E COULDN'T STOP THE VOICES IN HIS HEAD. They seemed to be coming from every direction and from every possible source. At first he thought that he'd know what to do next if only he could silence their shouting. But when he realised that he could do nothing to drive the howl of them out of his skull—save kill himself, which he certainly did not intend to do—he knew he would have to lay his plans while the voices attempted to lay waste to his nerves.
Reuchlein's phone call had come into the mustard factory less than two minutes after the Scotland Yard bitch had left the warehouse in Parkeston. “Abort, Malik” was all he said, which meant that the new shipment of goods—due to arrive this very day and worth at least ￡20,000 if he could keep them working long enough without doing a bunk—would not be met at the port, would not be driven to the warehouse, and would not be sent out in work parties to the Kent farmers who had already paid half in advance, as agreed upon. Instead, the goods would be released on their own upon their arrival, to find their way to London or Birmingham or any other city in which they could hide. And if they weren't caught by the police in advance of reaching their destination, they would fade into the population and keep their gobs plugged about how they got into the country. No sense in talking when talking would lead to deportation. As to those workers already on sites, they were on their own. When no one arrived to fetch them back to the warehouse, they'd work things out.
Abort meant that Reuchlein was on his way back to Hamburg. It meant that every document pertaining to the immigration services of World Wide Tours was heading into the shredder. And it meant that he himself had to act quickly before the world as he'd known it for twenty-six years crashed in on him.
He'd left the factory. He'd gone home. He'd started to put his own plans in motion. Haytham was dead—praise whatever Divine Being was convenient at the moment—and he knew that there was no way on earth that Kumhar would talk. Talk and he'd find himself deported, which was the last thing he wanted now that his chief protector had been murdered.
And then Yumn—that ugly cow whom he was forced to call wife—had begun her business with his mother. And she'd had to be dealt with, which is when he'd learned the truth about Sahlah.
He'd cursed her, his slag of a sister. She'd driven him to it. What did she expect to happen when she acted like a whore with a Westerner? Forgiveness? Understanding? Acceptance? What? She'd let those hands—unclean, defiled, corrupt, disgusting—touch her body. She'd willingly met that mouth with her own. She lay with that bloody piece of shit Shaw under a tree on the bare fucking ground and she expected him—her brother, her elder, her lord—to walk away from the knowledge? From the sound of their breathing and moaning together? From the scent of their sweat? From the sight of his hand lifting her nightgown and sliding sliding sliding up her leg?
So yes, he'd grabbed her. Yes, he'd dragged her into the house. And yes, he'd taken her because she deserved to be taken, because she was a whore, and because above all she was meant to pay the way all whores pay. And once—one night—was not enough to impress her with the knowledge of who was the real master of her fate. One word from me and you die, he'd told her. And he didn't even need to muffle her cries with his palm as he was prepared to do. She knew she had to pay for her sin.
Once Yumn had spoken, he'd gone in search of her. It was the very last thing he knew he should do, but he had to find her. He was in a fever to find her. His eyes were throbbing, his heart was thundering, and his head was pounding with all of their voices.
Abort, Malik.
Am I meant to be treated like a dog?
She's ungovernable, my son. She has no sense of—
The police were here to search the factory. They were asking for you.
Abort, Malik.
Look at me, Muni. Look at what your mother—
Before I knew it, she had ruined the plants. I don't understand why—
Abort, Malik.
…your father's perfect little virgin.
Abort.
Virgin? Her? In a few more weeks she won't be able to hide the—
They wouldn't say what they were looking for. But they had a warrant. I saw it myself.
Your sister's pregnant.
Abort. Abort.
Sahlah wouldn't speak of it. She wouldn't accuse him. She wouldn't dare. An accusation would ruin her because from it would rise the truth about Shaw. Because he—Muhannad, her brother—would speak that truth. He would accuse. He would relate exactly what he had seen pass between them in the orchard and he'd allow their parents to conclude the rest. Could they trust the word of a daughter who betrayed them by sneaking out of the house at night? Of a daughter who acted like a common slag? Who was more likely to be telling the truth? he would demand. A son who did his duty to his wife, his children, and his parents, or a daughter who daily lived a lie?
Sahlah knew what he would say. She knew what their parents would believe. So she wouldn't speak of it, and she wouldn't accuse.
Which gave him a chance to find her. But she wasn't at the factory. She wasn't at the jewellery shop with her hag-faced friend. She wasn't in Falak Dedar Park. She wasn't on the pier.
But on the pier he'd heard the news about Mrs. Shaw and he'd gone to the hospital. He was just in time to see them coming out, the three of them. His father, his sister, and Theo Shaw. And the look that passed between his sister and her lover as he opened the door of their father's car for her had told him what he needed to know. She'd told. The little bitch had told Shaw the truth.
