“Could you phone me as well? I mean, if you unearth something.” When he didn't reply at once, she rushed on with “I know it's irregular. And I don't want to get you into a bad spot with the inspector. But he won't tell me much and it's always, ‘Get back to the computer, Constable,’ if I make a suggestion. So, if you were willing to keep me in the picture … I mean, I know he'd be cheesed off if he knew, but I swear I'd never tell him that you—”
“I'll phone you as well,” St. James interrupted. “But there may be nothing. I know Sue Myles. She's nothing if not thorough. Frankly, I don't see why Tommy wants me to look her work over in the first place.”
Neither do I, Barbara wanted to tell him. Still, his promise to phone her buoyed her spirits, so she ended the day in far better a frame of mind than she'd begun it.
When she saw Hadiyyah's note, however, an unhappy twinge pricked at her mood. The little girl had no mother to speak of—at least no mother who was present or likely to become present any time soon—and while Barbara didn't expect to take her mother's place, she had struck up a friendship with Hadiyyah that had been a source of pleasure to them both. Hadiyyah had hoped that Barbara would attend her sewing lesson that afternoon. And Barbara had failed her. It didn't feel good.
So when she'd dropped her bag on the dining room table and listened to her messages—Mrs. Flo reporting on her mum, her mum reporting on a jolly trip to Jamaica, Hadiyyah telling her she'd left a note on the door and did Barbara find it?—she wandered up to the front of the big Edwardian house where the ground floor flat's french windows were open from the sitting room onto the flagstones of the area and within the room itself, a child's voice was declaring, “But they don't fit, Dad. Honest.”
Hadiyyah and her father were just inside, Hadiyyah seated on a cream-puff-shaped ottoman and Taymullah Azhar kneeling next to her like a lovesick Orsino. The object of their attention appeared to be the shoes that Hadiyyah was wearing. These were black lace-ups of school-uniform appearance, and Hadiyyah was squirming round in them as if they were a new device for extracting information from double agents.
“My toes're all squished up. My toe knuckles hurt.”
“And you are certain this pain has nothing to do with the desire to follow a fad of fashion, khushi?.”
“Dad.” Hadiyyah's tone was martyred. “Please. These're school shoes, you know.”
“And as we both recall,” Barbara said from the flagstones, “school shoes are never cool, Azhar. They always defy fashion. That's why they're school shoes.”
Father and daughter looked up, Hadiyyah crying out, “Barbara! I left you a note. On the door. Did you get it? I stuck it with Sellotape,” and Azhar leaning back on his heels to give his daughter's shoes a more objective scrutiny. “She says they no longer fit,” he told Barbara. “I myself am not convinced.”
“Arbitration is called for,” Barbara said. “May I … ?”
“Come in. Yes. Of course.” Azhar rose and made a gesture of welcome in his formal fashion.
The flat was fragrant with the smell of curry. Barbara saw that the table was neatly laid for dinner, and she said quickly, “Oh, Sorry. I wasn't thinking about the time, Azhar. You've not eaten yet, and … D'you want me to come back later? I just saw Hadiyyah's note and thought I'd pop round. You know. The sewing lesson this afternoon. I'd promised her …” She brought herself up short. Enough, she thought.
He smiled. “Perhaps you'll join us for our meal.”
“Oh gosh, no. I mean, I haven't eaten yet, but I wouldn't want to—”
“You must!” Hadiyyah said happily. “Dad, say that she must. We're having chicken biryani. And dal. And Dad's special veg curry, which Mummy cries when she eats 'cause it's so spicy. She says, ‘Hari, you make it far too hot’ and her eye makeup runs. Doesn't it, Dad?”
Hari, Barbara thought.
Azhar said, “It does, khushi.” And to Barbara, “It will be our pleasure if you join us, Barbara.”
She thought, Better run, better hide. But, nonetheless, she said, “Thanks. I will, then.”
Hadiyyah crowed. She pirouetted in her ostensibly too-tight shoes. Her father watched her gravely and said with meaning, “Ah. As to your feet, Hadiyyah …”
“Let me check them,” Barbara interposed quickly.
Hadiyyah flew to the ottoman and plopped down upon it. She said, “They pinch and they pinch. Even then, Dad. Really.”
Azhar chuckled and disappeared into the kitchen. “Barbara will decide,” he told his daughter.
“They really pinch awfully” Hadiyyah said. “Feel how my toes're scrunched up in front.”
“I don't know, Hadiyyah,” Barbara said, probing the toecaps tentatively. “What'll you replace these with? More of the same?”
The little girl didn't reply. Barbara looked up. Hadiyyah was sucking in on her lip.
“Well?” Barbara asked. “Hadiyyah, have they changed the style of shoe you can wear with your uniform?”