professor apparently saw it as such. He used both of his hands to reach for the man, and having done so, he drew him to the table in the centre of the room. He spoke again, translating this time for Emily. "I've introduced myself. I've told him that I'm to translate your questions and his answers.
I've told him that you mean him no harm. I hope that's the truth, Inspector."
What was it with these people? Emily wondered.
They saw inequity, prejudice, and brutality under every lily pad. She didn't reply directly.
Rather, she flipped on the tape recorder, gave the date, the time, and the individuals present. After which, she said, "Mr. Kumhar, your name was among the belongings of a murdered man, Mr.
Haytham Querashi. Can you explain to me how it got there?"
She expected a replay of yesterday's litany: a string of disavowals. She was surprised.
Kumhar fastened his eyes on Siddiqi as the question was translated for him, and when he replied - which he did at great length - he kept his eyes on the professor. Siddiqi listened, nodded, and at one point halted the man's recital to ask a question.
Then he turned to Emily.
"He met Mr. Querashi outside Weeley on the A133. He - Mr. Kumhar, that is - was hitchhiking, and Mr. Querashi offered him a ride. This took place nearly a month ago.
Mr. Kumhar had been working as a farm labourer, moving among the fields throughout the county. He'd become dissatisfied with the money he was making as well as with the working conditions, so he'd decided to look for other employment."
Emily considered this, her brow furrowed.
"Why didn't he tell me this yesterday? Why did he deny knowing Mr. Querashi?"
Siddiqi turned back to Kumhar, who watched him with the eagerness of a puppy determined to please. Before Siddiqi finished the question, Kumhar was answering, and this time he directed his response to Emily.
" 'When you said that Mr. Querashi was murdered,'
" Siddiqi translated, " 'I was afraid that you might come to believe that I was involved. I lied to protect myself from coming under suspicion. I'm new to this country, and I wish to do nothing to jeopardize my welcome here. Please understand how much I regret having lied to you.
Mr. Querashi was nothing but kindness to me and I betrayed that kindness by not speaking the truth at once.' "
Emily noted the sweat that coated the man's skin like a film of cooking oil. That he'd lied to her on the previous day was a bonafide fact. What remained open to question was whether he was lying to her now. She said, "Did Mr. Querashi know that you were looking for employment?"
He did, Kumhar answered. He'd told Mr.
Querashi of his unhappiness with his farm employment.
That had constituted the bulk of their conversation in the car.
"Did Mr. Querashi offer you a job?"
At this Kumhar looked nonplussed. A job? he asked. No. There was no job offered. Mr.
Querashi merely picked him up and drove him to his lodgings.
"And wrote you a cheque for four hundred pounds," Emily added.
Siddiqi raised an eyebrow, but translated without comment.
It was true that Mr. Querashi had given him money. The man was kindness itself, and Mr.
Kumhar would not lie and call this gift of four hundred pounds a loan. But the Qur'aan decreed and the Five Pillars of Islam required payment of the zakat to one in need. So in giving him four hundred pounds -
"What is zakat?" Emily interposed.
"Alms for the needy," Siddiqi answered. Kumhar watched him anxiously whenever he switched to English, and his expression suggested a man straining to understand and to absorb every word.
"Muslims are required to see to the economic welfare of members of their community.
We give to support the poor and others like them."
"So in giving Mr. Kumhar four hundred pounds, Haytham Querashi was simply doing his religious duty?"
"That's exactly the case," Siddiqi said.
"He wasn't buying something?"
"Such as?" Siddiqi gestured to Kumhar. "What on earth could this poor man have to sell him?"
"Silence comes to mind. Mr. Kumhar spends time near Clacton market square. Ask him if he ever saw Mr. Querashi there."
Siddiqi gazed at her for a moment as if trying to read the meaning behind the question.
Then he shrugged and turned to Kumhar, repeating the question in their own language.
Kumhar shook his head adamantly. Emily didn't require a translation for never, not once, not at any time, he himself had not been in the market square.
"Mr. Querashi was the director of production at a