Deception on His Mind (20 page)

Barbara added the receipt to the other items she'd lifted from the bedside table. She locked the leather case and put it in the evidence bag as well. She wondered what sort of response would be given to the fiancé in an arranged marriage if he asked to call the arrangement to a halt. Would tempers flare? Would revenge be plotted? She didn't know. But she had an excellent idea of how to find out.

“Sergeant Havers?” From the corridor, it was not so much a whisper but a hiss: 007 was getting restless.

Barbara strode to the door and swung it open. She stepped into the corridor and took Treves’ arm. “We may be on to something,” she told him tersely.

“Really?” He was all agog and aquiver.

“Absolutely. D'you keep records of telephone calls? Yes? Good. I want those records,” she directed him. “Every call he made. Every call he received.”

“Tonight?” Treves licked his lips enthusiastically. Doubtless, Barbara saw, if he were given his way, they'd be up to their elbows in hotel paperwork till dawn.

“Tomorrow's fine,” she told him. “Get some sleep now. Be fresh for the fray.”

His whisper was excitement itself. “Thank God I kept everyone out of that room.”

“Continue to do that, Mr. Treves,” she said. “Keep the door locked. Stand watch if you have to. Hire a guard. Set up a video camera. Wire the place for sound. Whatever it takes. But on no account let a single soul cross over that threshold. I'm depending on you. Can I do that?”

“Sergeant,” Treves said, his hand at his heart, “you can depend upon me to the absolute death.”

“Brilliant,” Barbara said. And she couldn't help wondering if those very same words had been recently said to Haytham Querashi.

HE MORNING SUN AWAKENED HER. IT WAS ACCOM-
panied by the sound of gulls and the faint scent of brine in the air. As on the day before, this last was utterly still. Barbara could tell that by squinting out of the open window from her semi-foetal position on one of the room's two beds. Beyond the glass, a bay laurel tree stood, and not a dusty leaf on it so much as quivered. By midday, mercury was going to be bubbling in thermometers all over town.

Barbara ground her knuckles into the small of her back, which ached from its night's exposure to a mattress troughed by several generations of bodies. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stumbled blearily into the loo with a view.

This bathroom continued the hotel's established theme of genteel decay: The tiles on the walls and the grout round the tub grew mildew in furry verdigris tufts, and the doors to the cupboards below the sink were held closed by means of an elastic band stretched between their knobs. One gained access to the view through a small window above the toilet, four grimy panes of glass behind a limp curtain on which appliquéd dolphins leapt out of a frothing sea that had long since gone the depressing colour of a winter sky.

Barbara assessed the environment with an “ugh,” and she gazed at her face in the age-spotted mirror above the sink, where perhaps two dozen gold cupid transfers shot amorous arrows at each other from clusters at the glass's four corners. She assessed her appearance with a second and more fervent “ugh.” The combination of bruises going yellow at the edges from her eyes to her chin and the sleep creases across her left cheek created an unappealling vision to have to gaze upon directly before breakfast. The sight could definitely put one off one's bangers, Barbara decided, and turned from it to take in the view that the loo-with provided her.

The window was open to its fullest extent, affording a generous five inches of fresh morning air. She breathed this in and scrubbed her fingers through her thatch of hair as she looked across the slope of lawn to the sea.

On a bluff approximately one mile north of the town's centre, the Burnt House Hotel was positioned propitiously for travellers who came to Balford only seeking a view. To its south, Princes Beach carved a crescent of sand punctuated by three stone breakwaters. To its east, the lawn ended in a cliff beyond which endlessly stretched the sea, motionless this morning and edged by a roll of grey fog that hovered on the distant horizon, making a beguiling promise of cooler weather. To its north, the cranes of distant Harwich Harbour lifted their dinosaur necks far above the ferries that passed beneath them on their way to Europe. Barbara could see all of this from her window, small though it was, and all of this and more would be on display for anyone sitting in one of the drooping canvas chairs that were scattered across the hotel's lawn.

