A quick query at the main information desk sent him outside again, and a brisk walk took him to the building that housed Vi Walters’s ward. He found her alone, and dozing, but when he came in she opened her eyes and gave him a delighted smile. “Duncan! What are you doing here? Did you come all this way to see me?”
He kissed her cheek. “I was in the neighborhood. A new case,” he said. “But I couldn’t pass up a chance to check on you and make sure you were behaving yourself. I can’t stay long.” He was waffling, he knew, covering his shock. She seemed to have shrunk since he’d last seen her, and her skin was almost translucent. Her left arm was neatly bandaged.
“Sit, then,” she said. “You look wilted as an old lettuce. Is it hot?”
He stayed beside the bed, hand on the rail. “Broiling.” Thank God the wards had air-conditioning.
“You’d never know it in here.” Vi gave a shiver, and he realized that her bed was heaped with blankets. “Always did like a touch of the sun,” she added, a little wistfully.
“Well, you should be home soon, and you can toast yourself to your heart’s content.”
Vi started to lift her bandaged arm, then seemed to think better of it and waggled her fingers at him instead. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ve got my own personal plug, as of this morning. No more sticking me black and blue with needles.”
Gemma had told him about the chemo port, and he wasn’t at all sure that was a good sign. “You’re brilliant,” he said. “A regular bionic woman. Gemma’s coming in to admire the handiwork a bit later, I think.”
“She shouldn’t come all this way.” Vi sounded a little fretful. “I’ve told her a dozen times.”
“I’m glad she listens to you,” he tossed back, grinning.
“Oh, go on with you.” Vi shook her head, but her smile was back. “Give us another kiss, then, and go on about your business.”
When he leaned down and touched his cheek to hers, it was cool. At least she no longer had a fever. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Duncan.” She touched his hand as he straightened up. “About Gemma. You know she’s been stubborn as a mule since she was in nappies. Don’t let her balk.”
Kincaid gave her a gentle squeeze in return. “And you know as well as I do that no one can make Gemma do anything.”
If it had been cold on Vi’s ward, it was arctic in the hallway leading to the mortuary. Kincaid pulled up the knot of his tie and shrugged the lapels of his jacket a little closer together, wondering if the denizens of these depths lived in thermal underwear. But a consultant wearing a coat and tie walked briskly towards him, showing no evidence of Eskimo bundling. The man gave a curt nod as they passed, shoulders almost brushing, but Kincaid stopped. “Dr. Kaleem?”
“What?” The consultant looked startled.
“Can you tell me where to find Dr. Kaleem?”
“Oh. Office just down the hall. No one could miss it.” The tone was impatient, as if implying that no one sensible would have had to ask.
“Thanks,” Kincaid said, shrugging as he went on. Suddenly, he caught the distinctive smell that had been masked by the cold, decay compounded with chemicals, and he heard Cullen’s voice. Then, when he reached the office, he saw that the passing consultant might have been referring to the office itself rather than Kincaid’s navigational abilities.
Books covered the shelves, made towers on the floor, and overflowed the surface of the desk, where a computer monitor looked as if it were fighting for its life. File boxes were interspersed with the books, and the only visible spot on the wall was covered with an intricate bit of graffiti art. There were no chairs other than the one behind the desk.
Louise Phillips’s office sprang to Kincaid’s mind, but while Phillips’s clutter had seemed indicative of carelessness, this room somehow conveyed enthusiasm, as if its occupant’s interests had overruled the limits of the physical space.
The voice he’d heard responding to Cullen’s was male, with a cut-glass accent, and now seemed to be coming from beneath the desk. “Bloody printer’s jammed.” There was a thump, then a whir, followed by an exclamation of satisfaction. “Kicking it sometimes helps. I love technology.”
A man emerged, holding a sheaf of papers victoriously aloft. Kincaid grinned. No wonder Coat-and-Tie had radiated disapproval. For if this was Dr. Kaleem, the pathologist was at the very least a sartorial nonconformist. He wore a faded, rock band T-shirt and tattered jeans, and his blue-black hair was gelled into spikes. He was also, as Gemma had curiously failed to mention, extraordinarily good-looking.
