Deception on His Mind (60 page)

“Besides,” Rachel said in a tone that indicated she'd reached the conclusion of her remarks, “I have my own conscience to think of, Sahlah. And how d'you expect I'd feel, knowing I made myself part of something I didn't think was right? I got to consider that.”

“Of course.” Sahlah's lips formed the words, but she couldn't hear herself say them. Instead, she felt as if she were being sucked out of Rachel's presence, out of the industrial estate altogether. An unseen force had her in its grip and was casting her away, away, away. She couldn't feel the ground beneath her, and the once-hot sun had burnt itself to nothing, leaving cold in its place, and endless frost.

And from the distance she had left behind, Sahlah could hear Rachel's words of parting. “You don't need to worry, Sahlah. Really. It'll all work out for the best. You'll see.”

ARBARA HANDED TREVOR RUDDOCK OVER TO BE
fingerprinted, after which she escorted him to an interview room in the police station. She gave him the packet of cigarettes he requested, along with a Coke, an ashtray, and matches. She told him to have a nice, quiet think about what he'd been doing on Friday night and who—among his doubtlessly lengthy list of friends and acquaintances—was likely to corroborate whatever alibi he produced for the police. By locking the door upon her exit, she made certain he would have no access to a telephone in order to arrange this alibi. She went on her way.

Emily, she learned from WPC Warner, had brought in a suspect as well. “The coloured bloke from Clacton” was how Belinda described him. “The one on the phone chits from the hotel.”

Kumhar, Barbara thought. Emily's placement of the surveillance officer in Clacton had paid off more quickly than she would have expected.

She found Emily making arrangements to have Kumhar's fingerprints sent off to London. In the meantime, these prints would also go to the pathology lab in Peterborough, where officers would attempt to match them with those found on Querashi's Nissan. Barbara saw to it that Trevor Ruddock's dabs were added to Kumhar's. One way or another, it seemed that they were getting closer to the truth.

“His English is shit,” Emily told her laconically as they returned to her office. She blotted her face with a paper kitchen towel that she'd dug out of her pocket. She wadded it up and lobbed it into the wastepa-per basket. “Either that or he's pretending that his English is shit. We didn't get anywhere with him in Clacton. Just a lot of gabbling about his papers, as if we'd come to escort him to the nearest port of departure.”

“Is he denying that he knew Querashi?”

“I don't know what he's doing. He might be admitting, denying, outright lying, or reciting poetry. It's impossible to tell because he's doing it all in gibberish.”

“We'll need to get someone to translate,” Barbara said. “That shouldn't be too rough a go, should it? I mean, what with the local Asian community and everything.”

Emily laughed shortly. “You can imagine how well we'll be able to depend on the accuracy of a translation coming from that quarter. Damn it.”

Barbara couldn't argue with the DCI's perspective. How could they depend upon anyone from the Asian community to translate explicitly and objectively, given the racial climate in Balford-le-Nez?

“We could bring someone in from London. One of the DCs could bring out that bloke from the university, the one who did the translation of that page from the Qur'aan. What was his name?”

“Siddiqi.”

“Right. Professor Siddiqi. In fact, I could phone the Yard and ask one of our lads to round him up and drive him out here.”

“That may be our only option,” Emily said. They entered her office, where it seemed even hotter than it was in the rest of the building. The afternoon sun was blazing against the pillowcase that Emily had pinned over the window, casting the room in an aqua glow which simultaneously suggested life in an aquarium while also doing nothing to enhance one's personal appearance.

“Want me to make the call?” Barbara asked.

Emily sank into the chair behind her desk. “Not quite yet. I've got Kumhar locked up, and I'd like to give him time to feel what it's like to be in custody. Something tells me that all he really needs is a generous application of oil on the machinery of his ability to cooperate. And he's new enough in England not to be able to quote PACE to me, Chapter and verse. I've the whip hand in this situation, and I'd bloody well like to use it.”

“But if he doesn't speak English, Em …” Barbara offered hesitantly.

Emily appeared to ignore the implication behind the words: Weren't they wasting time by keeping him in custody without making at least a desultory attempt to bring in a trustworthy agent who spoke his language? “We'll find that out in a few hours, I dare say.” She directed her attention to WPC Warner, who entered the office with a sealed evidence bag in her hand.

“This's been logged in,” Belinda Warner said. “And logged out to you. It's the contents of Querashi's safe deposit box. From Barclays,” she added.

Emily extended her hand. Belinda made the delivery. As if wishing to assuage Barbara's unspoken concerns, Emily told the WPC to phone Professor Siddiqi in London, to ask him about his availability to translate for a Pakistani suspect should that be necessary. “Have him standing by,” Emily said. “If we need him, we'll want him out here fast.”

She gave her attention to the contents of the bag, most of which consisted of paperwork. There were a sheaf of documents relating to the house on First Avenue, a second sheaf that contained his immigration paperwork, a contract for renovation and construction signed by Gerry DeVitt as well as by Querashi and Akram Malik, and several loose papers. One of these had been torn from a spiral notebook, and as Emily picked this one up, Barbara took a second one.

“Here's
Oskarstrafie 15
again,” Emily said, looking up from what she'd apparently read on her paper. She turned it over and gave it a closer scrutiny. “No city, though. But my money's still on Hamburg. What've you got?”

