toothy girl at the door of the first office. “Are you looking for someone? These are the management offices.”
When she spoke, Barbara saw that she'd had the centre of her tongue pierced and she wore a glittering stud in the hole. The sight gave Barbara the shivers—which were rather gratifying, considering the heat—and she sent a thankful prayer heavenward that she'd grown to adulthood at a period of time when harpooning one's body parts hadn't been in vogue.
Barbara presented her identification and ran Tongue-stud through the routine by rote. But the answer was as Barbara had expected. Tongue-stud had seen no one like Sahlah Malik on the pier. Never had done, in fact. An Asian girl alone? she repeated. Lord, she couldn't recall ever having seen an Asian girl alone. Leastways, not done up like the detective was describing.
But done up another way? Barbara wanted to know.
Tongue-stud played her teeth against her tongue's decoration, tap-tapping it thoughtfully. Barbara's stomach curdled.
No, she said. Which wasn't to say that some Asian girl hadn't been on the pier dressed like a normal person, mind. It's just that if she had been dressed like a normal person, well … she wouldn't have been very noticeable, would she?
That, naturally, was the rub.
Barbara asked who occupied the office at the end of the corridor. Tongue-stud told her that was Mr. Shaw's office. Of Shaw Attractions, she added meaningfully. Did the detective sergeant wish to see him?
Why not? Barbara thought. If he couldn't add anything to what she'd already learned about Sahlah Malik's alleged visit to the pier—which was sod bloody all—then as the pier's owner, at least he'd be able to tell her where to find Trevor Ruddock.
“I'll just check, then,” Tongue-stud said. She went to the far door and stuck her head inside. “Theo? The fuzz. Wanting a word.”
Barbara couldn't hear a reply, but in a moment a man came to the doorway of the office. He was younger than Barbara—somewhere in his middle twenties—wearing fashionable, loose-fitting linen clothes. His fists were sunk into his pockets casually, but his expression was one of concern.
“There isn't trouble again, is there?” He directed a glance out of the windows, towards the amusements below. “Is something out of order?”
He didn't mean with the equipment, she knew. He meant with his customers. A businessman in his position would know the value of a trouble-free environment. And when the police came calling, there was usually trouble in the air.
“Can I have a word?” she asked.
“Thanks, Dominique,” Theo said to Tongue-stud.
Dominique? Barbara thought. She'd expected a name like Slam or Punch.
Dominique took herself off to the office nearest the stairs. Barbara followed Theo Shaw into his. She saw at once that his windows gave him the view she'd suspected he'd have: overlooking the sea on one side, overlooking the pier at the office's far end. So if anyone at all had seen Sahlah Malik, Barbara knew she was down to her last possibility.
She turned to him, the question on her lips. It died in place.
He'd removed his hands from his pockets while she was taking in the view. And thus removed, they presented her with the object she'd been seeking all along.
Theo Shaw was wearing an Aloysius Kennedy golden bracelet.