Deception on His Mind (57 page)

“Let's see what we have, then,” Emily said with a nod at the house.

The door was answered by a woman with a poodle in her arms. She and the dog looked amazingly similar: white-haired, long-snouted, and recently coiffed. She said, “Sorry. The sign's still up, but all the rooms's let. I need to pull it down, I know. But my lumbago stops me taking it out the window.”

It
was the vacancy notice that hung between the diaphanous white curtains and the glass of the ground floor bay window. Emily told the woman that they weren't there in search of accommodation. She produced her warrant card.

The woman gave a sheeplike bleat. Offering her name as “Gladys Kersey, that's Missus, by the way, although Mr. Kersey's gone to Jesus,” she went on to assure them that everything was in perfect order in her establishment, always had been, always was, and certainly always would be. She clutched the poodle beneath her arm as she spoke, and the dog gave a yip not unlike the owner's bleat.

“Fahd Kumhar,” Emily said. “If we might have a word with him, Mrs. Kersey?”

“Mr. Kumhar? He's not in some sort of trouble, is he? He seems a nice enough young man. Very clean, he is, bleaches those shirts of his by hand and what that's doing to his skin, by the way, isn't a very pretty sight. His English isn't much to speak of, but he watches the morning news in the lounge and I can tell he's trying hard to learn. He's not in trouble, is he?”

“Can you show us to his room?” Emily aimed her voice for polite but firm.

Mrs. Kersey excavated for substance beneath the question. “This i'n't about that business in Balford, is it?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“No reason.” Mrs. Kersey hiked the poodle higher. “Just what with him being one of them. You know …” She let the phrase dangle as if hoping Emily would complete it for her. When Emily did not do so, Mrs. Kersey buried her fingers in the poodle's curly fur and told both of the police visitors to “come along with you, then.”

Fahd Kumhar's room was on the first floor at the back of the house. It was one of three bedrooms, all of which opened off a square little hall. Mrs. Kersey rapped softly on the door, gave a glance over her shoulder at her companions, and called, “Mr. Kumhar? You've visitors asking to have a word with you.”

This was greeted with silence.

Mrs. Kersey looked puzzled. She said, “I saw him come in not ten minutes ago. We even spoke, we did. He's always polite, that way. And he never goes out without saying goodbye.” She knocked again, this time more forcefully. “Mr. Kumhar? I say, did you hear me?”

A muted sound of wood sliding on wood came from within the room. Emily said, “Step aside, please,” and when Mrs. Kersey did so, she reached for the knob. She said, “Police, Mr. Kumhar.”

A shriek of wood followed. Emily quickly turned the doorknob. DC Honigman slid past her like a cat. He caught Fahd Kumhar by the arm just as the other man was attempting to climb out of the window.

Mrs. Kersey had time to exclaim, “Why, Mr. Kumhar!” before Emily closed the door on her and the dog.

Honigman had managed to grab onto a leg as well as an arm, and he yanked the Pakistani back into the room. “Not so hasty there, mate,” he said as he dropped the man onto the floor. Kumhar cowered where he fell.

Emily went to the window. Below was the back garden of the house, but it was a considerable drop from the first floor window. There was nothing beneath to break the fall. Nor was there a drainpipe fastened to the house, allowing someone to do an easy runner. Kumhar could have just as easily broken a leg as he could have scarpered from the cops.

She turned to him. “Balford Criminal Investigations Department,” she told him. She kept her words slow. “I'm Detective Chief Inspector Barlow. This is Detective Constable Honigman. Can you understand my English, Mr. Kumhar?”

He scrambled to his feet. DC Honigman made a move towards him. Kumhar held up his hands as if he wanted to show them that he had no weapons.

“Papers,” he said. “I have papers.”

“What's this, then?” Honigman directed the question to Emily.

“You please wait, yes?” Kumhar said, again with the hands up, but now moved to his chest in a defensive posture. “I show you papers. Yes. Okay? You watch papers.”

He moved to a wicker chest of drawers. As he reached for the handles of the top drawer, Honigman said, “You hold it there, mate! Step back. Do it quick. Here. Back!”

Kumhar's hands went up again. He cried, “Not hurt. Please. Papers. I have papers.”

