told Shaw the truth.
He'd spun away before they could see him. And the voices roared.
Abort, Malik.
What am I to do? Tell me, Muni.
At the moment, Mr. Kumhar hasn't identified anyone he wishes to be notified.
When one among us has died, it is not up to you to see to his resurrection, Muhannad.
. . . found dead on the Nez.
I work with our people in London when they have troubles with Abort, Malik.
Muhannad, come and meet my friend Barbara.
She lives in London.
This person you speak of is dead to us. You should not have brought him into our house.
We go for ice creams on Chalk Farm Road and we've been to the cinema and she even came to my birthday party. Sometimes we go to see her mum in Abort, Malik.
We told her we were going to Essex. Only Dad didn't tell me you lived here, Muhannad.
Abort. Abort.
Will you come again? Can I meet your wife and your little boys? Will you come again?
And there - there, where he least expected to find it - was the answer he was seeking. It silenced the voices and calmed his nerves.
It sent him hurtling towards the Burnt House Hotel.
"All RIGHT" Emily said fiercely. Her face lit with a radiant smile. "Well done, Barbara.
God damn. All right." She shouted for Belinda Warner. The WPC came bounding into the office.
Barbara felt like crowing. They had Muhannad Malik by the short and curlies, presented to them like the Baptist to Salome with no dancing required.
And by his very own dimwitted wife.
Emily began giving orders. The DC working the Colchester end - who'd been combing the streets round Rakin Khan's home in an attempt to find someone who could either corroborate Muhannad's alibi for Friday night or sink it forever -- was to be called home.
The constables sent to the mustard factory to go through everyone's personnel file for an examination of their paperwork were to be taken off that scent. The blokes working on the beach hut break-ins to clear the slate of Trevor Ruddock were to put that endeavour on the back burner. Everyone was to join the search for Muhannad Malik.
"No one could be in two places at once," Barbara had exulted to Emily. "He forgot to tell his wife what his alibi was. And she bloody well gave him a second one. The flaming game's not afoot, Emily. It's bloody well up."
And now she watched the DCI in her glory at long last. Emily fielded phone calls, con48
structed a battle plan, and directed her team with a calm assurance that belied the excitement which Barbara knew that she had to be feeling.
Hell, she'd been right from the very first. She'd sensed something dodgy in Muhannad Malik, something not right in all of his loud protestations of being a man of his people.
Indeed, there was probably some allegory or fable that emphasised the exact hypocrisy of Muhannad's life, but at the moment Barbara was too wired to dredge it up from her memory. Dog in the manger?
Tortoise and the hare? Who knew? Who cared?
Let's just get this flaming bastard, she thought.
Constables were dispatched in all directions: to the mustard factory, to the Avenues, to the town council rooms, to Falak Dedar Park, to that small meeting hall above Balford Print Shoppe where Intelligence had revealed that Jum 'a had its gatherings.
Other constables were assigned to Parkeston in the event that their quarry had headed to Eastern Imports.
Descriptions of Malik went out by fax to surrounding communities. The Thunderbird's number plates and the car's unique colour and features were relayed to police stations.
The Ten-dring Standard was phoned for a front-page position for Malik's photograph in case they hadn't run him to ground by morning.
The entire station was mobilised. Everywhere was movement. Everyone worked like a cog in the greater machine of the investigation, and Emily Barlow was that machine's centre.
It was in this sort of mode that she did her best work. Barbara remembered her ability to make quick decisions and to deploy her manpower where it would have the greatest effect. She'd done this in their exercises at Maidenstone when there was nothing at stake but the approval of the instructor and the admiration of colleagues taking the course.
Now, with everything at stake - from peace in the community to her very job - she was the personification of tranquility. Only the manner in which she bit off words as she spoke them gave an indication of her tension.
"They were all in on it,"