old and perfectly restored. Someone wasn't hurting for lolly.
The driver was a tea-skinned male somewhere in his twenties, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore wrap-around sunglasses of a style that Barbara had always associated with pimps, gigolos, and card sharks. She recognised him from the demonstration that she'd witnessed on television the previous day. Muhannad Malik.
Taymullah Azhar was with him. To his credit, he didn't look particularly comfortable arriving at the factory like a fugitive from Miami Vice.
The men got out. Azhar remained by the car, arms folded across his chest, while Muhannad sauntered to join the two police officers. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his white shirt. This was perfectly ironed and fresh-looking, and he wore it with jeans and snake-skin boots.
Emily made the introductions. Barbara felt her palms getting damp. Now was the moment for her to tell the DCI that no introduction to Tay-mullah Azhar was going to be necessary. But she held her tongue. She waited for Azhar to clarify matters on his part for his cousin. Azhar glanced Muhannad's way but held his tongue as well.
This was an unexpected turn of events. Barbara decided to see where it led them.
Muhannad's gaze passed over her in the sort of scornful, evaluative look that made Barbara itch to sink her thumbs into his eyeballs. He didn't stop walking towards them until - she was certain - he knew he'd come too close for comfortable conversation.
"And this is your liaison officer?" He gave ironic emphasis to the adjective.
"Sergeant Havers will meet with you this afternoon,"
Emily told him. "Five o'clock at the station."
"Four o'clock suits us better," Muhannad countered. He didn't try to disguise the statement's purpose: an attempt at dominance.
Emily didn't play along. "Unfortunately, I can't guarantee that my officer will be there at four," she said, unruffled. "But you're welcome to come then. If Sergeant Havers isn't in when you arrive, one of the constables will see that you're settled comfortably." She smiled pleasantly.
The Asian favoured first Emily then Barbara with an expression that suggested he was in the presence of a substance whose odour he was at pains to identify. When he'd made his point, he turned to Azhar. "Cousin," he said, and headed towards the factory door.
"Kumhar, Mr. Malik," Emily called out as his hand touched the handle. "First initial F."
Muhannad halted, turned back their way. "Are you asking me something, Inspector Barlow?"
"Is that name familiar?"
"Why do you ask?"
"It's come up. Neither your sister nor Mr.
Armstrong recognised it. I thought you might."
"Why?"
"Because of Jum'a. Is Kumhar a member?"
"Jum'a. " Muhannad's face, Barbara noted, betrayed nothing.
"Yes. Jum'a. Your club, your organisation, your brotherhood. Whatever it is. You can't think the police don't know about it."
He gave a low chuckle. "What the police don't know could fill volumes," and pushed the door inward.
"Do you know Kumhar?" Emily persisted. "It's an Asian name, isn't it?"
He paused, half in light, half in shadow. "Your racism's showing, Inspector. Just because a name's Asian, it doesn't follow I'm acquainted with the man."
"I didn't say Kumhar was a man, did I?"
"Don't out-shine yourself. You asked if Kumhar belonged to Jum 'a. If you know about Jum 'a, I assume you know it's a society of male members only. Now, is there anything else? Because if there isn't, my cousin and I have work to do inside."
"Yes, there is something else," Emily said.
"Where were you on the night Mr. Querashi died?"
Muhannad let go of his hold on the door. He came back into the light and returned his sunglasses to his nose. "What?" he asked quietly, certainly more for effect than because he'd not heard the question.
"Where were you the night Mr. Querashi died?" Emily repeated.
He snorted. "And this is where your investigation has taken you. Right where I expected you to go. A Paki's dead, so a Paid did it. And what better place to pin your hopes than on me, the most obvious Paki of choice."
"That's certainly an intriguing observation,"
Emily noted. "Perhaps you'd care to explain it."
He removed his sunglasses once again. His eyes were full of contempt. Behind him, Taymullah Azhar's expression was guarded. "I get in your way," Malik said. "I take care of my people. I want to make them proud of who they are. I want them to hold their heads up high. I want them to know that they don't need to be white in order to be worthy. And all of that is the last