Necessary as Blood

by Deborah Crombie

  Kincaid fought the impulse to cough as the smoke reached him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cullen, who had got out his notebook, glance at the window. Giving Cullen an infinitesimal shake of the head, he said, “Ms. Phillips, when did you last talk to your partner?”

  “Friday. Friday afternoon. We’ve been working on a case that goes to trial next week. We had a meeting with the barrister in his chambers. Naz was-” Her voice wavered. “I can’t believe it.” She ground out the barely smoked cigarette, then lit another. “I’d been trying to ring him since yesterday. Couldn’t figure out why his phone was turned off-it went straight to voice mail. I left him a message this morning. I couldn’t believe he was late.” She looked at them in appeal. “What’s happened to him?”

  “We’re not sure, Ms. Phillips,” Kincaid answered. “Do you know of any reason why your partner would have been in Haggerston Park?”

  “Haggerston? No. Except Naz and Sandra used to take Charlotte to the farm sometimes, or for walks…”

  “Did the park have any special significance for them?”

  “No, not that I know of. They often had family outings to places in the area. But Naz isn’t really the nature type on his own…” Louise Phillips stood and began to pace in the small space behind her desk. “Look, you’re absolutely sure it’s Naz? There could be a mistake-”

  “Detective Inspector Weller, who investigated Sandra Gilles’s disappearance, identified the body.”

  “Weller.” Phillips grimaced. “Yes, he would know Naz. But why are you asking about Haggerston? Is that where he was…found? What happened to him? You still haven’t told me.”

  Patiently, Kincaid said, “Mr. Malik left his daughter with her nanny on Saturday afternoon, saying he would be back shortly. His friend Tim Cavendish reported him missing when both he and the daughter’s nanny began to worry. Mr. Malik’s body was found by a passerby in Haggerston Park yesterday morning. The pathologist has not made a ruling on the cause of death.”

  “Yesterday?” Louise Phillips whispered. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “I believe you’re ex-directory, Ms. Phillips? Unless DI Weller had your home number?” Kincaid remembered Gemma telling him she’d tried without success to find Phillips’s home number.

  “Oh, no. Weller never asked. It never occurred to me that he’d need it. And I-I never imagined…I never imagined anything happening to Naz…”

  “Did your partner seem particularly upset about anything the last time you spoke?”

  She hesitated. “I wouldn’t say upset. We’d been…It’s this case.” Phillips sat down again and lit another Silk Cut. With an apologetic glance at Kincaid, Cullen set his notebook on a file case and went to the window.

  “Do you mind?” he asked Phillips.

  “Stuck shut,” she answered. “Naz was…Naz nagged at me to get it fixed, but I-I didn’t want-I don’t know why I was so bloody-minded about it.” She stubbed out the cigarette, and Cullen retreated to his chair, having scored at least a minor victory.

  “The case?” Kincaid prompted.

  “We’re representing a Bangladeshi restaurant owner named Ahmed Azad. He owns a curry house just off Brick Lane. He’s accused of importing young people and forcing them to work without pay in his home and restaurant.”

  “House slaves?” Cullen looked surprised.

  “Well, the home charge will be harder for the prosecution to prove. He’s sponsored these young men and women-they would have to testify that he’s forcing them to work without pay, and not allowing them to seek employment elsewhere.”

  “But they won’t?” guessed Kincaid.

  Phillips rolled her eyes. “It’s alleged that he threatened to rescind his sponsorship, which would result in their deportation. And it’s alleged that if they seek other employment, he threatens to harm their relatives back in Sylhet. Of course, they’re not going to talk.”

  “But somebody did.”

  “A couple of ex-employees from the restaurant. They seem to have a grudge against him over some back wages. And there was a young man, a second cousin, I think, who was working as a dishwasher. He agreed to testify that Azad refused to pay him, and had threatened them. But he seems to have, um, disappeared, so the prosecution’s case is looking a bit weak.”

  “The man sounds an obvious crook,” said Cullen.

  “He’s our client,” corrected Phillips wearily. “If we only represented model citizens, we’d soon be out of business.”

