“They're Asians. They wouldn't want to lose face,” Emily stated. “And they sure as hell wouldn't be able to—how did Muhannad put it?—hold their heads up with pride if the word got out that Querashi was playing them for fools.”
Barbara thought about what Emily was suggesting. Something seemed slightly out of joint. She said, “So one of them killed him? Hell, Em, that's taking ethnic pride to the extreme. It seems to me that Querashi'd be likely to go after anyone who knew his secret, rather than someone going after Querashi because he had a secret. If homosexuality's at the root of this, doesn't it make more sense to see Querashi as the killer and not as the victim?”
“Not if an Asian, outraged by the knowledge that a man was planning to use Sahlah Malik as a cover for his homosexual lifestyle, went after Querashi.”
“If that's what Querashi was planning,” Barbara said.
Emily picked up a small plastic bag that was lying on top of one of the room's computer terminals. She untwisted its wire tie and dug out four carrot sticks. Seeing this, Barbara tried not to look guilty about her previously consumed whitebait and rock—not to mention her cigarettes—as the DCI began to munch virtuously. “Which Asian comes to mind when you think of someone being driven to murder in order to revenge that sort of arrangement?”
“I know where you're heading,” Barbara said. “But I thought Muhannad was supposed to be a man of his people. If he isn't and if he offed Querashi, then why's he raising hell about the murder?”
“To paint himself in a saintly light. Jihad: the holy war against the infidels. He shouts for justice and directs the spotlight of guilt onto an English killer. And, coincidentally, off himself.”
“But, Em, that's no different to what Armstrong may be doing with the tossed car. A different approach, but the same intent.”
“Armstrong has an alibi.”
“What about Muhannad's? Did you find this Rakin Khan in Colchester?”
“Oh, I found him all right. He was holding court in a private room of his father's restaurant, with half a dozen others of his ilk. In a suit by Armani, slip-ons by Bally, wrist watch by Rolex, and a diamond signet ring from Burlington Arcade. He was an old friend of Malik's, he claimed, from their days at university.”
“What did he say?”
“He confirmed everything, Chapter and verse. He said the two of them had dinner that evening. They began at eight and went on till midnight.”
“A four hour dinner? Where? A restaurant? That restaurant?”
“Wouldn't that be lovely for our side? But no, this dinner took place, he said, at his own home. And he cooked the entire meal himself, which is what took so long. He likes to cook, loves to cook, cooked all the time for Muhannad at university, he said, because they neither of them have ever been able to abide English food. He even recited the menu for me.”
“Can anyone confirm the story?”
“Oh yes. Because, conveniently, they weren't alone. Another foreign bloke—and intriguing, isn't it, that everyone's foreign?—was there as well. Also a mate from their university days. Khan said it was a little reunion.”
“Well,” Barbara said, “if they both confirm …”
“Bullshit.” Emily crossed her arms. “Muhannad Malik had plenty of time before I got to Colchester to phone Rakin Khan and tell him to corroborate his story.”
“For that matter,” Barbara said, “Ian Armstrong's had plenty of time to ask his in-laws to do the same. Have you spoken to them?”
Emily made no response.
Barbara went on. “He's got a solid motive, Ian Armstrong. What's Muhannad got that's holding your interest?”
“He protests too much,” Emily said.
“P'rhaps he's got something to protest about,” Barbara pointed out. “Look, I agree he comes off like a lag in the making. And this Rakin Khan may be just as bad. But you're leaving out some details that you can't tie to Muhannad. Think of just three of them: You said Querashi's car was tossed. His body was moved. His car keys were thrown into the brush. If Muhannad killed Querashi for the honour of his family, then why toss the car and why move the body? Why put neon lights round what otherwise might have been taken for an accident?”
“Because he didn't want it to be taken for an accident,” Emily said. “Because he wanted just what he's got: an incident that he can rally his people round. He meets two ends at once this way: He evens the score with Querashi for blackening the family name and he cements his position in the Asian community.”
“Okay. Perhaps,” Barbara said. “But on the other hand, why should we believe Trevor Ruddock about this homosexuality thing in the first place? He's got a motive as well. Okay, he didn't get his job back like Armstrong did, but he didn't seem the type to say no to a decent spot of revenge if he had the chance to get it.”
“You said he has an alibi as well.”