He'd spun away before they could see him. And the voices roared.
Abort, Malik.
What am I to do? Tell me, Muni.
At the moment, Mr. Kumhar hasn't identified anyone he wishes to be notified.
When one among us has died, it is not up to you to see to his resurrection, Muhannad.
′ found dead on the Nez.
I work with our people in London when they have troubles with—
Abort, Malik.
Muhannad, come and meet my friend Barbara. She lives in London.
This person you speak of is dead to us. You should not have brought him into our house.
We go for ice creams on Chalk Farm Road and we've been to the cinema and she even came to my birthday party. Sometimes we go to see her mum in—
Abort, Malik.
We told her we were going to Essex. Only Dad didn't tell me you lived here, Muhannad.
Abort. Abort.
Will you come again? Can I meet your wife and your little boys? Will you come again?
And there—there, where he least expected to find it—was the answer he was seeking. It silenced the voices and calmed his nerves.
It sent him hurtling towards the Burnt House Hotel.
“ALL RIGHT,” Emily said fiercely. Her face lit with a radiant smile. “Well done, Barbara. God damn. All right.” She shouted for Belinda Warner. The WPC came bounding into the office.
Barbara felt like crowing. They had Muhannad Malik by the short and curlies, presented to them like the Baptist to Salome with no dancing required. And by his very own dimwitted wife.
Emily began giving orders. The DC working the Colchester end—who'd been combing the streets round Rakin Khan's home in an attempt to find someone who could either corroborate Muhannad's alibi for Friday night or sink it forever—was to be called home. The constables sent to the mustard factory to go through everyone's personnel file for an examination of their paperwork were to be taken off that scent. The blokes working on the beach hut break-ins to clear the slate of Trevor Ruddock were to put that endeavour on the back burner. Everyone was to join the search for Muhannad Malik.
“No one could be in two places at once,” Barbara had exulted to Emily. “He forgot to tell his wife what his alibi was. And she bloody well gave him a second one. The flaming game's not afoot, Emily. It's bloody well up.”
And now she watched the DCI in her glory at long last. Emily fielded phone calls, constructed a battle plan, and directed her team with a calm assurance that belied the excitement which Barbara knew that she had to be feeling. Hell, she'd been right from the very first. She'd sensed something dodgy in Muhannad Malik, something not right in all of his loud protestations of being a man of his people. Indeed, there was probably some allegory or fable that emphasised the exact hypocrisy of Muhannad's life, but at the moment Barbara was too wired to dredge it up from her memory. Dog in the manger? Tortoise and the hare? Who knew? Who cared? Let's just get this flaming bastard, she thought.
Constables were dispatched in all directions: to the mustard factory, to the Avenues, to the town council rooms, to Falak Dedar Park, to that small meeting hall above Balford Print Shoppe where Intelligence had revealed that Jum'a had its gatherings. Other constables were assigned to Parkeston in the event that their quarry had headed to Eastern Imports.
Descriptions of Malik went out by fax to surrounding communities. The Thunderbird's number plates and the car's unique colour and features were relayed to police stations. The Tendring Standard was phoned for a front-page position for Malik's photograph in case they hadn't run him to ground by morning.
The entire station was mobilised. Everywhere was movement. Everyone worked like a cog in the greater machine of the investigation, and Emily Barlow was that machine's centre.
It was in this sort of mode that she did her best work. Barbara remembered her ability to make quick decisions and to deploy her manpower where it would have the greatest effect. She'd done this in their exercises at Maidenstone when there was nothing at stake but the approval of the instructor and the admiration of colleagues taking the course. Now, with everything at stake—from peace in the community to her very job—she was the personification of tranquility. Only the manner in which she bit off words as she spoke them gave an indication of her tension.
“They were all in on it,” she told Barbara, tossing back a slug of water from an Evian bottle. Her face was shiny with perspiration. “Querashi as well. It's so fucking obvious. He wanted a share of the lolly that Muhannad was having off everyone who hired his illegals. Muhannad wouldn't play. Querashi did a header down the stairs.” Another slug of water. “Look at how easily it worked, Barb. Malik was in and out of his house all the time: meetings of Jum'a, dealing with Reuchlein, shipping illegals all over the country.”
“Not to mention all the traveling he does for the factory,” Barbara added. “Ian Armstrong told me as much.”
“So if he was out on this night or that night, his family would never think a thing of it, would they? He could leave the house, trail Querashi, see his set-up with Hegarty—without even knowing it was Hegarty he was meeting—and choose his moment to give him the chop. With half a dozen alibis at the ready for any night that he was able to pull it off.”
Barbara saw how all of it fitted together. “And then he showed up with his people in tow, ready to protest the death and make himself look innocent.”
