“HE SAYS,” TAYMULLAH Azhar reported, “that his papers were stolen. They were in his chest of drawers yesterday. He claims that he informed you of this when you were in his room. And when the detective constable asked for those papers this afternoon, he went to fetch them from the drawer, only to find they were missing.”
Emily was on her feet for the interrogation this time, in the airless cupboard that went for one of the station's two interview rooms. The tape recorder was running on the table, and after switching it on, she had planted herself by the door. From this location, she was able to look down upon Fahd Kumhar, which was useful in establishing for the man who had possession of the power and who hadn't.
Taymullah Azhar sat at the end of the table that served as one of the room's four pieces of furniture, with Kumhar at his right on the table's far side. So far, he had at least appeared to be relaying to his fellow Pakistani only what Emily allowed him to relate.
They had begun the interview with another round of babbling on the part of Kumhar. He'd been on the floor of the room when they'd entered, crouched into one of its corners like a mouse who knows that the final swipe of the cat's paw is imminent. He'd looked beyond Emily and Azhar, as if seeking another member of their party. When it became apparent to him that they constituted the whole of his inquisitors, he began the gibberish.
Emily had demanded to know what he was saying.
Azhar had listened closely without comment for some thirty seconds before replying. “He's paraphrasing parts of the Qur'aan. He's saying that among the people of Al-Madinah there are hypocrites whom Muhammad doesn't know. He's saying that they'll be chastised and doomed.”
“Tell him to stow it,” Emily said.
Azhar said something gently to the man, but Kumhar continued in much the same vein.
“Others have acknowledged their faults. Even though they mixed a righteous action with another that was bad, Allah might still relent towards them. Because Allah—”
“We went this route yesterday,” Emily interrupted. “We're not playing the prayer game today. Tell Mr. Kumhar that I want to know what he's doing in this country without proper documents. And did Querashi know that he's here illegally?”
Which is when Kumhar told her—through Azhar—that his papers had been stolen sometime between yesterday afternoon when he'd been taken from Clacton and this day when he'd been returned.
“That's complete rubbish,” Emily said. “DC Honigman informed me not five minutes ago that the other boarders in Mrs. Kersey's house are English nationals who have no need of his papers and even less interest in them. The front door of the house is always kept locked, day and night, and there's a twelve-foot drop from Mr. Kumhar's window to the back garden with no means of access to that window. Bearing all this in mind, does he want to explain how someone nicked his papers, let alone why?”
“He has no explanation for how it occurred,” Azhar said after listening to a lengthy commentary from the other man. “But he says that documents are valuable items, to be sold on the black market to desperate souls wishing to avail themselves of the greater opportunities for employment and advancement that are found in this country.”
“Right,” Emily drawled, narrowing her eyes speculatively as she examined the Pakistani man from across the room. His hands, she saw, left visible streaks of damp on the table when he moved them. “Tell him,” she said pointedly, “that he's not to worry a bit about his papers. London will be happy to supply him with duplicates. This would have been a tough order years ago, naturally, but with the advent of computer technology, the government will be able to determine that he entered the country in possession of the appropriate visa in the first place. It would help if he supplied us with his port of entry, though. What was it? Heathrow? Gatwick?”
Kumhar licked his lips. He swallowed. As Azhar translated Emily's words, he gave a little mewl.
Emily persisted in this line, saying reasonably, “Of course, we'll need to know exactly what sort of visa was stolen from Mr. Kumhar's room. Otherwise, we won't be able to get him a duplicate, will we? So do ask him under what understanding was he given entry clearance into the country. Is he someone's relative? A working holidaymaker? Perhaps he's come to be a domestic? Or is he a doctor? Or a minister of some sort? Of course, he could be a student or someone's spouse, couldn't he? Except that he has a wife and children in Pakistan, so I suppose that isn't likely. What about having come to this country for private medical treatment? Except that he doesn't look like he has the funds for that sort of thing, does he?”
Kumhar writhed in his chair as he heard Azhar's translations. He didn't respond directly.
“‘Allah promises hellfire to hypocrites and disbelievers,’ “Azhar translated. “‘Allah curses them and sends them to lasting torment.’ “
More bloody praying, Emily thought. If the little bastard actually thought that prayers were going to do a single thing to save him in his current situation, he was more of a fool than he looked. She said, “Mr. Azhar, tell this man that—”
“May I try something with him?” Azhar interrupted. He'd been examining Kumhar in his quiet way when Emily spoke. Now he looked at her, his gaze even and guileless.
Emily snapped suspiciously, “What?”
“My own …prayer, as you call it.”
“If I know the translation.”
“Of course.” He turned back to Kumhar. He spoke and then offered the English translation. “‘Triumphant are those who turn repentant to Allah, those who serve Him, those who praise Him …those who enjoin the right and who forbid the wrong.’ “
“Yes, right,” Emily said. “That's quite enough of duelling prayer mats.”
But Azhar said, “If I might tell him one thing more: That there is little point to hiding within a maze of lies, since one can so easily lose one's way.”
“Tell him,” she said, “but add this as well: The game is up. He can tell the truth or be on the first plane back to Karachi. It's his decision.”
