Deception on His Mind (62 page)

“Had enough time for a think?” Barbara asked him.

“I get to make a phone call,” he said.

“Looking to have a solicitor sit with you? That's a curious request from someone who claims he had nothing to do with Querashi's murder.”

He said, “I want my phone call.”

“Fine. You'll make it in my presence, of course.”

“I don't have to—”

“Wrong. You do.” There was no bloody way that she intended to give Trevor the slightest chance to cook up an alibi. And since he'd doubtless already attempted that with Rachel Winfield, his track record of heartfelt honesty left something to be desired.

Trevor scowled. “I admitted that I nicked stuff from the factory, didn't I? I told you Querashi gave me the sack. I told you
everything
I knew about the bloke. Why'd I do that if I also chopped him?”

“I've been considering that,” Barbara said agreeably. She joined him at the table. The room had no ventilation, so the air was close, saunalike in its weight as she took it into her lungs. The residual smoke from Trevor's habit didn't help much, and she realised there was little point in not joining him. So she took one of his remaining cigarettes and lit up. “I had a chat with Rachel this morning.”

“I know that, don't I” was his reply. “If you came for me, it's ‘cause you talked to her. She must've told you we split round ten. Okay. We did. We split round ten. Now you know it.”

“Right. I know it. But she told me something else that I really didn't put into proper perspective till you refused to tell me what you were up to on Friday night once you left her. And when I put together what she told me with what you've related about Querashi, and I blend those two facts with your secret activity on Friday night, I come up with only one possibility. And that's what we need to talk about, you and I.”

“What's this, then?” He sounded wary. He chewed on his index finger and spat away a flake of skin.

“Have you ever had sexual intercourse with Rachel?”

He lifted his chin, part defiance, part embarrassment. “What if I have? She saying she didn't want it or something? Cause if she is, my memory tells me something different.”

“Just answer the question, Trevor. Have you ever had sexual intercourse with Rachel?”

“Lots of times.” He smirked. “When I give her the call and tell her what day and what time, she comes round straightaway. ‘N’ if she has something else to do that night, she changes her plans. She's got a real itch for me.” Where his eyebrows would have been had he not shaved them off, the skin drew together. “Is she telling you different?”

“Clothes-off sexual intercourse is what I'm talking about,” Barbara clarified, skimming past his other remarks. “Or perhaps better stated, underclothes-off sexual intercourse.”

He chewed on his finger again and examined her. “What're you on about, then?”

“I think you know. Have you ever had vaginal intercourse with Rachel?”

“There's lot of ways to shag. I don't need to give her a length like the pensioners do it.”

“Right. But you're not exactly answering me, are you? What I want to know is whether you've ever been inside Rachel Winfield's vagina. Standing, sitting, kneeling, or mounted on a pogo stick. I don't particularly care about specifics. Just the act itself.”

“We did it. Yeah. Just like you said. We did the act. She got hers and I got mine.”

“With your penis inside her.”

He grabbed the packet of cigarettes. “Shit. What
is
this? I told you we did it. Is she saying I raped her?”

“No. She's saying something a little more intriguing. She's saying sex between you was a one-way street. You didn't do anything but let Rachel Winfield play your flute, Trevor. Isn't that the case?”

“You just hang on there!” His ears had gone crimson. Barbara noticed that when the blood throbbed in his jugular, the spider that was tattooed on his neck seemed to come alive.

“You popped your cork every time the two of you got together,” Barbara went on. “But Rachel didn't get anything out of it. Not even a passing greeting down under, if you get my meaning.”

He didn't deny it, but his fingers clutched the cigarette packet, partially crumpling it.

“So this is what I reckon,” she continued. “Either you're a total dumbshit when it comes to women—thinking that having some bird give your prong the mouth business is the same as putting her on the path to heaven—or you don't much like females at all, which would explain why sex between you was limited to blow jobs. So which one is it, Trevor? Are you just a dumbshit or a bum boy in hiding?”

“I'm not!”

“Not which?”

“Not either! I like girls fine and they like me. And if Rachel tells you different—”

“I'm not so sure about any of that,” Barbara said.

