Deception on His Mind (19 page)

“And Akram Malik? What did he think?”

“Our Akram plays his cards ve-rry close, Sergeant. He wouldn't be fool enough to let me know what he was thinking.”

“Why's that?” Barbara asked as Treves swung open the door to Haytham Querashi's room.

“Because we loathe each other,” Treves explained pleasantly. “I can't abide upstarts, and he doesn't like to be considered one. It's a shame he immigrated to England, when you think of it. He'd have done much better in the U.S., where the first concern is whether you have money, and who your people are ranks down round your shoe size. Here we are.” He switched on the overhead light.

Haytham Querashi's room was a single with a small casement window overlooking the back garden of the hotel. It was decorated as haphazardly as Barbara's room. Yellow, red, and pink all battled to be the dominant colour.

“He seemed to be quite happy here,” Treves said as Barbara took in the depressingly narrow bed, the one armless and lumpy chair, the pseudo-wood of the clothes cupboard, and the gaps in the tassles on the shade of a wall sconce. There was a print above the bed, another Victorian scene, this one a young woman languishing on a chaise longue. The paper it was mounted on had long since gone dingy.

“Right.” Barbara grimaced at the odour in the room. It was the smell of burnt onions and sprouts too long cooked. Querashi's room was located above the kitchen, doubtless a subtle reminder to the man of what his place was in the hotel hierarchy. “Mr. Treves, what can you tell me about Haytham Querashi? How long had he been staying with you? Had he any visitors? Any friends that stopped by? Any particular phone calls that he made or received?” She pressed the back of her hand against the hot dampness on her forehead and went to the chest of drawers to have a look at Querashi's belongings. She paused and rustled through her shoulder bag for the evidence bags that Emily had given to her before she'd left the Crescent. She donned a pair of latex gloves.

Querashi, Basil Treves informed her, had been staying at the Burnt House for six weeks while waiting for his wedding. Akram Malik had arranged for the room. Apparently, a house had been purchased for the soon-to-be newlyweds as part of the Malik daughter's dowry, but as it was undergoing redecoration, Querashi's stay at the hotel had been extended several times. He went to work before eight in the morning and generally returned round half past seven or eight at night, taking breakfast and dinner at the Burnt House on weekdays, dinner elsewhere at the weekend.

“With the Maliks?”

Treves shrugged. He ran one finger down a panel in the opened door and examined its tip which, even from where Barbara stood at the chest of drawers, she could see was furred with dust. He couldn't
swear
that Querashi was with the Maliks every weekend. While it would make sense were that the case—”since in usual circumstances the lovebirds would want to be together as often as possible, wouldn't they?”—because these circumstances were rather abnormal, there was always a possibility that Querashi spent his weekend hours in other pursuits.

“Abnormal circumstances?” Barbara turned from the chest of drawers.

“An arranged marriage,” Treves explained, with delicate emphasis on the adjective. “Rather medieval, wouldn't you say?”

“It's cultural, isn't it?”

“Whatever you call it, when you force fourteenth-century mores upon twentieth-century men and women, you can't be surprised what develops as a result, can you, Sergeant?”

“What developed in this case?” Barbara turned back to take note of the items on top of the chest: a passport, neatly arranged stacks of coins, a money clip clasping fifty pounds in notes, and a brochure for a place called the Castle Hotel and Restaurant which was—according to the map that accompanied it—on the main road to Harwich. Barbara opened this curiously. The tariff sheet fell out. She noted that listed last among the rooms was a honeymoon suite. For £80 per night, Querashi and his bride would have been set up with a four-poster bed, one half bottle of Asti Spumante, one red rose, and breakfast in bed. Romantic devil, she thought, and went on to a leather case that, upon inspection, she found locked.

She realised that Treves hadn't answered her question. She glanced his way. He was pulling thoughtfully at his beard, and she noticed for the first time a few disagreeable flakes of skin caught up in it, product of a mild case of eczema that mottled the lower part of his cheeks. He was wearing the sort of expression that powerless people seeking power often wear. Lofty, knowing, and undecided about the wisdom of sharing his knowledge. Bloody hell, Barbara thought with an inward sigh. It looked as if she was going to have to massage his ego every step of the way.

