Deception on His Mind Page 0,35

one or more relentless Nemeses whose identity victims were always conveniently unable to recall. "No one can mobilise the Asian community like Malik," Emily said. "He's been dogging my heels since Querashi's body was found, and he'll be dogging them till I make an arrest. Between seeing to him and seeing to Ferguson, I've had to manufacture time to conduct the investigation."

"That's rough," Barbara said.

"What it is is a pisser." Emily tossed the knife into the kitchen sink and carried her meal to the table.

"I had a talk with a local girl at the Breakwater,"

Barbara said as Emily went to the fridge and brought out two cans of Heineken. She passed one to Barbara and popped the top on her own. She sat with natural and unconscious athleticism, lifting one leg over the seat of the chair rather than easing her way into it with studied feminine grace. "There's some talk that Querashi had a mishap with drugs. You know what I mean: ingested heroin prior to leaving Pakistan."

Emily spooned up some of her yoghurt concoction.

She rolled her beer can across her forehead, where the perspiration was glistening on her skin.

She said, "We haven't yet got the final word from toxicology about Querashi. There may be a drug tie. With the harbours nearby, we've got to keep it in mind. But drugs didn't kill him, if that's what you're thinking."

"D'you know what did?"

"Oh yeah. I know."

"Then why're you playing your cards so close?

I saw there's been no cause of death given, so it's still not clear if you've even got a murder. Is that where things still stand?"

Emily swallowed some beer and eyed Barbara carefully. "How much of a holiday are you on, Barb?"

"I can hold my tongue, if that's what you're asking."

"What if I'm asking more?"

"D'you need my help?"

Emily had scooped up more yoghurt, but she set her spoon back in the bowl and meditated on it before answering slowly. "I may do."

This was far better than greasing her way in, Barbara realised. She jumped at the opportunity the DCI was unknowingly offering. "Then you've got it. Why're you holding the press off? If it isn't drugs, is it sex related? Suicide? Accident? What's going on?"

"Murder," she said.

"Ah. And when the word gets out, the Asians're going to hit the streets again."

"The word is out. I told the Pakistanis this afternoon."

"And?"

"And they'll be breathing, peeing, and sleeping for us from this moment onward."

"Is it a racial killing, then?"

"We don't know yet."

"But you do know how he died?"

"We knew that the moment we got a clear look at him. But it's something I'd like to keep from the Asians as long as I can."

"Why? If they know it's a murder - "

"Because this kind of murder suggests the very thing they're claiming."

"A racial incident?" And when Emily nodded, Barbara asked, "How? I mean, how could you tell by looking at the body that it's a racial killing?

Were there marks on it? Swastikas or something?"

"No."

"Some sort of National Front calling card left at the scene?"

"Not that either."

"Then how can you conclude - "

"He was seriously bruised. And his neck was broken, Barb."

"Whoa. Bloody hell." Barbara's words were reverent. She recalled what she'd read.

Querashi's body had been found inside a pillbox on the beach. This suggested a lying in wait and an ambush. Taken in conjunction with a beating, the death could indeed be interpreted as having been racially motivated. Because premeditated killings - unless they were preceded by the sort of tortures favoured by serial killers - were generally swift since the object was death. Additionally, a broken neck suggested another man as the killer. No average woman would have the strength even to begin to break a man's neck.

As Barbara considered these points, Emily went to the work top and fetched her canvas hold-all. At the table, she shoved her plate to the edge and pulled out three manila folders. She opened the first, placed it to one side, and opened the second. It contained a set of glossy photographs.

She flipped through these for several she wanted and handed them to Barbara.

The photographs depicted the corpse as he appeared on the morning of his discovery in the pillbox. The first picture concentrated on his face, 17 and Barbara saw that he was nearly as banged up as she herself was. His right cheek was especially contused, and a gash bisected one of his eyebrows.

Two other photographs displayed his hands. Both were scored and abraded as if they'd been raised protectively.

Barbara

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