“Rashid Kaleem,” he confirmed, transferring the papers to his left hand and reaching across the desk to shake Kincaid’s right. “You must be Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen here has been telling me you’re taking over from DI Weller.” He glanced round, as if thinking of asking them to sit, then propped himself on a corner of his desk, pushing a stack of books precariously aside as he did so.
“I was telling Sergeant Cullen,” Kaleem continued, “that I managed to rush the tox scans. I was curious about this case.” He tapped a page. “Your victim was loaded with Valium, which was not too surprising.”
“Then he did commit suicide,” said Cullen, sounding almost disappointed.
“No, wait.” Kaleem waved the papers at them. “That’s not all. I found ketamine as well, and while the high concentration of the two drugs could certainly prove fatal, it’s an unlikely suicide cocktail.”
Kincaid stared at him. “What the hell was Naz Malik doing with ketamine in his system?” The veterinary tranquilizer was cheap and popular as a street drug, and made veterinary clinics obvious targets for robbery.
“It’s possible he might have taken the Valium, valid prescription or not, and bought the ketamine off a street dealer to boost the high. In which case, he might have died from an accidental overdose,” said Kaleem.
“But you don’t think so.”
“No. This guy would have been out of it. It’s like I told the old-It’s like I told DI Weller. I don’t believe the victim could have got himself into the park in his condition, and there was no evidence indicating that he took pills or used a needle on the site. Nor did I find any puncture marks on the body. So my guess is that somebody walked him, or half carried him, to the spot where he was found. And then there’s the head.”
Kincaid frowned. “What about it? There was no evidence of trauma.”
“I explained to the DI from Notting Hill-” Kaleem paused, a little smile turning up the corners of his mouth, as if he was remembering something pleasant. “People don’t just fall with their noses in the dirt.” All trace of amusement vanished, and Kaleem’s handsome face hardened. “I think he was helpless. I think someone held his head in that position, with his breathing compromised, and waited for him to suffocate. And that is very, very nasty indeed.”
“Why haven’t I met you before?” Kincaid asked when they had gone over the rest of the report with Kaleem.
“I worked the Midlands for almost eight years. I’ve only been back in London about ten months, although I grew up here, in Bethnal Green. The prodigal returns, and all that.”
The pathologist must be older than he looked, Kincaid surmised. But he was, as Gemma had been, impressed with Rashid Kaleem. Glancing up at the spray-painted wall, he asked, “That yours?”
“Have to keep my skills up,” Kaleem said with a grin.
“Nobody minds?”
“Nobody comes down here voluntarily. Look.” He stopped them as they turned to leave. “About Weller. He did the right thing turning this over to you. He’s a good copper, but this-I think this is something that’s out of his league. Just watch yourselves.”
Gemma sat through what seemed another interminable staff meeting, fighting post-lunch dullness as she listened to Sergeant Talley trying to micromanage everyone else’s cases. She’d had trouble with the career sergeant repeatedly, and she supposed it was time to have another little talk. But it was better done privately, in her office.
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She wondered, not for the first time, why Melody Talbot, who was much more competent than most of the department’s sergeants, was content to stay a detective constable. Gemma had broached the subject of promotion a few times, telling Melody she’d be glad to make a recommendation, but Melody had merely smiled, said she’d think about it, and never raised the subject again. It seemed odd, as everything else about Melody’s performance and character marked her as a highflier.
Gemma had decided she was going to have to interrupt the longwinded sergeant when her phone clattered and scooted across the conference table like a crab, then beeped stridently. So much for the inconspicuous Vibrate option. Aware of all eyes on her, Gemma grabbed the mobile and read the text message from Kincaid, a succinct Ring me.
“I’ll have to take this,” she said, escaping gladly into the corridor.
“You’ve just rescued me from staffing hell,” she said when he answered. “What’s up?”
“And I’ve just had a meeting with your pathologist,” Kincaid said.
“My pathologist?” Gemma decided to ignore the teasing note. “Dr. Kaleem? What did he say?”