“To make it look like he was what he never could be: a brother Muslim to Muslims, intent upon getting to the bottom of Querashi's murder.”
“Because why the hell would he be dogging your heels in pursuit of Querashi's killer if he was the killer?”
“Or so I was intended to think,” Emily said. “Except I never thought it. Not for an instant.”
She paced to the window where the pillowcase that she'd hung a day earlier still shielded the room from the sun. She yanked on it, pulling it down. She leaned out of the window and watched the street. She said, “This is worst part. I hate this part of it.”
The waiting, Barbara thought. The keeping oneself behind the lines in order to direct the troops as information flowed into the station. It was the downside of having attained Emily's position. The DCI couldn't be everywhere at once. She had to rely on the expertise and the sheer doggedness of her team.
“Guv?”
Emily spun from the window. Belinda Warner was at the door. “Who've we heard from?” she said.
“It's that Asian bloke. He's downstairs again. He—”
“What Asian bloke?”
“You know. Mr. Azhar. He's in reception and he's asking for you. Or the sergeant. He said the sergeant would do. Reception said he's all in a twist.”
“Reception?” Emily echoed. “What the hell is he doing in reception? He's supposed to be with Fahd Kumhar. I left him with him. I gave express orders to—” She cut her own words off. “Jesus,” she said, white-faced.
“What?” Barbara was on her feet. The idea of Azhar in a twist brought her to them. The Pakistani was so controlled that the thought of him in a twist about anything had alerted every one of her senses. “What's going on?”
“He wasn't supposed to leave the station,” Emily said. “He was supposed to be kept with Kumhar till we got our mitts on his cousin. But I goddamn bloody hell left the interview room and I forgot to tell reception he wasn't to leave the building.”
“What do you …?” Belinda clearly was looking for direction.
“I'll see to him,” Emily snapped.
Barbara followed her. They took the corridor and the stairs at a trot. On the ground floor, Taymullah Azhar paced the reception cubicle.
“Barbara!” he cried as he caught sight of their approach. All effort at obfuscation dissolved in a moment of what was clearly panic. His face was frantic. “Barbara, she's gone. He's taken Hadiyyah.”
? ? ?
“CHRIST,” BARBARA SAID, and she meant it as a prayer. “Azhar, what? Jesus. Are you sure?”
“I went back to the hotel. I'd finished here. Mr. Treves told me. Mrs. Porter was with her. She remembered him from the other night. She'd seen us together. You remember. In the bar. She thought it was all arranged …” He was two steps away from hyperventilating.
Impulsively, Barbara put an arm round his shoulders. “We'll get her,” she said, squeezing him hard. “Azhar, we'll get her. I swear it. I promise you we'll get her back.”
“What the hell is going on?” Emily demanded.
“Hadiyyah's his daughter. She's eight years old. Muhannad's taken her. Obviously, she thought it was okay to go with him.”
“She knows never to go,” Azhar said. “A stranger. She knows that. Never. Never,”
“Except Muhannad isn't a stranger to her,” Barbara reminded him. “Not any longer. She told him she wanted to meet his wife and his children. Remember, Azhar? You heard her when she said it. So did I. And you had no reason to think …” She felt the agitated need to absolve him of the guilt that she knew he was feeling. But she couldn't do it. This was his child.
“What the hell is this?” Emily demanded once again.
“I told you. Hadiyyah—”
“I don't give a fuck for Hadiyyah, whoever she is. D'you know these people, Sergeant Havers? And if so, exactly how many of them do you know?”
Barbara saw her error. It lay in her arm that still encompassed Azhar's shoulders. It lay in the knowledge which she'd just revealed herself to possess. Frantically, she cast through her mind for something to say, but there was nothing but the truth to offer and no time to explain it.
Azhar spoke again. “He asked her if she liked the sea. Mrs. Porter heard that much. ‘D'you like the sea? Shall we have ourselves a sea adventure?’ He said that as they were walking off. Mrs. Porter heard. Barbara, he's taken—”
“Good Christ. A boat.” Barbara's glance flew to Emily. There was no time either to explain or to placate. She knew where Muhannad Malik had gone. She knew what he planned. “He's taken a boat from the Balford Marina. From East Essex Boat Hire, just like before. Hadiyyah thinks it's a day cruise on the North Sea. But he's heading for the continent. He has to be. It's crazy. It's too far. But that's what he's doing. Because of Hamburg. Because of Reuchlein. And Hadiyyah's his insurance that we don't stop him. We need the Coast Guard after him, Em.”
Emily Barlow didn't reply in words. But her answer was written upon her features, and what her features were saying had nothing to do with tracking a killer across the sea. The realisation of Barbara's deception was playing over her face, thinning her lips and tightening her jaw.
