Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

that the successful candidate was having intimate relations with your manager?”
    “Jeff and Sarah? I certainly was not. I had no idea. People don’t pass gossip on to me. It’s because I’m a Muslim, you see.”
    John Martin pursed his lips and produced a photo from a file. He handed it to Rukshana. “Do you know who that is?”
    It was a CCTV still photo from the lobby of the bank. It showed Rukshana at the security gate in her heels, short skirt, low-cut top, and sunglasses. Rukshana passed it back.
    “No, sorry.”
    John Martin passed it back to her. “Have another look. Rack your brains.”
    Rukshana studied it again before handing it over.
    “Still no.”
    John Martin moved in for the kill. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
    Rukshana feigned outrage and tugged at her headscarf. “Certainly not. I’m a good Muslim. That girl looks like a prostitute. Totally inappropriate clothes for any decent Muslim woman.”
    John Martin passed her another photo, asked her if she recognized the subject. This one was a CCTV still of Rukshana in her burka outside Al-Nutjobs. But Rukshana had hit her stride. “I doubt her own mother would recognize her. If it was a woman, of course; perhaps it was a man in disguise? We don’t wear burkas in this house.”
    John Martin played her the tape of the phone call to the anti-terrorist hotline. When it was finished he said, “That was you, wasn’t it?”
    “It sounds more like a white comedian making fun of Asians. There’s too much of that sort of racism in our society. I don’t know why the police don’t crack down on it.”
    And so it went on. For an hour, John Martin probed and Rukshana parried. But Rukshana could see the detective was getting frustrated. He knew, okay, but he couldn’t prove it. Eventually, John Martin accepted a cup of tea and a couple of Samosas that he found “very tasty.” Then, with obvious reluctance, he returned to the attack.
    “Our inquiries have revealed — oh, I say, good shot!”
    John Martin was looking over Rukshana’s shoulder at the cricket. A young Pakistani batsman had just hit the ball clean into the cheering crowd. Granddad turned around and said to him, “What about that kid, eh? What a prospect!”
    John Martin returned to his questioning, but he began going around in circles. He admitted the photos could have been of anyone. He also confessed there was no fingerprint evidence and that the tape didn’t really prove anything. He admitted — off the record — that the police had quite a list of people who didn’t much like her ex-boss Jeff, so they had a lot of others to interview. In fact, some of his fellow officers suspected Jeff’s wife was the real culprit, and, frankly, they didn’t blame her. The wife was certainly a more promising suspect than a nice Muslim girl like Rukshana.
    “Okay, Miss Malik, I think we’re about finished for now.”
    But as he got up to go, he noticed something on the mantelpiece. He walked over and picked up the large pair of sunglasses that Rukshana had worn the previous Thursday when she’d framed Jeff. They were sitting where she’d left them when she’d gotten back. John Martin looked at the shades and then fished out the CCTV still of Rukshana in the bank lobby and studied it. They were obviously the same distinctive pair. Rukshana felt her stomach tense. She’d been so careful, and now this . . .
    But before John Martin had a chance to ask Rukshana for an explanation, her granddad snapped, “What are you doing with my sunglasses?”
    “Your sunglasses?”
    “Yes. They’re medicinal, I use them to cut out the glare from the TV.”
    Granddad got up, took the sunglasses from the cop’s hand, and put them on. He looked quite natty in them. John Martin was not convinced.
    “You use them to cut out the glare from the TV?”
    “That’s right.”
    “So why weren’t you wearing them when I came in?”
    “I was. But I take them off when we have visitors. I don’t want to look like a prat, do I?”
    “I’m sorry, sir, but . . .”
    Granddad angrily turned on the unfortunate police officer. “Are you calling me a liar? And by the way, the girl is right — she was here all day last Thursday and I was here all day watching cricket in my sunglasses and I’d like to see you prove otherwise. Now, why don’t you clear off and catch some real criminals?”

    W HEN J OHN M ARTIN was gone, Rukshana sat down in the front room by her grandfather.
    “So you were listening