and waited to see where he was heading.
“Then I would propose regular meetings between you and the family. This will allay all of our concerns—not only among the family but also among the larger community—as to how you're proceeding with your enquiry into Mr. Querashi's death. Will you agree to that?”
He waited patiently for her answer. His expression was as bland as it had been from the first. He was acting as if nothing—least of all peace in Balford-le-Nez—depended upon her willingness to cooperate. Watching him, Emily suddenly realised he'd anticipated every one of her previous answers, having planned to end up with this suggestion as the logical outcome of everything she'd said. She'd just been outmanoeuvred by the two of them. They'd played a mild variation of good cop/bad cop, and she'd fallen for it like a schoolgirl arrested for pinching sweets.
“I'd like to cooperate as fully as possible,” she said, choosing words with care to avoid committing herself. “But in the midst of an investigation, it's difficult to guarantee that I'll be available when you want me.”
“A convenient response,” Muhannad said. “I suggest we end this charade, Azhar.”
“I suspect you're drawing an inference I don't intend,” Emily told him.
“I know bloody well what you intend: letting anyone who raises a hand against us get away with it, with murder as well.”
“Muhannad,” Taymullah Azhar said quietly. “Let's give the inspector an opportunity to compromise.”
But Emily didn't want to compromise. In an investigation, she didn't want to find herself obliged to have meetings at which she would have to watch her every step, guard her every word, and maintain her temper. She didn't have the inclination for the game. More important, she didn't have the time. The investigation was already behind schedule, and mostly due to Malik's machinations. She was already twenty-four hours behind where she should have been. But Taymullah Azhar had just given her a way out, even if he did not realise the fact. “Will the family accept a substitute for me?”
“What sort of substitute?”
“Someone to liaise between you—the family and the community—and the investigating officers. Will you accept that?” And go on your bloody way, she added silently. And keep your fellows in line, at home, present at their jobs, and off the damn streets.
Azhar exchanged a look with his cousin. Muhannad shrugged abruptly. “We accept,” Azhar said, getting to his feet. “With the proviso that this individual will be replaced by you should we find it necessary to reject him as biased, ignorant, or deceptive.”
Emily had agreed to the condition, after which the two men had left her. She'd blotted her face with a tissue and rubbed it to bits against the sweat on the back of her neck. Picking the tissue fragments off her damp skin, she returned her phone calls. She talked to her superintendent.
Now, having read the intelligence report on Muhannad Malik, she jotted down the name Taymullah Azhar and requested a similar report on him. Then she looped the strap of her hold-all over her shoulder and switched out the lights in her office. Having dealt with the Muslims, she'd bought a little time. And time counted for everything when dealing with murder.
B ARBARA H AVERS FOUND the Balford police station on Martello Road, a lane of shambled red-brick structures that marked yet another route to the sea. The station was housed in one of these. It was a gabled and many-chimneyed Victorian building that had doubtless once housed one of the town's more prominent families. An antique blue light whose glass shade was embellished with the white word
Police
identified the building's current use.
As Barbara pulled to a halt in front of it, evening floodlights came on, arcing shells of incandescence against the station's façade. A female figure was coming out of the front door, and she paused to adjust the strap of a bulky shoulder bag. Barbara
“Then I would propose regular meetings between you and the family. This will allay all of our concerns—not only among the family but also among the larger community—as to how you're proceeding with your enquiry into Mr. Querashi's death. Will you agree to that?”
He waited patiently for her answer. His expression was as bland as it had been from the first. He was acting as if nothing—least of all peace in Balford-le-Nez—depended upon her willingness to cooperate. Watching him, Emily suddenly realised he'd anticipated every one of her previous answers, having planned to end up with this suggestion as the logical outcome of everything she'd said. She'd just been outmanoeuvred by the two of them. They'd played a mild variation of good cop/bad cop, and she'd fallen for it like a schoolgirl arrested for pinching sweets.
“I'd like to cooperate as fully as possible,” she said, choosing words with care to avoid committing herself. “But in the midst of an investigation, it's difficult to guarantee that I'll be available when you want me.”
“A convenient response,” Muhannad said. “I suggest we end this charade, Azhar.”
“I suspect you're drawing an inference I don't intend,” Emily told him.
“I know bloody well what you intend: letting anyone who raises a hand against us get away with it, with murder as well.”
“Muhannad,” Taymullah Azhar said quietly. “Let's give the inspector an opportunity to compromise.”
But Emily didn't want to compromise. In an investigation, she didn't want to find herself obliged to have meetings at which she would have to watch her every step, guard her every word, and maintain her temper. She didn't have the inclination for the game. More important, she didn't have the time. The investigation was already behind schedule, and mostly due to Malik's machinations. She was already twenty-four hours behind where she should have been. But Taymullah Azhar had just given her a way out, even if he did not realise the fact. “Will the family accept a substitute for me?”
“What sort of substitute?”
“Someone to liaise between you—the family and the community—and the investigating officers. Will you accept that?” And go on your bloody way, she added silently. And keep your fellows in line, at home, present at their jobs, and off the damn streets.
Azhar exchanged a look with his cousin. Muhannad shrugged abruptly. “We accept,” Azhar said, getting to his feet. “With the proviso that this individual will be replaced by you should we find it necessary to reject him as biased, ignorant, or deceptive.”
Emily had agreed to the condition, after which the two men had left her. She'd blotted her face with a tissue and rubbed it to bits against the sweat on the back of her neck. Picking the tissue fragments off her damp skin, she returned her phone calls. She talked to her superintendent.
Now, having read the intelligence report on Muhannad Malik, she jotted down the name Taymullah Azhar and requested a similar report on him. Then she looped the strap of her hold-all over her shoulder and switched out the lights in her office. Having dealt with the Muslims, she'd bought a little time. And time counted for everything when dealing with murder.
B ARBARA H AVERS FOUND the Balford police station on Martello Road, a lane of shambled red-brick structures that marked yet another route to the sea. The station was housed in one of these. It was a gabled and many-chimneyed Victorian building that had doubtless once housed one of the town's more prominent families. An antique blue light whose glass shade was embellished with the white word
Police
identified the building's current use.
As Barbara pulled to a halt in front of it, evening floodlights came on, arcing shells of incandescence against the station's façade. A female figure was coming out of the front door, and she paused to adjust the strap of a bulky shoulder bag. Barbara
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