“I c'n give you girls,” he declared hotly. “I c'n give you dozens and dozens of girls. I c'n give you hundreds. I had my first when I was ten years old, and I c'n tell you right now, she liked it just fine. Yeah, I don't shag Rachel Winfield. I never did and I never will. So? What about it? She's an ugly cow and the only way she'll be rogered proper is if the bloke doing it to her is blind. Which I am not, ‘n case you didn't notice.” He stabbed his index finger into the packet and brought out a cigarette. Apparently, it was the last one, because he balled the packet into his palm and flung it into the corner of the room.

“Yes. Well,” Barbara said, “I'm sure the motorway of your life is completely littered with sexual roadkill and all of the corpses are grinning ear to ear. At least in your dreams. But we aren't dealing with dreams, Trevor. We're dealing with reality, and reality is murder. I have only your word for it that you saw Haytham Querashi cottaging in Clacton market square, and I've come to realise that there's a very good chance he was cottaging with you.”

“That's a bloody lie!” He surged to his feet so quickly that his chair toppled over.

“Is it?” Barbara asked blandly. “Sit down, please. Or I'll have a PC give you some assistance.” She waited till he'd righted the chair and planted himself in it. He'd thrown his cigarette to the table, and he retrieved it, lighting a match on the edge of a dirty thumbnail. “You see how it looks, don't you?” Barbara asked him. “You worked together at the factory. He gave you the sack and the excuse was that you'd nicked a few jars of mustard, some chutney and jam. But perhaps that's not why he sacked you at all. Perhaps he sacked you because he was marrying Sahlah Malik and he didn't want you round the place any longer, reminding him of what he really was.”

“I want my phone call,” Trevor said. “I got nothing more to talk to you about.”

“You do see how black things look, don't you?” Barbara crushed her own cigarette out, careful to use the ashtray and not the floor. “A declaration of Querashi's homosexuality, consistent fellatio and nothing else with Rachel—”

“I already explained that!”

“—and Querashi dying at the very same time that you're without an alibi. So tell me, Trevor, does this make you any more inclined to reveal what you were up to on Friday night? If, of course, you weren't up to murdering Haytham Querashi.”

His mouth clamped shut. He stared at her defiantly.

“Right,” she said. “Play it that way if you want. But just make sure you aren't also playing the fool.”

She left him to cool off and went in search of Emily. She heard the DCI before she saw her. Her voice—as well as a male voice taut with animosity—came from the lower floor. Barbara peered over the curved bannister and saw Emily standing toe-to-toe with Muhannad Malik. Taymullah Azhar was directly behind his cousin.

“Don't explain PACE to me,” Emily was saying tersely as Barbara descended the stairs. “I'm well aware of the law. Mr. Kumhar is being held for an arrestable offence. I'm within my rights to ensure that nothing interferes with potential evidence or puts anyone at risk.”

“Mr. Kumhar is the one at risk.” Muhannad's face was hard. “And if you're refusing to let us see him, there's only one possible reason why.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“I want to verify his physical condition. And don't let's pretend you've never used the term ‘resisting the police’ to excuse some bloke's getting a beating while he's in the nick.”

“I think,” Emily said pointedly as Barbara reached her side, “that you've been watching too much television, Mr. Malik. It's not my habit to rough up suspects.”

“Then you'll have no objection to our seeing him.”

When Emily would have offered a rejoinder, Azhar interposed. “The Police and Criminal Evidence Act also indicates that a suspect has the right to have a friend, relative, or other person who is known to him told without delay that he's in custody. May we have the name of whomever you informed, Inspector Barlow?”

He spoke without a glance in Barbara's direction, but even so she was certain he could feel her inward wince. PACE was all well and good, but when events began to outstrip the police's ability to keep up with them, more often than not even a good officer let slide exact compliance with the letter of the law. Azhar was betting on this having happened. Barbara waited to see if Emily was going to pull a friend or relative of Fahd Kumhar's out of a metaphorical hat.

She didn't bother. “Mr. Kumhar hasn't identified anyone he wishes to be notified.”

“Does he know he has that right?” Azhar asked astutely.