Azhar relayed this information. Tears sprang into Kumhar's eyes. His lower teeth gnawed at his upper lip. And a torrent of words poured out of him.
“What's he saying?” Emily demanded when Azhar did not translate at once.
Azhar seemed to turn from the other man with difficulty. But he finally did so, slowly. “He's saying that he doesn't want to lose his life. He's asking for protection. Roughly, he's saying what he said yesterday afternoon. ‘I am no one. I am nothing. Protect me please. I am friendless in this land. And I have no wish to die like the other.’ “
Finally, Emily felt the sweet rush of triumph. “Then he does know something about Querashi's death.”
“That appears to be the case,” Azhar said.
BARBARA DECIDED THAT a nice little round of Divide and Rule might be what was needed. Mrs. Malik either didn't know where her son was, or she was unwilling to hand him over to the police. Muhannad's wife, on the other hand, seemed to be so intent upon illustrating that she and her husband thought each other's thoughts and wore each other's knickers that she was likely to impart one or more valuable titbits of information, all in the name of proving her own importance to the man she'd married. But to get her to do this, Barbara knew that she had to separate the younger from the older woman. This proved easier than she'd anticipated. Muhannad's wife made the suggestion that they conduct their interview alone.
“There are things between husbands and wives,” she said smugly to Barbara, “that are not for the hearing of mothers-in-law. And as I am the wife of Muhannad and the mother of his sons—”
“Yeah. Right.” The last thing Barbara wanted was another rendition of the song and dance she'd had from this woman on her first day in Balford. She had the impression that whatever her religion, Yumn could get positively biblical when it came to the begetting and begatting game. “Where can we talk?”
They would talk upstairs, Yumn told her. She had to bathe the sons of Muhannad prior to their tea, and the sergeant could speak to her as she did so. The sergeant would want to see this activity anyway. The naked sons of Muhannad were a sight to give the heart its greatest joy.
Right, Barbara thought. She could hardly wait.
Mrs. Malik said, “But, Yumn, you don't wish Sahlah to bathe them today?” She spoke in so quiet a fashion that the fact that her question was far more pointed than Yumn's previous comments had been was something that could be easily overlooked by anyone unused to subtleties.
Barbara was unsurprised when Yumn's reply indicated that only an axe driven between her eyes would get her attention. A scalpel between the ribs went largely unfelt. She said, “She may read to them in the evening, Sus-jahn. If, of course, they are not too tired. And if her choice of material will not give my Anas further nightmares.” And to Barbara, “Come along with me.”
Barbara followed the woman's large backside up the stairs. Yumn was chatting away happily. “How people deceive themselves,” she confided. “My mother-in-law believes that she's the vessel that holds my husband's heart. It's unfortunate, isn't it? He's her only son—she could have only the two children, you know, my Muni and his sister—so she's tied to him too strongly for her own good.”
“Is she?” Barbara said. “I'd think she'd be tied more to Sahlah. Both of them being women. You know.”
“Sahlah?” Yumn tittered. “Who would seek to be tied to such a worthless little thing? My sons are in here.”
She led the way into a bedroom where two small boys were playing on the floor. The younger child wore only a nappie—whose sagging in the direction of his knees indicated its sodden condition—while the older was completely naked. His discarded clothing—nappy, T-shirt, shorts, and sandals—lay in a pile that appeared to be serving as an obstacle course for the lorries he and his brother were pushing round.
“Anas. Bishr.” Yumn sang their names. “Come to Ammī-gee. Time for our bath.”
The boys continued playing.
“And Twisters afterwards, darling ones.”
That got their attention. They set aside their toys and allowed themselves to be scooped up by their mother. Yumn said gaily, “This way,” to Barbara and carried her treasures to the bathroom. She filled the tub with an inch of water, deposited the two boys, and dropped in three yellow ducks, two sailboats, a ball, and four sponges. She squeezed liquid soap liberally on all the toys as well as the sponges and handed these last to the boys to play with. “Bathing should be a delightful game,” she informed Barbara as she stood back to watch the children begin swatting each other with the soapy sponges. Bubbles drifted into the air. “Your auntie only scrubs and rubs, doesn't she?” Yumn asked the boys. “Tiresome auntie. But your ammī-gee makes bathing fun. Shall we play with the boats? Do we need more duckies? Do you love your ammī-gee better than anyone?”
The boys were too occupied with plastering each other's face with the sponges to pay her much attention. She ruffled their hair and then, after sighing with satisfaction over them, said to Barbara, “These are my pride. Their father's also. And they will be just like him, men among men.”
“Right,” Barbara said. “I can see the likeness.”
“Can you?” Yumn stood back from the tub and reflected on her sons as if they were works of art. “Yes. Well, Anas has his father's eyes. And Bishr …” She chuckled. “Shall we say that in time, my Bishr shall have something else quite like his father's as well? Won't you be a bullgod to your wife someday, Bishr?”
Barbara thought at first that Yumn had said bulldog, but when the woman reached between her son's legs to display his penis—approximately the size of Barbara's little toe—she adjusted her thinking. Nothing quite like starting the bloke out on his complexes early, she decided.
