Elizabeth George - In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

St. James looked up. “Things still bad between you? Helen did tell me you were on the case.”

“Marginally.”

“He'll come round.”

“Tommy always does,” Deborah added. Husband and wife exchanged a look. Deborah said uneasily, “Well. You know.”

“Yes,” St. James said after a moment, and with a brief, kind smile in her direction. Then to Barbara, “I'll have a look at the paperwork, Barbara. I expect he wants inconsistencies, anomalies, discrepancies. The usual. Tell him I'll phone.”

“Right,” she said. And then she added delicately, “I'm wondering, Simon…”

“Hmm?”

“Could you phone me as well? I mean, if you unearth something.” When he didn't reply at once, she rushed on with “I know it's irregular. And I don't want to get you into a bad spot with the inspector. But he won't tell me much and it's always, ‘Get back to the computer, Constable,’ if I make a suggestion. So, if you were willing to keep me in the picture… I mean, I know he'd be cheesed off if he knew, but I swear I'd never tell him that you-”

“I'll phone you as well,” St. James interrupted. “But there may be nothing. I know Sue Myles. She's nothing if not thorough. Frankly, I don't see why Tommy wants me to look her work over in the first place.”

Neither do I, Barbara wanted to tell him. Still, his promise to phone her buoyed her spirits, so she ended the day in far better a frame of mind than she'd begun it.

When she saw Hadiyyah's note, however, an unhappy twinge pricked at her mood. The little girl had no mother to speak of-at least no mother who was present or likely to become present any time soon-and while Barbara didn't expect to take her mother's place, she had struck up a friendship with Hadiyyah that had been a source of pleasure to them both. Hadiyyah had hoped that Barbara would attend her sewing lesson that afternoon. And Barbara had failed her. It didn't feel good.

So when she'd dropped her bag on the dining room table and listened to her messages-Mrs. Flo reporting on her mum, her mum reporting on a jolly trip to Jamaica, Hadiyyah telling her she'd left a note on the door and did Barbara find it?-she wandered up to the front of the big Edwardian house where the ground floor flat's french windows were open from the sitting room onto the flagstones of the area and within the room itself, a child's voice was declaring, “But they don't fit, Dad. Honest.”

Hadiyyah and her father were just inside, Hadiyyah seated on a cream-puff-shaped ottoman and Taymullah Azhar kneeling next to her like a lovesick Orsino. The object of their attention appeared to be the shoes that Hadiyyah was wearing. These were black lace-ups of school-uniform appearance, and Hadiyyah was squirming round in them as if they were a new device for extracting information from double agents.

“My toes're all squished up. My toe knuckles hurt .”

“And you are certain this pain has nothing to do with the desire to follow a fad of fashion, khushi?.”

“Dad.” Hadiyyah's tone was martyred. “Please. These're school shoes, you know.”

“And as we both recall,” Barbara said from the flagstones, “school shoes are never cool, Azhar. They always defy fashion. That's why they're school shoes.”

Father and daughter looked up, Hadiyyah crying out, “Barbara! I left you a note. On the door. Did you get it? I stuck it with Sellotape,” and Azhar leaning back on his heels to give his daughter's shoes a more objective scrutiny. “She says they no longer fit,” he told Barbara. “I myself am not convinced.”

“Arbitration is called for,” Barbara said. “May I…?”

“Come in. Yes. Of course.” Azhar rose and made a gesture of welcome in his formal fashion.

The flat was fragrant with the smell of curry. Barbara saw that the table was neatly laid for dinner, and she said quickly, “Oh, Sorry. I wasn't thinking about the time, Azhar. You've not eaten yet, and… D'you want me to come back later? I just saw Hadiyyah's note and thought I'd pop round. You know. The sewing lesson this afternoon. I'd promised her…” She brought herself up short. Enough, she thought.

He smiled. “Perhaps you'll join us for our meal.”

“Oh gosh, no. I mean, I haven't eaten yet, but I wouldn't want to-”

“You must!” Hadiyyah said happily. “Dad, say that she must. We're having chicken biryani. And dal. And Dad's special veg curry, which Mummy cries when she eats 'cause it's so spicy. She says, ‘Hari, you make it far too hot’ and her eye makeup runs. Doesn't it, Dad?”

Hari, Barbara thought.

Azhar said, “It does, khushi.” And to Barbara, “It will be our pleasure if you join us, Barbara.”

She thought, Better run, better hide. But, nonetheless, she said, “Thanks. I will, then.”

Hadiyyah crowed. She pirouetted in her ostensibly too-tight shoes. Her father watched her gravely and said with meaning, “Ah. As to your feet, Hadiyyah…”

“Let me check them,” Barbara interposed quickly.

Hadiyyah flew to the ottoman and plopped down upon it. She said, “They pinch and they pinch. Even then, Dad. Really.”

Azhar chuckled and disappeared into the kitchen. “Barbara will decide,” he told his daughter.

“They really pinch awfully” Hadiyyah said. “Feel how my toes're scrunched up in front.”

“I don't know, Hadiyyah,” Barbara said, probing the toecaps tentatively. “What'll you replace these with? More of the same?”

The little girl didn't reply. Barbara looked up. Hadiyyah was sucking in on her lip.

“Well?” Barbara asked. “Hadiyyah, have they changed the style of shoe you can wear with your uniform?”

“These're so ugly” she whispered. “I feel like I got boats on my feet. The new shoes're slip-ons, Barbara. They've the loveliest leather braid round the top and the sweetest little tassel dangling over the toes. They're a bit 'spensive, which is why not everyone has them yet, but I know I could wear them forever if I got them. I really could.” She looked so hopeful, brown eyes the size of old tuppence pieces.

Barbara wondered how her father managed to deny her anything. She said in her position of arbiter, “Will you go for a compromise?”

Hadiyyah's brow scrunched as effectively as had done her toes. She said, “What's compromise?”

“An agreement in which both parties get what they want, just not exactly how they expected to get it.”

Hadiyyah thought this over, bouncing her lace-up-clad feet against the ottoman. She said, “All right. I s'pose. But they're really pretty shoes, Barbara. If you saw them, you'd understand.”

“Doubtless,” Barbara said. “You've probably noticed what a fashion hound I am.” She heaved herself to her feet. With a wink at Hadiyyah, she called into the kitchen, “I'd say she's got several months in these, Azhar.”

Hadiyyah looked stricken. She wailed, “Several months?”

“But she'll definitely need another pair before Bonfire Night,” Barbara said meaningfully. She mouthed compromise in Hadiyyah's direction and watched the little girl do the mental maths from September to November. Hadiyyah looked pleased when she'd counted up the weeks.

Azhar came to the kitchen door. He'd tucked a tea towel into his trousers to serve as an apron. In his hand he held a wooden spoon. “You can be that exact with your shoe analysis, Barbara?” he asked soberly.

“Sometimes my talents amaze even myself.”

Curry in the kitchen was just another thing that Azhar appeared to do effortlessly. He accepted no assistance, even with the washing up, saying, “Your presence is the gift you bring to our meal, Barbara. We require nothing else of you,” to her offers of help. Nonetheless, she bullied her way to clearing the dining table, at least. And while he was scrubbing and drying in the kitchen, she entertained his daughter, which was her pleasure.