Emily understood. They were the police. He was a foreigner. “He wants to show us his legal documents, Billy. They must be in the drawer.” She shook her head at the Pakistani. “We're not here to inspect your papers, Mr. Kumhar.”

“Papers, yes.” Kumhar nodded frantically. He began to pull open one of the wicker drawers.

Honigman shouted, “Hang on right there, mate!”

The Pakistani jumped away. He fled to the wash basin in the corner of the room. Beneath was a toppled stack of magazines. They looked heavily thumbed-through, with dog-eared pages and covers that were stained with coffee and tea rings. From her position by the open window, Emily could see the titles:
Country Life, Hello!, Woman's Own, Vanity Fair.
A soft-bound Collier's dictionary lay among them. It looked as well-used as the magazines.

DC Honigman riffled through the drawer that Kumhar had begun to open. He said, “No weapons in here,” and slammed it shut.

For his part, Kumhar watched their every move. His entire concentration seemed to be given to keeping himself from hurling his body out of the open window. Emily considered exactly how his patent desire to escape fitted into the case in hand.

She said, “Sit down, Mr. Kumhar,” and she indicated the room's only chair. This stood before a small newspaper-covered table on which a partially completed dollhouse was being constructed. It appeared that Kumhar had interrupted work on the dollhouse to go to Jackson and Son. It also appeared that the arrival of the police had disrupted further work on this same project. A tube of glue was uncapped on the table and five miniature roofing tiles were speckled with it. The house itself was of a decidedly English design: a wattle and daub miniature of the sort of dwelling one could find in nearly every corner of the country.

Cautiously, Kumhar crossed the room to the chair. He crab-walked, as if in the belief that a false move would cause the heavy arm of the law to crash down upon him. Emily maintained her position at the window. Honigman moved to the door. Behind it, faintly, the poodle whined. Obviously, Mrs. Kersey hadn't made the connection between a door slamming in her face and the desire for privacy.

Emily jerked her head at the door. Honigman nodded. He opened it and had a few quiet words with the house's owner. He allowed her a moment to poke her head inside the room to reassure her that her tenant was unharmed. Apparently having watched many episodes of American police dramas, she expected to find Fahd Kumhar on the floor, bloodied and handcuffed. Seeing him sitting unmolested on the chair, she gulped, hiked the poodle beneath her chin, and retreated. Honigman closed the door.

Emily said, “Haytham Querashi, Mr. Kumhar. Please explain your relationship with him.”

Kumhar stuffed his hands between his knees. He was painfully thin, with a concave chest and sloping shoulders. These were covered by a neatly pressed white shirt that despite the heat was buttoned both to the neck and to the cuffs. He wore black trousers, belted with a strip of brown leather that was too long for his waist and dangled limply like the tail of a reprimanded canine. He made no reply. He merely swallowed, and his teeth vigorously worked his lips.

“Mr. Querashi wrote you a cheque for four hundred pounds. Your name was on more than one telephone message for him at the Burnt House Hotel. If you read any of these”—she indicated the newspapers that served as protection between the dollhouse and the table beneath it—”then you know that Mr. Querashi is dead.”

“Papers,” Fahd Kumhar said, his head turning from her to the chest of drawers to Honigman.

“I'm not here about your papers.” Emily spoke more slowly and in a louder voice, although her real wish was to shake him into comprehension. Why on earth, she wondered, did people immigrate into a country whose language was a mystery to them? “We're here to talk about Haytham Querashi. You knew him, didn't you? Haytham Querashi?”

“Mr. Querashi, yes.” Kumhar's hands tightened on his knees. He was trembling so badly that the material on his shirt shimmered as if a breeze were blowing it.

“He was murdered, Mr. Kumhar. We're investigating that murder. The fact that he gave you four hundred pounds makes you a suspect. What was that money for?”

The Asian could have been having a mild seizure, so much did his tremors increase. It seemed to Emily that he
had
to be able to understand her. But when he replied, he did so in his own tongue. A babble of indistinguishable words spewed out of him.

Emily cut into what she knew had to be a stream of rising protestations of innocence. She said impatiently, “English please, Mr. Kumhar. You heard his name well enough. And you understand what I'm asking. How did you know Mr. Querashi?”

Kumhar continued his babble.

“Where did you meet him?” Emily asked. “Why did he give you money? What did you do with it?”