It was a bill of lading, Barbara told her. It came from a place of business called Eastern Imports. “‘Fine furniture, fittings, and accessories for the home,’ “she read to Emily. “Imports from India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh.”

“God only knows what anyone would be importing from Bangladesh,” Emily commented in a dry aside. “It looks like the lovebirds were getting ready to furnish their house on First Avenue.”

Barbara wasn't so sure. “But there's nothing listed on the bill, Em. If he and the Malik girl had been out buying the bridal bed and all the etceteras, wouldn't this be a receipt for their purchases? But it isn't. It's just a blank bill of lading for the company itself.”

Emily frowned. “Where is this place, then? Hounslow? Oxford? The Midlands?” Which were all locations, they both knew, of substantial Indian and Pakistani communities.

Barbara shook her head as she took note of the address. “Parkeston,” she said.

“Parkeston?” Emily sounded incredulous. “Hand it over, Barb.”

Barbara did so. As Emily studied the bill of lading, she also pushed her chair back from her desk and went to examine the wall map of the Tendring Peninsula and, next to it, a larger map of the coastline. For her part, Barbara gave her attention to the three sheaves of documents.

The immigration papers all appeared to be in order, as far as she could tell. The documentation on the First Avenue house seemed likewise. Akram Malik's signature was neatly rendered on most of these latter papers, but that made sense if the house was part of Sahlah Malik's dowry. Barbara was leafing through the contract for renovations signed by Gerry DeVitt when yet another paper slid out from between the pages.

It was, she saw, the page from a glossy magazine. It had been carefully torn out and folded to pocket size. Barbara unfolded it and spread it on her lap.

Both sides of the page comprised advertisements from a section of the magazine that was called
At Your Service.
They ranged from International Company Services Limited on the Isle of Man, which appeared to arrange offshore corporations for the protection of one's assets and the avoidance of taxes, to Lorraine Electronics Discreet Surveillance for employers who doubted the loyalty of their workers, to Spycatcher of Knightsbridge, which offered the latest in bug detecting devices for “the serious businessman's total protection.” There were ads for car hire companies, for serviced apartments in London, and for security services. Barbara read each of them. She was growing more and more nonplussed about Querashi's having stowed this particular paper among his other documents, thinking it surely had to be some sort of mistake, when a familiar name leapt out at her.
World Wide Tours,
she read,
Travel and Specialists in Immigration,

Yet another very strange coincidence, she realised. One of the calls that Querashi had made from the Burnt House had been to this same agency, with one exception. Querashi had phoned World Wide Tours in Karachi, while this World Wide Tours was on the High Street in Harwich.

Barbara joined Emily at the coastal map, where the DCI was contemplating the peninsula north of Pennyhole Bay. Never an enthusiastic student of geography, until Barbara herself had a decent look at the map, she had no idea that Harwich was due north of the Nez and virtually identical to it longitudinally. It sat at the mouth of the River Stour, directly connected to the rest of the country by a railway line. Without conscious intention, Barbara followed the barbed and black indication of this line as it headed west. The first stop it made—indeed, barely far enough out of Harwich to be considered a separate entity—was Parkeston.

“Em,” Barbara said, aware of a rising sense of connections being made and pieces falling into place, “he's got an ad here for a travel agency in Harwich, but it's got the same name as the one he phoned in Karachi.”

But Emily, she saw, didn't make the jump between Karachi and Harwich, between Harwich and Parkeston. Instead, she appeared to be contemplating a small boxed list of information that was superimposed on the blue of the sea, to the east of Harwich. Barbara leaned forward to read it.

Vehicle Ferry from Harwich (Parkeston Quay) to:

“Well, well, well,” Barbara said.

“Interesting, isn't it?” Emily turned from the map. At her desk, she shifted papers, folders, and reports until she came up with the photograph of Haytham Querashi. She extended it to Barbara, saying, “What d'you think of a drive this afternoon?”

“Harwich and Parkeston?” Barbara said.

“If he was there, someone saw him,” Emily replied. “And if someone saw him, someone may be able to tell us—”

“Guv?” Belinda Warner was at the door again. She looked back over her shoulder as if expecting to be followed.

“What is it?” Emily asked.

“The Asian blokes. Mr. Malik and Mr. Azhar. They're here.”

“Shit.” Emily glanced at her watch. “I'm not about to put up with this. If they think that they can show up whenever they please for another one of their bloody meetings—”

“Not that, Guv,” Belinda cut in. “They've heard about the bloke from Clacton.”

For a moment Emily stared at the WPC as if she didn't quite understand. She even said, “Clacton.”

Belinda said, “Right. Mr. Kumhar. They know he's here. They're demanding to see him, and they won't be put off till you've given them a chance to have a word with him.”

“What bloody cheek,” Emily said.

But what she didn't say was what Barbara knew she had to be thinking: The Asians obviously knew the Police and Criminal Evidence Act better than the DCI had anticipated. And Barbara realised that intimate knowledge of PACE could only have come from one possible source.

A
GATHA SHAW REPLACED
the telephone receiver into its cradle and allowed herself a crow of triumph. If she could have done, she would have danced a jig. She would have danced it straight across the library carpet, leaping and bouncing through its steps until she found herself in front of those three easels on which still stood—these two days after the failed council meeting—the artist's and architect's depictions of Balford-le-Nez as it could be. Then she would have swept each of those easels into her arms and kissed them soundly, like precious children worshipped by an adoring mother.