  “A witness disappeared, Ms. Phillips?” Kincaid asked sharply. “When?”

  “Two weeks ago. We only learned about it when Customs and Immigration questioned Azad. They’d been keeping this boy, the cousin or nephew or whatever he was, under wraps.”

  “Apparently with good reason.”

  Phillips shrugged. “He probably just decided that getting his own back against Azad wasn’t worth deportation.”

  “And you don’t think that Customs and Immigration will have offered him a deal?”

  “We’re not privy to that information,” Phillips said rather primly. “But…Naz wasn’t happy. It was too close to home, the disappearance. We’d had-Things had been a bit tense in the office lately. Friday…”

  Leaning forwards, Kincaid schooled his face into a sympathetic expression, concealing his interest. “You had a row?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a row.” She reached for the cigarettes, then stopped, as if making an effort to control the urge. Kincaid wondered how much of her smoking was due to nicotine addiction and how much was nervous habit, merely something to do with her hands. Without the easy prop, she resorted to twisting the ring she wore on her right hand. Her nails were short, the cuticles ragged, as if she bit them. “A disagreement, if that. It was just-Naz wasn’t sure he wanted to go on representing Azad. I told him that was bollocks. We were committed, and we needed the money. We couldn’t afford his scruples. He-” She clamped her lips tight, hands suddenly still.

  “He what, Ms. Phillips?” Kincaid tone was firm.

  “It’s just that, since Sandra disappeared, Naz has been…different. Well, naturally you’d expect that, but…We’ve known each other since law school. We’ve been partners for ten years. We were good together. But lately…Naz had been something of a liability. He couldn’t concentrate. Anything would send him off on a tangent, get his hopes up about Sandra. Or make him unreasonable, like this business with Azad. But I thought he’d adjust, somehow…”

  “You thought he’d adjust to the loss of his wife? You didn’t think she’d come back?”

  “No.” Phillips’s answer was flat. “Sandra Gilles wasn’t the type to walk away from everything she’d worked for. We had that in common, Sandra and I.”

  “Not even if she’d had an affair?” Kincaid asked.

  “An affair? No.” Phillips shook her head. “There was speculation, of course, when she disappeared, that she’d run off with a man, but I never believed it. Sandra was no saint, and I’m sure she and Naz had their differences over the years, but she’d never have left-Oh, God.” She stared at Kincaid, wide-eyed. “Charlotte. What’s happened to Charlotte?”

  Gemma popped a CD of Handel anthems in the little player she kept in her office, hoping the music would propel her through the Monday-morning deluge of reports on her screen. But as the voices soared, she closed her eyes, mouse in hand, and let the music wash over her.

  It made her think of Winnie, and of the small and perfect wedding she’d imagined, with Winnie officiating, and for a moment she indulged in the daydream. Then she opened her eyes and turned down the volume, chastising herself for her selfishness in putting her wishes over concern for Winnie’s health. She would ring Glastonbury this evening and check up on her, and that, she realized reluctantly, meant she’d have to tell Winnie and Jack about her mum as well.

  She’d rung her mum at the hospital last night and first thing that morning, getting the chipper I’m just fine, dearie speech both times. She’d just made up her mind
that as soon as she could decently duck out of the office, she was going to see for herself, when there was a tap on her door and Melody Talbot came in. They’d spoken only in passing at the department briefing that morning, a busy one, as intense heat always seemed to increase their caseload, and the buzz of excitement over the approaching carnival had added to the ferment.

  “Boss,” said Melody, closing the door, “got a minute?”

  Gemma glanced down at the report she’d been reading. A boy had been knifed near the Ladbroke Grove tube station on Saturday night, and although he’d survived, he was refusing to name his attackers. She sighed, sympathizing with the investigating officers’ frustration, and with a click reassigned the case to a team who were working two similar incidents. They might very well be connected.

  Then she smiled at Melody, blanked the computer screen, and switched off the CD. “I’m all yours. What’s up?”