“Naz Malik was pumped full of Valium and ketamine.”
“Ketamine? You think it was suicide, then,” said Gemma, “or accidental overdose.” She felt an odd stab of regret. Not of course that she wanted Naz Malik to have been murdered-that was unthinkable-but she hated the idea that he could have willingly abandoned Charlotte to an unknown fate.
Kincaid interrupted her thoughts. “No, actually, Kaleem doesn’t believe the drugs were self-administered.” He went on to detail the pathologist’s reasoning. “Kaleem’s adamant. And if he’s right, it means that we not only have a murder that was premeditated, we have a murderer who was willing to bide his time and watch Naz Malik die.”
Gemma digested this, feeling ice down her spine. “He?”
“Grammatically speaking.”
“A man is more likely, if Kaleem believes Naz was walked or carried into the park.”
“Malik wasn’t a particularly large man. A strong woman might have managed. Or two people.”
“But how would you get the drugs into an unwilling victim?” she asked.
“I’d assume the Valium could have been administered in drink or food, at least enough to make the victim compliant,” Kincaid said. “I don’t know about the ketamine. We’ll have to talk to Kaleem again.”
“We?” said Gemma with a little jolt of excitement.
Kincaid responded with a question of his own. “You’re planning to visit your mum this afternoon, right? So you’ll be in the East End. And you’ve met the nanny-” She heard a rustle of paper, as if he were checking notes. “Alia Hakim. I’ll need to interview her, and I thought it would be helpful if you came along.”
Kincaid had given Gemma the address of the council estate in Bethnal Green where Alia lived with her parents. It was not a high-rise, Gemma saw with relief, and the brown brick blocks were interspersed with panels of turquoise plaster. If the council had intended to add a note of cheer, it seemed the residents had responded in kind. There was an unusually well-kept common lawn. Flags of laundry hung bleaching in the sun on balconies and the ground-floor patios, amid hanging baskets and the inevitable chained bikes.
The Hakims lived in a ground-floor flat at one end of a unit, with access through a gated front patio fenced with eight-foot-high chicken wire. Shrubs had been planted outside the fence, and beside the gate, a half whisky barrel planter held a large palm. A framework of wooden slats had been built over the garden to hold a canvas canopy, now rolled back, and the garden itself held flowering plants, clotheslines, and a motley collection of children’s toys. The Hakims had extended their living space quite efficiently, Gemma thought as she waited for Kincaid to join her.
Watching him cross the lawn, she saw that he’d discarded his tie altogether and had rolled up the sleeves of his pale pink dress shirt. He wore sunglasses, and the sun sparked gold from his chestnut hair.
“It’s blistering,” he said when he reached her, tucking the sunglasses into his shirt pocket.
“You look like you should be in Miami,” she said, repressing the sudden desire to touch his face. “I like the glasses.”
“If it were Miami, there would be ocean. And we would be in it.” He studied her. “Not looking forward to this, are you? I spoke to Mrs. Hakim on the phone. She said Alia’s very upset. Her father’s taken off work.”
Gemma frowned, thinking of the offhand comments Alia had made about her parents. “Not necessarily a good thing, I suspect,” she murmured. “But best to get on with it. Where’s Doug?”
“Gone back to the Yard to do some research on one of Naz Malik’s pending cases. I’ll fill you in later.”
Both the gate and the flat’s front door were open, the doorway protected by a swinging curtain of beads. Gemma and Kincaid entered the garden, but before they could ring the bell, the beads parted and Alia came out. Today, although dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved yellow blouse, she wore the hijab. Her face looked pale and puffy against the head scarf, and the heavy frames of her glasses didn’t quite disguise the fact that her eyes were red from weeping.
“Alia,” said Gemma, “this is Superintendent Kincaid. We just need to talk to you for a bit.”
The girl glanced at Kincaid, then ducked her head and whispered to Gemma, “Is Charlotte okay? I’ve been so worried.”
“She’s fine,” Gemma assured her. “She’s with a good friend of mine.” She didn’t mention Sandra’s sister’s petition. “How are you doing?”
