an occasional like a nikah are easy enough to unearth."
Her explanation was reasonable, Barbara thought. It made perfect sense. The only problem with it was that neither Rachel Winfield nor her mother had said anything that could come close to supporting this conjecture.
"From the end of the pier," Barbara said.
"What time of day was this?"
"I have no idea. I didn't look at a watch."
"I don't mean the exact time. But was it morning? Afternoon? Nigntr
"Afternoon. The police came to us in the morning."
"Not at night, then?"
Perhaps she saw too late where Barbara was heading, because her gaze faltered. But she seemed to realise the difficulty she'd be causing herself if she changed her story. She said,
"It was the afternoon."
And a woman dressed as Sahlah dressed would doubtless have been noticed ... by someone. The pier was being renovated. That very morning Barbara had herself seen the workmen perched on a building being constructed at the very place Sahlah had claimed she'd disposed of the gold bracelet. So there had to be someone on the pier who could corroborate her story.
Movement in the inner office caught her attention again. It wasn't Emily this time, but two Asian men who'd come into Barbara's line of vision. They walked to a drafting table, where they engaged in an earnest discussion with a third Asian man who was working there. The sight of them reminded Barbara of the name.
"F. Kumhar," she said to Sahlah. "Does someone of that name work here?"
"Not in the office," Sahlah said.
"The office?"
"It wouldn't be someone in either accounting or sales. Those are the office positions."
She indicated the windowed door, "But as to the facton itself . . . that's production. I know the regulai employees in production, but not those we brin; in for extra work like labelling when a big order goes out."
"These are part-time people?"
"Yes. I don't always know them." She gestured to the printout on her desk. "I've never seen the name among these, but as we don't pay the part-time people by computer, I wouldn't have done."
"Who knows the part-timers, then?"
"The director of production."
"Haytham Querashi," Barbara said.
"Yes. And Mr. Armstrong before him."
Which was how Barbara and Emily crossed paths at Malik's Mustards, with Sahlah leading Barbara back to meet Mr. Armstrong.
If size of office was anything to go by - as it was in New Scotland Yard, where importance of position was measured by the number of windows one had - then Ian Armstrong was occupying a position of some prominence, however impermaently.
When Sahlah tapped on the door and a voice called out entrance, Barbara saw a room large enough to accommodate a desk, a round conference table, and six chairs. As it was an interior office, there were no windows. Either the heat or Emily Barlow's questions were making Ian Armstrong's face drip.
Armstrong was saying, ". . .no real necessity for taking Mikey to the doctor last Friday.
That's my son's name, by the way. Mikey."
"Was he running a fever?" Emily nodded as Barbara slipped into the room. Sahlah pulled the door shut and departed.
"Yes, but children do run high temperature, don't they?" Armstrong's eyes flicked to Barbara before returning to Emily. He didn't seem to notice the perspiration that was dribbling from his forehead, down one cheek.
For her part, Emily looked as if freon rather than blood were coursing through her veins.
Coolly, she sat at the conference table with a small tape player before her, recording Ian Armstrong's answers.
"One can't rush a child to the casualty ward simply because his forehead's hot,"
Armstrong explained. "Besides, the boy's had so many ear aches that we know what to do at this point. We have drops. We use heat. He soon settles after that,"
"Can anyone other than your wife confirm this?
Did you phone your in-laws looking for advice on Friday? What about your own parents?
A neighbour? Or a friend?"
His expression clouded. "I ... If you'll give me a moment to think ..."
"Take your time, Mr. Armstrong," Emily said.
"We want to be accurate."
"It's just that I've never been involved in anything like this, and I'm feeling a bit jittery. If you know what I mean."
"Indeed," Emily said.
As the DCI waited for the man's reply to her question, Barbara took note of the office. It was functional enough. Product posters hung framed on the walls. The desk was serviceable steel as were the filing cabinets and the shelves. The table and chairs were relatively new but inexpensive-looking.
The only items of note were on Arm87 strong's desk. These were framed