“Mrs. Malik,” she said, “I've come here looking for your husband. Can you tell me where he is?”
“What on earth can you want with my Muni?” She bent over the bathtub and ran one of the sponges up and down Bishr's back. “He hasn't failed to pay a parking fine, has he?”
“Just some questions I'd like to put to him,” Barbara said.
“Questions? About what? Has something happened?”
Barbara knotted her eyebrows. The woman couldn't possibly be this much out of the loop. She said, “Haytham Querashi—”
“Oh, that. But you don't want to talk to my Muni about Haytham Querashi. He hardly knew him. You want to speak to Sahlah.”
“I do?” Barbara watched Yumn playfully dribbling soap along the plane of Anas's shoulders.
“Of course. Sahlah was up to some nasty business. Haytham discovered what it was—who knows how?—and they had words. Words led to …It's sad what words lead people to, isn't it? Darlings, here. Shall we float our boats on the waves?” She splashed water against their thighs. The boats bobbed and weaved. The boys laughed and struck the water with their fists.
“What sort of nasty business?” Barbara asked.
“She was busy at night. When she assumed the house was asleep, she became quite busy, our little Sahlah. She went out. And more than once, someone came in. Someone joined her in her room. She thinks that no one knows this, of course. What she doesn't know is that when my Muni goes out in the evenings, I don't sleep well until he returns to our bed. And my ears are sharp. Quite quite sharp. Aren't they, my lovely little ones?” And she playfully poked her sons’ bellies. Anas splashed water across the front of her tunic in return. She laughed gaily and splashed back. “And little Sahlah's bed goes squeak, squeak, squeak, doesn't it, darlings?” More splashing followed. “Such a restless sleeper our auntie is. Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. Haytham found out about that nasty squeaking, didn't he, boys? And he and our Sahlah had words and words.”
What a cobra, Barbara thought. Someone needed to take a cosh to the woman's head, and she expected there would be more than one volunteer in the household should she ask who would like to wield one. Well, two could play innuendo poker. Barbara said, “Have you a chā, Mrs. Malik?”
Yumn's hands hesitated in the creation of more waves for her boys. She said, “A chā? How odd. Whatever makes you ask such a question?”
“You're wearing fairly traditional garb. I was wondering. That's all. Get out and about much? Go visiting friends in the evening? Stop by one hotel or another for an evening coffee? By yourself, that is? And when you do, do you wear a chā? One sees them all the time in London. But I don't recall seeing any here at the sea.”
Yumn reached for a large plastic jug on the floor nearby. She took out the bathplug and filled the jug from the tap. She began pouring water over the boys, who squealed and shook themselves like wet puppies. She didn't reply until she had both of the children thoroughly rinsed and wrapped in large white towels. She lifted one to each hip and started out of the room, saying to Barbara, “Come with me.”
She didn't lead the way back to the boys’ room, however. Instead, she went to the far end of the corridor, to a bedroom at the back of the house. The door was closed, and she opened this imperiously and gestured Barbara inside.
It was a small room with a single bed against one wall, a chest of drawers, and a table against another. Its diamond-paned window was open, overlooking the back garden and, beyond this garden, a brick wall with a gate that opened onto a neat, weedless orchard.
“This is the bed,” Yumn said, as if revealing a place of infamy. “And Haytham knew what went on within it.”
Barbara turned from the window, but she didn't examine the object in question. She was about to say, “And we both know how Haytham Querashi came by that piece of information, don't we, sweetie,” when she noticed that the table across the room from the bed appeared to be a craft centre of some sort. She walked to this curiously. Yumn continued.
“You can imagine how Haytham would feel, learning that his beloved—presented to him by her father as chaste—was little more than a common …well, my language is too strong, perhaps. But no stronger than my feelings.”
“Hmm,” Barbara said. She saw that three miniature plastic chests of drawers contained beads, coins, shells, stones, bits of copperas, and other small ornaments.
“Women carry our culture forward through time,” Yumn was continuing. “Our role is not only as wives and mothers, but as symbols of virtue for the daughters that follow us.”
“Yes. Right,” Barbara said. Next to the three chests was a rack of implements: tiny spanners, long-nosed pliers, a glue gun, scissors, and two wire cutters.
“And if a woman fails in this role, she fails herself, her husband, and her family. She stands disgraced. Sahlah knew this. She knew what awaited her once Haytham broke their engagement and stated his reasons for doing so.”
“Got it. Yes,” Barbara said. And next to the rack of tools was a row of large spools.
“No man would want her after that. If she wasn't cast out of the family altogether, she'd be a prisoner of it. A virtual slave. At everyone's command.”
Barbara said, “I need to speak to your husband, Mrs. Malik,” and she rested her fingers on the prize she'd found.
Among the spools of thin chain, string, and bright yarn stood one damning spool of very fine wire. It was more than suitable for tripping an unsuspecting man in the dark on the top of the Nez.
Bingo, she thought. Bloody flaming hell. Barlow the Beast had been right from the first.