“Bloody hell! They all have flaming alibis, Em! Someone's got to be lying somewhere.”
“Which, Sergeant Havers, is exactly my point.” Emily's voice was quite even. But there was a steely quality to it that reminded Barbara once again of two facts: that not only was Emily her superior officer by reasons of talent, intelligence, intuition, and skill, but also that she herself had been admitted to work on this case on DCI Barlow's generous sufferance.
Back off, she told herself. This is not your patch, Barb. She was suddenly aware of how bloody hot the incident room was. It was worse than an oven. The harsh light of late afternoon poured in like an armed invasion. When, she wondered, had the country ever had a summer this beastly and miserable at the seaside?
“I checked on Trevor's alibi,” she said. “I stopped by Racon Jewellery on my way back here. According to her mum, Rachel did a runner right after I left them. Her mum couldn't say where Rachel was on the murder night because she herself was dancing in some ballroom competition in Chelmsford. She did say something interesting, though.”
“What's that?” Emily asked.
“She said, ‘My Rachel only goes with white boys, and mind you, remember that, Sergeant.’ What d'you think that means?”
“That she's worried about something.”
“We know that Querashi was probably meeting someone that night. We have only Trevor Ruddock's word that Querashi was cottaging in the first place. And even if Querashi was cottaging, that doesn't mean he doesn't swing both ways.”
“You're putting Querashi with Rachel Winfield now?” Emily asked.
“She gave him that jewellery receipt, Em. She had to have a reason.” Barbara considered one other element of the puzzle that they'd not yet tried to place. “But that doesn't really take care of the question of the bracelet: what Theo Shaw's doing with it. I've assumed that Sahlah gave it to him. But he always could have taken it from Querashi's body. If he did that, though, it means that Sahlah's lie about having tossed the bracelet from the pier was prompted by the fact that she knows that whoever has the bracelet is involved in all this. Why else lie?”
Behind her, Emily said with some passion, “Jesus. This is just like going down the goddamn rabbit hole.”
The tone of Emily's comment prompted Barbara to study the DCI more closely. Emily was leaning her bum against the edge of the table. For the first time, Barbara noticed the smudged skin under her eyes.
“Em?” she said.
“If it's one of them, Barb, this town's going to blow.”
Barbara knew what she was implying: If the killer was English and the town caved in to more racial unrest because of that fact, heads would roll. And the first would be Emily Barlow's.
In the silence that hung between them, Barbara heard voices in the entry downstairs. Terse words were spoken by a man and answered by a woman sounding calm and professional. Barbara recognised the man, at least. Muhannad Malik was in reception, arrived for his afternoon meeting with the police.
Azhar would be with him. So the moment had arrived when Barbara knew she ought to tell Emily Barlow the truth.
She opened her mouth to do so but found that she couldn't. If she fully explained—at least as fully as she was able, considering how little she had bothered to examine her motives before setting forth to Balford—Emily would have to dismiss her from the case. She could hardly view Barbara as an objective party in the investigation when at the side of at least one of the suspects moved a man who lived a bare fifty yards from her own shack-like dwelling in London. And Barbara wanted to stay on the case for more than one reason now. While it was true that she'd initially come to Balford-le-Nez for the sake of her Pakistani neighbours, she realised that she wished to remain for the sake of her colleague.
Barbara was well aware of the myriad prices women had to pay to succeed in policework. Men in the profession didn't have to persuade a single soul that their competence was unaffected by their sex. Women lived with having to do that daily. So if she could help Emily maintain her position and prove herself as a DCI, she was determined to do it.
“I'm on your side, Em,” she said quietly.
“Are you.” Once again Emily said the two words; she didn't ask them. Which reminded Barbara of another fact: The higher one climbed in authority and power, the fewer true friends one actually had. But a moment later, Emily roused herself from whatever black thoughts of the future were troubling her. She said, “So where was Theo Shaw on Friday night?”
“He says he was at home. His grandmother was there, but she won't be able to confirm anything, as she'd gone to bed.”
“That part of his story is probably true,” Emily said. “Agatha Shaw—that's the grandmother—had a stroke some time ago. She'd need her rest.”
“Which gives Theo plenty of opportunity to have taken himself over to the Nez on foot,” Barbara pointed out.