“I need your insight into him, Mr. Treves. Aside from the Maliks, you're probably the best source of information we have.”

“I understand that.” Treves gave his beard a preening pat. “But you must understand that a hotelier is not entirely unlike a confessor. To the successful hotelier, what one sees, hears, and concludes is of a confidential nature.”

Barbara wanted to point out to him that the state of the Burnt House hardly justified the adjective
successful
being applied to him. But she knew the rules of the game he was playing. “Believe me,” she intoned, “whatever information you supply will be treated in confidence, Mr. Treves. But I've got to have it if we're to work together as equals.” She wanted to snarl when she said the final words. She covered this desire by sliding open the top drawer of the chest, searching through carefully folded socks and underwear for the key to the locked leather case.

“If you're sure of that …” Treves was apparently so eager to part with what he knew—despite his words—that he went on without waiting for her assurances. “Then I must tell you. There was someone else in his life besides the Malik girl. It's the only explanation.”

“For what?” Barbara went on to the second drawer. A stack of perfectly folded shirts was arranged by colour: white giving way to ivory, to grey, and finally to black. Pyjamas were in the third drawer. Nothing was in the fourth. Querashi travelled light.

“For why he went out at night.”

“Haytham Querashi went out at night? How often?”

“At least twice a week. Sometimes more. And always after ten. I thought at first that he was going to see his fiancée. It seemed a reasonable enough conclusion, despite the odd hour. He'd want to get to know her, wouldn't he, before the wedding day. These people aren't complete heathens, after all. They may give their sons and daughters away to the highest bidder, but I dare say they don't give them away to total strangers without allowing them a chance to get acquainted. Do they?”

“I haven't a clue,” Barbara replied. “Go on.” She went to the bedside table, a wobbly affair with a single drawer. She slid this open.

“Well, the point is that on
this
particular night, I saw him as he was leaving the hotel. We chatted a bit about the upcoming nuptials, and he told me he was going to the seafront for a run. Pre-wedding nerves and all. You know.”

“Right.”

“So when I heard he died on the Nez, of all places—which as you may or may not know, Sergeant, is in the opposite direction to the seafront if you leave from this hotel intending to have a run—I realised he hadn't wanted me to be privy to what he was up to. Which can only mean that he was up to something he hadn't ought to be up to. And, since he regularly left the hotel at the exact hour at which he left on Friday night, and since on Friday night he ended up dead, I think it's safe to deduce not only that he was meeting someone whom he met on the other nights but also that this someone was a person he ought not to have been meeting in the first place.” Treves folded his hands at chest height once again and looked as if he expected Barbara to shout, “Holmes, you amaze me!”

But since Haytham Querashi had been murdered and since the conditions suggested the death was no random act, Barbara had already concluded that the man had gone to the Nez to meet someone. The only piece of information Treves had added was that Querashi may have made this a regular rendezvous. And, reluctant as she was to admit it, that was an extremely valuable titbit. She threw the hotelier a bone. “Mr. Treves, you're in the wrong profession.”

“Really?”

“Believe it.” And those two words weren't even a lie.

Thus buoyed, Treves came to inspect the contents of the bedside table with her: a yellow-bound book with a matching satin marker that, opened, displayed several lines bracketed off and an entire text that was written in Arabic; a box of two dozen condoms, half of which were gone; and a five by seven manila envelope. Barbara placed the book into an evidence bag as Treves tut-tutted over the condoms and everything that possession of such sexual paraphernalia seemed to imply. As he clucked, Barbara upended the manila envelope into her palm. Two keys fell out, one not much larger than the length of her first knuckle to the tip of her thumb, the other quite tiny, fingernail size. This second had to be the key to the leather case on the chest of drawers. She closed her fingers round both of the keys and contemplated her next move. She wanted a look inside the case, but she preferred the look to be a private one. So before she took action, she had to take care of her bearded Sherlock.

She thought about how best to do this while still keeping the man's good will. He wouldn't take kindly to the dawning knowledge that, as he knew the victim, he was one of the suspects in Querashi's murder until an alibi or other evidence eliminated him.