A landscape painter or a sketch artist might find that the Burnt House served his interests, Barbara decided, but for a traveller coming to Balford-le-Nez to sample more than just a pleasant vista, the hotel's location was a study in utter commercial folly. The distance between the hotel and the town proper—with its seafront esplanade, pleasure pier, and High Street—underscored this fact. These locations constituted the commercial heart of Balford-le-Nez, where tourists spent their money. While they were a convenient walking distance from the other hotels, the guest houses, and the summer cottages in the fading seatown, they were not a convenient walking distance from the Burnt House Hotel. Parents with children in tow, young people eager for whatever questionable nightlife the town now afforded, travellers seeking everything from sand to souvenirs, would not find it here on the bluff north of Balford proper. They could walk into the town, of course. But there was no direct access along the seafront. Instead, pedestrians heading townward from the Burnt House would have to trudge inland first along Nez Park Road and then back out again to the Esplanade.

Basil Treves, Barbara concluded, was lucky to have anyone staying here at any time of year. Which meant he was lucky to have had Haytham Querashi staying as a long-term resident. Which in turn brought into question the part Treves may or may not have played in Querashi's marriage plans. It was an interesting speculation.

Barbara gazed in the direction of the pleasure pier. Construction was going on at its end, where the Jack ‘Awkins Cafeteria once had stood. And even at this distance she could see that the pier itself gleamed with clean new paint: white, green, blue, and orange, while bright motley flags flew from the poles that lined its sides. None of that had existed when she'd last been in Balford.

Barbara turned away. At the mirror once more, she examined her face and wondered if removing the bandages had been as inspired an idea as she'd originally thought. She'd brought no make-up with her. Her supply of cosmetics being limited to one tube of Blistex and a pot of rouge once belonging to her mother, tossing them into her haversack had hardly seemed worth the effort. She liked to consider herself a bird whose moral fibre wouldn't allow the rank dishonesty of doing anything more than pinching the cheeks for a bit of colour in the face. But the truth was, given a choice between painting her flesh and sleeping for another fifteen minutes in the morning, she'd spent a lifetime selecting sleep. In her line of work, it seemed more practical. Thus, her preparation for the current day took less than ten minutes, and four of these she spent digging through her haversack, cursing, and looking for a pair of socks.

She gargled, ran a brush through her hair, shoved into her shoulder bag the goodies she'd removed from Querashi's room on the previous night, and headed out the door. In the corridor, breakfast odours clung to the air like importunate children to their mother's skirt. Somewhere, eggs and bacon had been fried, bangers had been roasted, toast had been burned, tomatoes and mushrooms had been grilled. Barbara needed no map to find the dining room. She just followed the ever-intensifying smells down one flight of stairs and along a cramped ground floor corridor towards the sound of cutlery being wielded against plates and voices murmuring about the day's plans. Which is when she heard it.

One voice stood out as she approached. A child was saying brightly, “Did you know about the lobster boat ride? C'n we go, Dad? And the Ferris wheel? C'n we ride it today? I watched it and watched it from the lawn with Mrs. Porter last night, and she said that when
she
was my age, the Ferris wheel—”

A low murmur interrupted the hopeful chatter. As it usually did, Barbara realised grimly. What the hell was the matter with the man? He squelched every impulse the little girl had. Barbara advanced to the door, feeling unaccountably irritated and battle-ready where she knew she had no business feeling anything other than blandly disinterested.

Hadiyyah and her father sat in a dark corner of the old, heavily panelled dining room. They'd been placed well away from the other hotel residents: three elderly white couples whose tables lined up along the open french doors. These latter people attended to their breakfasts as if no one else were present, save for one old woman with a zimmer frame resting next to her chair. She appeared to be the aforementioned Mrs. Porter because she was nodding at Hadiyyah as if in encouragement from her end of the room.