“Em,” Barbara said, frantic to get them past the moment. “I know them from London. Azhar. Hadiyyah. That's it. That's all. For God's sake, Em—”
“I can't believe it.” Emily's eyes seemed to burn into hers. “You of all people.”
“Barbara …” Azhar's voice was anguished.
“I didn't know you were in charge of the case until I got to Balford,” Barbara said.
“You were out of line no matter who was in charge.”
“Okay. I know it. I was out of line.” In agitation, Barbara sought something to move the DCI into action. “Em, I wanted to keep them out of trouble. I was worried about them.”
“And I played into your hands, didn't I?”
“What I did was wrong. I should have told you. You can make a report to my super if you want. But later. Later.”
“Please.” Azhar spoke the word like a prayer.
“So fucking unprofessional, Havers.” It was as if the DCI hadn't heard a word.
“Yes. All right,” Barbara said. “Unprofessional. Unprofessional as hell. But the way I did my job's not the point. We need the Coast Guard if we want to nab Muhannad. Now, Em. We need the Coast Guard now.”
No response from the DCI.
“Jesus, Em,” Barbara finally cried. “Is this about murder, or is this about you?”
The final remark was manipulative and rotten, and Barbara despised herself the moment she said it. But the implied judgement achieved the response that Barbara sought.
Emily shot a look at Azhar, then another at Barbara. Then she took up the reins of the case.
“The Coast Guard's no good to us.” And without further explanation, she spun round and strode towards the back of the station.
Barbara said, “Come on,” and grabbed Azhar's arm.
Emily paused at the door of a room filled with computers and communication equipment. She said tersely, “Get on to PC Fogarty. Send the ARV to Balford Marina. Our man's on the sea, and he's taken a hostage. Tell Fogarty I want a Glock 17 and an MP5.”
And Barbara understood why Emily had vetoed the idea of the Coast Guard. Their boats carried no weapons; their officers weren't armed. And the DCI was calling for the department's Armed Response Vehicle.
Shit, Barbara thought fervently. She tried to drive from her mind the picture of Hadiyyah caught in a crossfire of bullets. “Come on,” she said to Azhar again.
“What's she …?”
“She's going after him. We're going as well.” It was, Barbara thought, the best bet she could make to keep the worst from happening to her little London friend.
Emily stode through the weight room with Azhar and Barbara hard on her heels. Behind the station, she took possession of a panda car. She had it started, its lights revolving, by the time Barbara and Azhar climbed in.
Emily looked at the two of them. “He stays,” she said. And to Azhar, “Get out.” And when the man didn't move fast enough, she snarled, “Goddamn it, I said get out. I've had enough of you. I've had enough of all of you. Get out of the car.”
Azhar looked to Barbara. Barbara couldn't tell what he wanted of her, and even had she known, she couldn't have given it. Compromise was the best she could offer. She said, “We'll get her, Azhar. Stay here.”
He said, “Please. Allow me. She's all that I have. She's all that I love.”
Emily narrowed her eyes. “Tell that to the wife and kids in Houn-slow. I'm sure they'd be thrilled to hear the news. Now, get out, Mr. Azhar, before I call for an officer to help you do it.”
Barbara swung round in her seat. “Azhar,” she said. He tore his gaze from the DCI. “I love her, too. I'll bring her back. You wait here.”
Reluctantly, as if the effort cost him everything he had, the man got out of the car. When he'd shut the door, Emily tramped on the accelerator. They shot out of the car park and into the street. Emily flipped on the siren.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” she demanded. “What kind of cop are you?”
They roared to the top of Martello Road. Traffic in the High Street halted. They bore right and tore in the direction of the sea.
“How many times could you have told me the truth in the last four days? Ten? A dozen?”
“I would have told you, but—”
“Stuff it,” Emily said. “Don't bother to explain.”
“When you asked me to liaise, I should have told you. But you would've pulled back, and I would've been in the dark. I was worried about them. He's a university professor. I thought he was in way over his head.”
“Oh yeah,” Emily scoffed. “He's in as much over his head as I am.”
“I didn't know that. How could I have known?”
“You tell me.”
She veered into Mill Lane. A delivery van was parked too far into the street, with its driver loading cardboard boxes marked TYPOGRAPHIC onto a dolly. Emily dodged to miss both the van and its driver. She steered the car onto the pavement with a curse. The car knocked over a dust bin and a bicycle. Barbara grabbed for the dashboard as Emily jerked the vehicle back into the street.
“I didn't know he did all this legal stuff on the side. I only knew him as my neighbour. I knew he was coming here. Yes, right. But he didn't know I'd follow him. I know his daughter, Em. She's a friend.”