She said, “Mr. Treves, these keys may be crucial to our investigation. Would you step into the corridor and keep watch, please? The last thing we want at a moment like this is eavesdroppers or spies. Give me the word if the coast is clear.”

He said, “Of course, of
course,
Sergeant. I'm only too happy …” and hurried off to fulfill his commission.

Once he gave her the all clear, the heave ho, and the anchors aweigh, she took a closer look at the keys. They were both brass, the larger of them attached to a chain on which a metal tag also hung. This was stamped with the number 104. Locker key? Barbara wondered. And what sort of locker? Railway locker? Bus station locker? Personal locker somewhere on the seafront, the sort of metal cupboard in which people stowed their clothes while they were swimming in the sea? They were all possibilities.

The second key she slid into the lock on the small leather case. The key turned smoothly. She flicked the catch on the case to the right. The lid unlatched. She eased the case open.

“Finding anything useful?” Treves’ whisper came from the doorway, 007 in its intensity. “All clear on this side of things, Sergeant.”

“Keep guard, Mr. Treves,” she whispered back.

“Will do,” he murmured. She could tell that he was beginning to feel he'd been born to live the cloak-and-dagger life.

“I'm depending on you,” she said, and went for a between-the-teeth articulation, which she hoped would heighten the sense of intrigue which appeared necessary to keep him in line. “If anyone stirs … And I mean anyone at
all,
Mr. Treves—”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Carry on without fear, Detective Sergeant Havers.”

She smiled. What a goofball, she thought. She added the keys to the evidence bag. Then she turned to the leather case.

It contents were neatly arranged: a pair of gold cuff links, a gold money clip with something engraved in Arabic on it, a small gold ring—perhaps intended for a woman—with a ruby in the centre, one gold coin, four gold bangles, a cheque book, and a yellow piece of paper that was folded in half. Barbara paused to consider Querashi's predilection for gold and what, if anything, such a predilection meant and how, if possible, such a predilection might fit into the overall scheme of what had happened to the man. Avarice? she wondered. Blackmail? Kleptomania? Foresight? Obsession? What?

The cheque book, she saw, was for a local branch of Barclays. It was the sort of book with a receipt stub running along the left side of the cheques. Only one had been written and documented on a receipt, £400 to an F. Kumhar. Barbara examined the date and did her maths: three weeks prior to Querashi's death.

Barbara slid the cheque book into the evidence bag and took up the folded bit of yellow paper. This turned out to be a receipt from a local shop. It was called Racon Original and Artistic Jewellery and beneath this name were the italicised words “Balford's Finest.” Barbara thought at first that the receipt went with the small ruby ring. Perhaps a memento purchased by Querashi for his future bride? But upon inspection, she saw that the receipt wasn't made out to Querashi. Instead, it was made out to Sahlah Malik.

The receipt did not make clear what had been purchased. Whatever it was, it had been identified only by two letters and a number: AK-162. And next to these was a phrase written in inverted commas: “Life begins now.” At the bottom of the receipt was the price that Sahlah Malik had paid: £220.

Intriguing, Barbara thought. She wondered how Querashi had come to have the receipt in his possession. Obviously, it was the receipt for something purchased by the man's fiancée, and “Life begins now” was probably what she intended to have engraved on it. Wedding ring? That was the most logical surmise. But did Pakistani husbands wear them? Barbara had never seen one on Taymullah Azhar, but that didn't mean much because not every man in her own culture wore one, so who was to say what the Asian custom was? But even if the receipt
was
for a wedding ring, having it in his possession indicated that Querashi planned to return whatever it was that Sahlah had purchased. And the act of returning a gift engraved with the hopeful and trusting words “Life begins now” suggested a real fissure in the wedding plans.

Barbara glanced at the bedside table, whose drawer was still open. From across the room she could see the half-empty box of condoms, and she recalled that among the contents of the murdered man's pockets had been three other condoms. In tandem with the receipt from the jewellery shop, the rubbers served to underscore a single conclusion.

Not only had there been a fissure in the wedding plans, but there had likely been a third party involved, one who'd possibly encouraged Querashi to abandon his arranged marriage in favour of another relationship. And this had been done recently, since he still had in his possession the evidence that he was planning a honeymoon.