“Mr. Azhar, we've hardly had the opportunity to speak to this man long enough to apprise him of his rights.”

“That's business as usual,” Muhannad pointed out. “She's slapped him in isolation because it's the only way she can make sure he gets rattled enough to cooperate with her.”

Azhar didn't disagree with his cousin's assessment of the situation. He also didn't allow it to enflame him. Calmly, he asked, “Is Mr. Kumhar a native of this country, Inspector?”

Barbara knew that Emily was probably cursing the fact that she'd allowed Kumhar to jabber about his papers. She could hardly deny knowledge of the man's immigrant status, especially when the law was specific about what his rights were, considering that status. If Emily prevaricated now—only to discover that Fahd Kumhar was involved in Haytham Querashi's death—she ran the risk of having her case tossed out of court later.

She said, “At this point, we'd like to question Mr. Kumhar about his relationship to Haytham Querashi. We've brought him to the station because he was reluctant to answer questions in his lodgings.”

“Stop avoiding the bloody issue,” Muhannad said. “Is Kumhar an English national or not?”

“He doesn't appear to be,” Emily replied, but she spoke to Azhar and not to Muhannad.

“Ah.” Azhar sounded somehow comforted by this admission. Barbara saw why when he asked his next question. “How good is his English?”

“I haven't given him a comprehension test.”

“But that's actually of no account, is it?”

“Azhar, bloody hell. If his English isn't—

Azhar cut off his cousin's hot remark with the simple gesture of raising his hand. He said, “Then I shall have to ask to be given access to Mr. Kumhar immediately, Inspector. I won't insult either your intelligence or your knowledge of the law by pretending you don't know that the only suspects who have an unqualified right to visitors are those from abroad.”

Game, set, and match, Barbara thought with no little admiration for the Pakistani. Teaching microbiology to university students might have been Azhar's day job, but he was clearly no slouch when it came to moonlighting in the white knight arena for the protection of his people. She suddenly realised that she needn't have worried about the man's getting in over his head in this journey he'd made to Balford-le-Nez. It was fairly apparent that he had the situation—at least with respect to their dealings with the coppers—completely and satisfactorily in hand.

For his part, Muhannad was looking triumphant at this turn of events. With pointed courtesy he said, “If you'll lead us to him, Inspector Barlow …? We'd like to be able to report to our people upon Mr. Kumhar's well-being. They're understandably anxious to know he's being treated well while he's in your hands.”

There wasn't much room for political manoeuvring. The message he sent was clear enough. Muhannad Malik could mobilise his people for yet another march, demonstration, and riot. He could just as easily mobilise them to keep the peace. The choice was DCI Emily Barlow's, as would be the responsibility.

Barbara saw the skin at the corners of the DCI's eyes tighten. It was the closest thing to a reaction that Emily was going to give the two men.

“Come with me,” she said.

S
HE FELT AS
if she were trapped in irons. Not irons that held her at the wrists and ankles, but irons that encased her from head to toe.

Lewis was talking inside her head. On and on he went about the children, his business, his infernal love for that antique Morgan that
never
ran properly no matter the money he poured into it. Then Lawrence took over. But all he said was I love her, I love her, why can't you understand that I love her, Mum, and we want a life? And then that Swedish bitch herself chimed in, spouting psychobabble that she'd probably learned while swatting a volleyball on some beach in California: Lawrence's love for me cannot lessen his love for you, Mrs. Shaw. You do see that, don't you? And you do want his happiness? And after that came Stephen, saying, It's my life, Gran. You can't live it for me. If you can't accept me as I am, then I agree with you: It's best that I leave.

All of them talking on and on. She needed something to erase her brain. There was no real pain to speak of at the moment. There were only the voices, endless and insistent.

She found she wanted to argue with them, order them about, bend their wills to hers. But all she could do was listen to them, held prisoner to their importuning, their irrationality, their constant noise.

She wanted to raise her fists to her skull. She wanted to beat them against her head. But the irons held her body fast in position, and every limb was a weight that she couldn't move.

She became aware of lights. With this awareness, the voices dimmed. They were replaced with other voices, however. Agatha strained to make out the words.