  “Um.” Melody hesitated, unusual for an officer who was usually the model of efficiency. Curious, Gemma nodded towards a chair. Melody sat, looking deceptively demure in her navy skirt and white blouse. She’d already shed her suit jacket. Not even Melody could keep up her standards of crispness in this heat. “It’s about Saturday night,” she said, still not meeting Gemma’s eyes.

  “Melody, what on earth are you talking about?” asked Gemma, baffled.

  “I missed your call, and I never rang you back. It was a family dinner. I had my phone turned off, and then didn’t think to check messages.”

  “Oh, that. I’d completely forgotten.” Gemma realized she was sweating and shrugged out of her light cotton cardigan. “You weren’t on duty, Melody. There’s no need to apologize. You have a right to personal time.”

  “But if you’d needed me…”

  “As it turned out, I don’t think there was anything you could have done.” She told Melody about Tim’s call and what had followed, but even as she reassured Melody, she felt a flicker of doubt. If Naz Malik had still been alive when she’d rung Melody, was there some way they might have found him in time? She shook her head, telling herself that was useless speculation, and finished her story.

  “You got the little girl placed with Wesley’s mum?” said Melody. She was sitting forward, on the edge of her chair now, interest apparently having banished her momentary awkwardness. “Brilliant. How’s she doing?”

  “As well as you could expect, I think. Although I’m not sure what you would expect.” Gemma thought of Charlotte as she’d left her yesterday afternoon, sobbing in Betty’s arms, and remembered how she had hated to let the child go. “She’ll be all right,” Betty had reassured her. “It’s just she’s had a long day, and she feels safe with you.”

  “I’ll come see you tomorrow,” Gemma had promised Charlotte, kissing her damp, sticky cheek.

  “I’ve promised to visit her again today,” she told Melody. “And I’ve got to check on my mum. She’s in hospital since yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Melody said quickly. “Anything I can do?”

  The flash of concern in Melody’s eyes made her feel a surge of panic. “No. No, it’s nothing major,” she said. “She has a little low-grade infection. Her immune system’s depressed from the chemo. And they’re putting in a port for the treatments-” She stopped, aware that she was rattling on to reassure herself rather than Melody. “I’m sure she’ll be fi-”

  Her mobile rang, rescuing her. But when she saw Betty Howard’s name on the caller ID, she excused herself, feeling the same instant prickle of worry she got when one of boys’ schools rang. “Betty, hi,” she answered quickly. “Is everything all right?”

  She listened for a moment, frowning, tapping a pen on her desk, then said, “Let me check into it. I’ll ring you back.”

  “Is something wrong?” asked Melody when Gemma ended the call.

  “I don’t know.” Gemma frowned. “Betty says she got a call from the social worker, Janice Silverman. Silverman said she contacted Charlotte’s grandmother, who told her she wanted nothing to do with Charlotte. But later this morning, Sandra’s sister, a woman named Donna Woods, rang her up. She says she wants to take Charlotte.”

  “But surely that’s a good thing,” said Melody. “The child should be with family.”

  “Yes, well, maybe,” Gemma said slowly. “But it depends on the family.” It occurred to her that the idea of Toby and Kit in her own sister’s care horrified her-although they wouldn’t be mistreated, they wouldn’t be cared for the way she would look after them. And a blood relationship was certainly no guarantee of love, as Kit’s experience with his grandmother had taught them all too painfully. “According to Tim, Naz and Sandra were adamant about not wanting Charlotte to have any contact with Sandra’s family,” she continued. “And we don’t know anything about this sister.”

  “We?” Melody looked at her quizzically.

  “The police. Social services. You know what I mean,” she added, a little exasperated.

  Melody scrutinized her a bit longer, as if debating, then said, “Well, what it sounds like to me is that you don’t want to let Charlotte Malik out of your sight.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The British Bangladeshi population has therefore described itself in several different ways during the last sixty years: Indian, Pakistani, Bengali, Bangladeshi. Nowadays the last two terms are used interchangeably. In addition, many use the term “sylheti” to describe themselves, this being the part of Bangladesh from which most British Bangladeshi families originate.

  – Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron, Michael Young, The New East End

  Kincaid didn’t like not having his own team on the ground from the beginning of an investigation, but as Bethnal Green had got in first, it made sense to run the incident room from Bethnal Green Police Station. And he wanted Weller whether Weller wanted him or not, so once the DI was out of court he’d have to put up with a new SIO on his patch.

  He’d set up in a conference room with a computer terminal and a whiteboard, assigning an officer to man the public phone line and another to correlate the statements taken from witnesses in the park. Then he’d had the very attractive DS Singh bring him every bit of information on file regarding Naz Malik and Sandra Gilles.

  He handed the Malik files to Cullen and started in on the disappearance of Sandra Gilles himself, reading with interest. People did simply vanish, of course; one only had to read the missing persons files. But in most cases, enough digging would unearth a trigger-a row, depression, financial problems-or a witness would report some small thing that gave credence to a theory of violence. But Sandra Gilles, successful artist, devoted wife, and adoring mother, just seemed to have been swallowed by the earth on that bright Sunday afternoon in May. There must have been something more.

  He read through the e-mail Gemma had sent him, describing in detail the events of the weekend. Then he compared Gemma’s notes with the brief report DI Weller had filed. There was no mention in Weller’s report of Tim Cavendish’s comments about Sandra Gilles’s alleged affair with a man named Lucas Ritchie. Why?

  Tim had referred to Ritchie as a club owner, but if he had mentioned its name, Gemma hadn’t caught it. Kincaid dialed Tim Cavendish on his mobile, heard the surprise in Tim’s voice when he said he had questions about the case. “Yes, I’ve got my fingers in the pie now,” he told Tim, but didn’t elaborate. “Tim, about this Lucas Ritchie bloke-did Naz tell you anything else? The name of the club?”

  “No. Look, I shouldn’t have said-”

  “Don’t be daft, man,” Kincaid interrupted. “You should have told Gemma on Saturday. I’ll ring you back.”

  He called in Sergeant Singh. “Does the name Lucas Ritchie mean anything to you? Owns an exclusive private club in the area?”

  She shook her head, but her brown eyes were alert, her expression interested. “No, sir. But I can run a search of local business records.”

  He gave her a friendly smile. “Do that, why don’t you, Sergeant. And get straight back to me with t
he results.” He was treading carefully here. It wasn’t a good idea to openly criticize Weller to his staff, but he didn’t want any failures of communication.

  “Yes, sir,” Singh answered, a slight frown creasing her smooth forehead. Pondering the implications, Kincaid thought. A bright girl. “Oh, but, sir,” she added, “I was just coming in to tell you. Dr. Kaleem, the pathologist, rang. He wanted to speak to DI Weller, but since he’s not available at the moment-”

  “Sergeant,” Kincaid interrupted her firmly. “I know it’s a bit awkward for you, but I’m in charge of the Malik investigation now, so anything comes directly to me. I’m sure DI Weller will have a chance to make that clear when he comes in. Now, where would I find Dr. Kaleem?”

  “At the London, sir.”

  “I want you to set up the team in charge of going over the Maliks’ house,” Kincaid told Cullen as they drove the short distance to the Royal London. “I want our lads, not Bethnal Green. And I want them to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb, including any records of Sandra Gilles’s business transactions. The one thing we do know about this Ritchie is that he was one of Sandra Gilles’s clients.”

  Glancing at his watch as the bulk of the hospital came into view, Kincaid added, “Oh, and, Doug, drop me at the front and I’ll meet you at the mortuary in about ten minutes.”

  Cullen glanced at him for an instant, then shifted his gaze back to the road. “Right, guv.”

  “It will probably take you that long to park in this warren,” Kincaid said, but didn’t offer any further explanation. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss Gemma’s personal business with Doug, especially considering Cullen’s pouting over Gemma’s involvement in the case.

  He jumped out of the car as Cullen stopped on the double yellows in front of the main building. Admittedly, the hospital’s venerable original building was quite hideous, but looking at the disparate styles of the mushrooming annexes, Kincaid couldn’t help but think the planners would have been better served by sticking with uniform ugliness.