Barbara wasn't completely surprised at the coincidence of being at the same hotel as Hadiyyah and Taymullah Azhar. She'd expected to find them staying with the Malik family, but as that apparently had not been possible, then the Burnt House Hotel was a logical choice. Haytham Querashi had stayed here, after all, and Azhar was in Balford because of Querashi.

“Ah. Sergeant Havers.” Barbara swung round to see Basil Treves behind her, two plates of breakfast in his hand. He beamed at her. “If you'll allow me to show you to your table …?”

As he attempted to shimmy past her to do the honours, Hadiyyah gave a happy shout. “Barbara! You came!” And she dropped her spoon into her cereal, splashing milk across the pink tablecloth. She popped out of her chair and did her usual hop-and-skip across the room, singing, “You came! You came! You came to the seaside!” with her yellow ribboned plaits dancing round her shoulders. She was dressed like sunshine: yellow shorts and striped T-shirt, yellow banded socks and sandals. She gripped Barbara's hand. “Have you come to build a sand castle with me? Have you come to pick cockles? I want to play the penny slide and ride the dodge'm cars as well. Do you?”

Basil Treves was watching this interaction with some consternation. He said with more meaning, “If I may show you to your table, Sergeant Havers,” and nodded pointedly at a table next to an open window and decidedly among the English residents.

“I'd rather be over there,” Barbara told him, jerking her thumb in the direction of the Pakistanis’ dark corner. “Too much fresh air in the morning puts me right off my kippers. D'you mind?”

Without waiting for him to reply, she sauntered over to Azhar. Hadiyyah skipped ahead. She cried out, “She's here! Look, Dad! She's here! She's here!” and didn't appear to notice that her father was greeting Barbara's arrival with that special joy one generally reserves for embracing lepers.

Basil Treves, in the meantime, had deposited the two breakfast plates in front of Mrs. Porter and her companion. He hurried over to usher Barbara into a seat at the table next to Azhar's. He was saying, “Yes, oh yes. Of course. And will it be orange juice, Sergeant Havers? What about grapefruit?” He whipped the napkin out of its teepee folds with a flourish that suggested having the sergeant sit among the darkies had always been part of his master plan.

“No, with us! With us!” Hadiyyah crowed. She tugged Barbara to their table, saying, “It's okay, Dad, isn't it? She
must
sit with us.”

Azhar observed Barbara evenly with his unreadable brown eyes. The only indication of feeling that he gave was the deliberate hesitation he employed before getting to his feet in greeting.

“We'd be very pleased, Barbara,” he said formally.

Bollocks, Barbara thought. But she said, “If you've room …?”

“Can make room. Can do,” Basil Treves said. And as he moved cutlery and crockery from her table to Azhar's, he hummed with the fierce determination employed by a man making the best of a bad situation.

“I'm so happy, happy, happy!” Hadiyyah sang. “You've come for your holiday, haven't you? We can go to the beach. We can look for shells. We can go fishing. We can play on the pier.” She climbed back onto her chair and retrieved her spoon from the middle of her cereal, where it lay like a silver exclamation mark, commenting on the morning's proceedings. Hadiyyah scooped it up, oblivious of the milk that dripped from it onto the front of her striped T-shirt. “Yesterday Mrs. Porter looked after me while Dad did some business,” she confided to Barbara. “We read a book about fossils on the lawn. I mean,” she giggled, “we
read
on the lawn. Today we were s'posed to take a walk along the Cliff Parade, but it's way too far to walk all the way to the pier. Too far for Mrs. Porter, that is. But
I
c'n walk that far, can't I? And now that
you're
here, Dad will let me go to the arcade. Won't you, Dad? Won't you let me go if Barbara comes with me?” She squirmed in her chair so that she faced Barbara. “We c'n ride the roller coaster and the Ferris wheel, Barbara. We c'n shoot in the shooting gallery. We can play the crane grab. Are you good at the crane grab? Dad is brilliant. He grabbed me a koala bear once, and once he grabbed Mummy a pink—”