Akram Malik.
Akram Malik had purchased the derelict mill on the fifth anniversary of his family's arrival in Balford-le-Nez, and a plaque with words commemorating that occasion was the most impressive object that Emily Barlow took note of when she entered the building after parking her Peugeot in a space that was relatively cleared of debris along the lane.
She was fighting off a headache. There had been a disturbing undercurrent to her morning's meeting with Barbara Havers. This weighed on her mind. She didn't need a member of the political correctness police on her team, and Barbara's willingness to saddle guilt exactly where the bloody Asians wanted guilt assigned - on the back of an Englishman - bothered her, causing her to wonder exactly how clear the other detective's vision was. Additionally, the presence of Donald Ferguson in her life - hovering on its periphery like a stalking cat - was an added screw to her misery.
She'd begun her day with yet another phone call from the superintendent. He'd barked without so much as a good morning or a pleasant comment of commiseration about the weather,
"Barlow. Where do we stand?"
She'd groaned. At eight in the morning her office had been like Alec Guinness's sweat box on the River Kwai, and a quarter hour's search for a fan in the choking, dust-filled air of the old station's attic had done nothing to improve her disposition. Stirring Ferguson into the mix of heat and aggravation was almost too much flavour for the recipe of her morning to have to bear.
"Don, are you going to give me a free hand in this?" she'd asked. "Or will you and I be playing report-to-the-teacher every morning and afternoon?"
"Watch your mouth," Ferguson warned.
"You'd do well to keep in mind who's sitting at the other end of this telephone line."
"I'm not likely to forget it. You don't give me the chance. Do you keep this sort of short rein on the others? Powell? Honeyman? What about our lad Presley?"
"They've more than fifty years of experience among them. They don't need watching over.
Least of all Presley."
"Because they're male."
"Don't let's turn this into a sexual issue. If you've a chip on your shoulder, I suggest you knock it off before someone else with more clout does it for you. Now, where are we, Inspector?"
Emily cursed him soundly under her breath.
Then she'd brought him up to date without reminding him how remote was the possibility of there having been a major break in the case between his last call on the previous evening and this one in the morning.
He said thoughtfully, "And you say this woman's from Scotland Yard? I like that, Barlow.
I like it very much. It has just the right ring of sincerity, doesn't it?" Emily could hear the sound of him swallowing and the clink of a glass against the telephone receiver. Donald Ferguson was passionate about Fanta Orange. He drank it steadily all day, always with an odd, paper-thin slice of lemon and always with a single cube of ice. This was probably his fourth of the morning. "Right.
Then what about Malik? What about this screamer from London? Are you riding their shirttails? I want you on them, Barlow. If they sneezed last week, I want you to know the colour of the handkerchief that collected the snot. Is that clear?"
"Intelligence have already given me a report on Muhannad Malik." Emily took pleasure in having managed to be one step ahead of him. She recited the salient details on the young Asian. "And I put a request in yesterday to gather what we can on the other: Taymullah Azhar. As he's from London, we'll have to liaise with SOI 1, but I expect having Sergeant Havers on our team will help with that."
Ferguson's glass clinked again. Doubtless, he was taking the opportunity to manhandle his surprise into submission. He'd always been the sort of man who claimed women's hands had been shaped by God to curve perfectly over the handle of a Hoover. The fact that a female had actually been capable of thinking ahead and anticipating the investigation's needs was no doubt wreaking havoc with the preconceived notions that the superintendent held dear.
"Is there anything else?" she asked amiably.
"I've got the day's activities briefing in five minutes.
I don't like to be late for it. But if you've a message for the team . . . ?"
"No message," Ferguson said brusquely. "Get on with it, then." He slammed down the phone.
Now at the mustard factory, Emily smiled