“Which would explain why no one in the vicinity claims to have heard another car.” Emily frowned thoughtfully. She directed her attention to a second china board. On it she had scrawled surnames of suspects and first initials, followed by their alleged whereabouts for the time in question. She said, “The Malik girl seems docile enough, but if she was secretly involved with Theo, she may have had a reason to send her fiancé tumbling down the Nez stairs. It would sure as hell end her obligation to Querashi. Permanently.”
“But you said her dad claimed that he wouldn't have forced her to marry the man.”
“He says that now. But he could be covering up for her. Perhaps she and Theo are in this together.”
“Romeo and Juliet killing off Count Paris instead of themselves? Okay. I see that it works. But aside from the car-tossing, which we'll forget about for the moment, here's something else we're not considering: Let's say Querashi got tricked into going to the Nez to meet Theo Shaw for a confab about Theo's relationship to Sahlah. Then how do we explain the condoms in his pocket?”
“Shit. The condoms,” Emily said. “Okay, so he may not have been going to meet Theo Shaw at all. But even if he didn't know about Theo, one thing is certain: Theo knew about him.
Barbara had to admit that the scales of culpability were beginning to tip in the direction of one of the Englishmen. She wondered what the hell she was going to report to the Pakistanis when they had their meeting. She could only imagine what Muhannad Malik would do with any information that supported his belief in the crime's racist nature.
“Okay,” she said, “but we can't forget that we've caught out Sahlah Malik in a lie. And since Haytham Querashi had the receipt, I think we can conclude that someone must have wanted him to know that Sahlah had another relationship.”
“Rachel Winfield,” Emily said. “She's still the enigma in all this for me.
“A woman went to see Querashi at the hotel. A woman wearing a chador.”
“And if that woman was Rachel Winfield, and if Rachel Winfield wanted Querashi for herself—”
“Guv?” Emily and Barbara turned to the door, where Belinda Warner had come to stand, with a stack of chits in her hand. These were neatly clipped together in several different piles. Barbara recognised them as the copies of the telephone messages from the Burnt House Hotel that she'd handed over to Emily that morning.
“What is it?” Emily said.
“I've sorted through this lot, arranged them in categories, and tracked everyone down. Or at least nearly everyone.” She entered and placed each small stack down as she identified it. “Calls from the Maliks: Sahlah, Akram, and Muhannad. Calls from a contractor: a bloke called Gerry DeVitt from Jaywick Sands. He was doing some work on the house that Akram'd bought for the newlyweds.”
“DeVitt?” Barbara asked. “Em, he works on the pier. I spoke to him this afternoon.”
Emily made an entry into her notebook, which she scooped from a table in the incident room. “What else?” she asked Belinda.
“Calls from a decorator in Colchester, also working on the house. And this last, miscellaneous calls: from friends, I expect, by their names: Mr. Zaidi, Mr. Faruqi, Mr. Kumhar, Mr. Kat—”
“Kumhar?” Emily and Barbara said simultaneously.
Belinda looked up. “Kumhar,” she confirmed. “He phoned the most. There're eleven messages from him.” She licked her index finger and flicked through the final stack of chits. She pulled from them the one she wanted. “Here it is. Fahd Kumhar,” she said.
“Bloody hell. There you are,” Barbara put in reverently.
“It's a Clacton number,” Belinda went on. “I phoned it, but I only got a news agent on Carnarvon Road.”
“Carnarvon Road?” Emily said quickly. “Are you absolutely sure it was Carnarvon Road?”
“I've got the address right here.”
“Now there's a development from the gods, Barb.”
“Why?” Barbara asked. There was a map of the area on one of the notice boards, and she went to this and looked it over, seeking the location of Carnarvon Road. She found it, rising perpendicularly from the sea and Clacton's Marine Parade. It passed the railway station and ultimately led to the A133, which was the road to London. “Is there something important about Carnarvon Road?”
“There's something too coincidental for coincidence,” Emily said. “Carnarvon Road runs along the east side of the market square. Clacton market square, that is, of recent cottaging fame.”
“Now, that's a tasty detail,” Barbara said. She turned from the map and saw the DCI watching her. Emily's eyes were bright.
“I think we may be looking at a whole new cricket match, Sergeant Havers,” she announced. And her voice was renewed with the vigour that Barbara had always encountered in Barlow the Beast. “Whoever Kumhar is, let's track this bloke down.”