Alia touched Gemma’s sleeve and dropped her voice further. “I didn’t tell my parents I was keeping Charlotte on Saturday. They don’t like-my abba-”
“Alia,” called a man’s firm voice. “Bring your visitors inside.”
“Coming, Abba.” To Gemma, she whispered, “Do I have to-”
“Yes, I’m afraid you do,” Gemma said.
With a resigned nod, Alia held the curtain aside, and Gemma and Kincaid entered the flat.
Except for a box of toys, the sitting room reflected none of the jumble of the front garden. There was a three-piece suite in a floral print and a coffee table made from a brass tray on a stand, and center stage against the far wall an enormous flat-screen TV played a Bollywood channel with the sound off. Gemma wondered if the flat had been tidied especially for their visit.
Shelves held colorful Eastern knickknacks, but there were no visible books or magazines. On a side table, a rotating fan pulled in warm, sluggish air and feebly distributed it round the room. Gemma saw that Alia’s upper lip was beaded with sweat, but didn’t know if the girl was suffering from nerves or the heat.
The woman sitting on the sofa was an older, rounder version of Alia. She, like her daughter, concealed her hair with a scarf, but she wore a matching orange salwar kameez rather than Western dress. As she gave them a shy smile, a man Gemma assumed must be Alia’s father came into the room from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel.
“Mr. Hakim?” Kincaid held out his hand. “I’m Superintendent Kincaid. This is Inspector James. Thank you for seeing us.”
“It is our duty.” Having draped the towel over a chair in the small dining area, Mr. Hakim grasped Kincaid’s hand, but appeared not to see Gemma’s. Short and stocky like his wife and daughter, he had thick, dark hair going gray, and a severe mustache. His white shirt was neatly tucked into dark trousers. “Will you sit, please? My wife will bring tea.” Like Alia, he wore thick glasses.
Alia’s mother nodded and slipped soundlessly from the room. As Gemma and Kincaid sat side by side on the sofa, Mr. Hakim remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. He continued, “This is a very bad thing. It is bad for our daughter to be associated with this, and I am hoping your questions can be answered quickly.”
Perching on the edge of one of the overstuffed armchairs, Alia tapped a sandaled toe against the carpet. Her toenails were painted a bright coral with pink
polka dots, a surprisingly feminine contrast to her plain, un-made-up face. “Abba-”
“Mr. Malik was a man of good character, although we did not think it right for our daughter to be in his house with his wife away. I cannot think how this thing can have happened.” When his wife was away? Gemma wondered if this was a euphemism, or if Mr. Hakim didn’t know that Sandra Gilles had gone missing months earlier.
“Abba,” Alia said more forcefully, and this time her father looked at her. “I’m trying to tell you. I was there on Saturday, taking care of Charlotte. I know you don’t like me to be there on the weekends, but Naz-Mr. Malik-asked me to come for just a few minutes while he went out.” Her accent, in contrast to her father’s singsong lilt, seemed even more nasally Estuary than Gemma had noticed before. “I might have-maybe I was the last person to see him alive.”
Mr. Hakim’s mustache turned down at the corners as he tightened his lips. “You, Alia. If this is true, you have been very disobedient. I think you will have to pay a visit to your auntie in Sylhet if you cannot show respect for your parents’ wishes. We have had enough of this nonsense about lawyer school, this going and doing without any sense of what is proper. Your sisters-”
“My sisters have married totally boring men and lead totally boring lives,” Alia said vehemently as her mother came back into the room with a tea tray. “All they think about is babies and sweets and the latest Indian pop song-”
“Alia.” The sharpness of Kincaid’s tone stopped her midword. “You may not have been the last person to see Mr. Malik alive. We think Mr. Malik may have been murdered, and I need you to tell me anything you can remember about that day.”
The shock was mirrored on the faces of parents and child, but it was Alia who spoke. “Murdered? Naz murdered? But how-Why-”
“The police pathologist thinks someone gave him drugs and he suff-” Kincaid hesitated, and Gemma guessed he was searching for a more palatable description. “He stopped breathing.”
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