More babble, louder this time. Kumhar moved his hands to his chest and began to wail.

“Answer me, Mr. Kumhar. You live not far from the market square. We've heard that Mr. Querashi went there. Did you ever see him? Is that how you two met?”

It sounded as if the Asian was repeating the word
Allah
over and over again. It was contained within a ritualised chant. Brilliant, Emily thought, it was bow-to-Mecca time.

“Answer the questions,” she said, matching her volume to his.

Against the door, Honigman stirred. “I don't think he's following you, Guv.”

“Oh, he's bloody well following,” Emily said. “I dare say his English's as good as ours when the humour takes him.”

“Mrs. Kersey did say he's not got much of it,” Honigman noted.

Emily ignored this. Sitting before her was a veritable fountain of information about the murdered man, and she bloody well intended to tap the source while she had him alone and at her mercy.

“Did you know Mr. Querashi in Pakistan? Did you know his family?”

“
‘Ulaaa-'ika ‘alaa Hudammir-Rabbihim wa ’ulaaaa-ika humul-Muf-lihuun,”
he chanted.

Emily raised her voice above his gibberish. “Where do you work, Mr. Kumhar? How do you support yourself? Who pays for this room? Who buys your cigarettes, your magazines, your newspapers, your sweets? Do you have a car? What are you doing here in Clacton?”

“Guv,” Honigman said uneasily.

“’
Innallaziina aamanuu wa ‘amilus-saalihaati lanhum
—”

“Goddamn it!” Emily slammed her hand onto the tabletop. The Asian immediately shrank back and fell silent.

“Take him,” Emily said to her detective constable.

Honigman said, “What?”

“You heard me, Constable. Take him. I want him in Balford. I want him in custody. I want him to have a chance to decide how much English he really understands.”

“Got it,” Honigman said.

He approached the Asian and took him by the arm, lifting him to his feet. Kumhar's babbling began again, but this time it quickly dissolved to tears.

“Jesus,” Honigman said to Emily. “What's wrong with this bloke?” “That's exactly what I intend to find out,” Emily stated.

T
HE DOOR AT
Number 6 Alfred Terrace was gaping open when Barbara arrived. From within the cramped house, music blared and the television chattered as loudly as on the previous day. She knocked on the side of the faded architrave, but there was no way anything less than a jack-hammer in full operation was going to make a dent in the din.

She stepped out of the blazing sun and into the entry. The stairway directly in front of her was littered with discarded clothing and plates of half-eaten food. The corridor towards the kitchen was strewn with flattened bicycle tyres, a tattered canvas push chair, two trugs, three brooms, and a Hoover bag with a rip up its side. And to her left, the sitting room seemed to be serving as a stopping off point for articles about to be moved from one location to another. Surrounding the television, on which roared an Act Three chase scene from yet another American action film, cardboard boxes bulged with what appeared to be clothing, towels, and household goods.

Curious, Barbara investigated. The boxes, she saw, contained everything from a small and rusting calor gas stove to a faded needlepoint sampler stitched with the words “I must down to the seas again.” Considering this in conjunction with the state of the house, Barbara couldn't help wondering if the Ruddocks were planning a quick departure from Balford, one stimulated by her previous visit.

“Hey! You keep your mitts away from that lot, hear?”

Barbara swung around. Trevor's brother Charlie had come to the sitting room door, and he was followed in quick succession by his older brother and their mother. All three of them had apparently just come into the house. Barbara wondered how she'd missed seeing them on the street. Perhaps they'd trotted along from somewhere in Balford Square, of which Alfred Terrace served as one of the four sides.

“What's this, then?” Shirl Ruddock demanded. “And who're you to go busting into people's houses uninvited?”

She pushed Charlie to one side and strode into the sitting room. She was fragrant with sweat and with the strong fishy scent of a woman in need of a bath. Her face was blotched with grime, and her shorts and skimpy halter top were banded with perspiration.

“You got no right to walk into people's gaff. I know what's what when it comes to the law.”

“Moving house?” Barbara said, taking herself from one box to the next for a closer inspection despite Shirl Ruddock's words. “Are the Ruddocks on their way out of Balford?”

Shirl's fists punched her own hips. “What business of yours? If we want to move house, we move house. We got no duty to let the cops know where we're hanging our hats every night.”