Gemma felt cold. “Hazel, I-I should have realized. I should never have let you-”
“It’s all right.” Hazel took Gemma’s hand and squeezed it. “I don’t think you could have helped me. You’re too close to me, to everything that’s happened.”
Gemma shook her head. “No, I should have called you-I should have checked-”
“No. Listen. It wouldn’t have helped. What I needed was the kindness of strangers.”
“What?” said Gemma, not making sense of that at all.
Seeing Gemma’s look of bewilderment, Hazel gave a shaky laugh. “My neighbor ministered to me, with vegetable rice and dahl. You remember two of the boys you met? They’re brothers. Tariq and Jamil. They live in the council flats at the end of the road. I told you they look out for me. They saw me come home, for the second night, and sit in the dark-they can see the bungalow from their bedroom windows. They told their mother they were worried. She worried, too, and after a bit she came with the food she had made, and knocked on my gate. She’s very shy and she doesn’t speak much English, but she kept knocking until I answered.
“When she saw me, she put her arm round me and led me inside. She turned on the lights, and fed me, and ran me a bath. Then she sat up all night in the chair in my sitting room while I slept.” Now tears ran down Hazel’s cheeks, unchecked. “And when I woke up yesterday morning, I knew I couldn’t betray her care. So I have been trying to put myself back together, to think things through, to begin to make amends for the person I’ve let myself become. And I wanted to start with Charlotte…Somehow my…callousness…seemed the ultimate failure. Do you see?”
Gemma fumbled in her bag for a packet of tissues, remembering her own shock at Hazel’s behavior, trying to work out what to say. “I think I do understand. But, Hazel, nothing you’ve done is irredeemable. You’re just human, and humans make mistakes. The important thing is to remember that Tim and Holly love you-we all love you. Don’t shut us out. Don’t shut me out.” She handed Hazel a tissue and waited while Hazel blew her nose. “I’m your best friend, and if I haven’t made a very good job of it, I’m going to do better.
“Now,” she said with decision as she zipped her bag, “you’re going to ring Tim, and then you’re coming back to the house with me. Wesley’s made cake for Charlotte, but he promised to leave us a bit.”
“Oh, Gemma,” Hazel said, accepting the hand Gemma held out for a boost up. “You should have seen Wes with Charlotte. She followed him around like a little duckling. Do you think he’ll be allowed to visit once she goes to her grandmother?”
“What?” Gemma stared at her, frowning. “What are you talking about? What do you mean ‘once she goes to her grandmother’?”
“Didn’t the social worker call you?”
Gemma fought a rising flood of panic. “There must be a mistake. I talked to her earlier this afternoon. Sandra’s sister had petitioned for custody, but Mrs. Silverman said she has a record of neglecting her own kids, so that’s out. There was nothing about the grandmother. When they contacted her on Sunday, she said she didn’t want Charlotte.”
“Um.” Hazel looked at Gemma a little warily. “Mrs. Silverman rang Betty while I was there. It seems as though Sandra’s mother has changed her mind.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Spitalfields had been London’s main Huguenot district and later a Jewish neighborhood. Close to the port, it and neighboring Whitechapel were first stops for many aspiring immigrants. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Bethnal Green was a haven and staging-post for Huguenot refugees escaping from persecution in France, who made an enormous contribution to the architectural, economic and demographic history of East London…
– Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron, Michael Young, The New East End
“You can’t possibly consider letting Sandra Gilles’s mother have Charlotte.”
“Inspector James.” Janice Silverman’s voice, usually cheerfully friendly, had taken on a frosty note. “I appreciate your concerns. But you, of all people, should understand that you have to let us do our job.”
Gemma took a breath and loosened her grip on the phone. Yesterday evening, she’d talked to Betty, confirming what Hazel had told her about Charlotte. Then this morning she’d snatched the first free moment in her office to ring Janice Silverman. “Of course,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory. “But from what we’ve heard, Gail Gilles is not at all suitable-”
“Gail Gilles is Charlotte Malik’s grandmother, her nearest living relative. As such, we have to give her due consideration. That doesn’t mean”-she went on before Gemma could interrupt again-“that we will ignore the issues you’ve raised. Charlotte will stay with Mrs. Howard for the time being. I’ve explained to Ms. Gilles that her sons need to move out of the flat, and that we’ll be checking to ensure that they have done so. We’ll be initiating a home study, and I’ll present the results of our findings to the family court judge at the next hearing.”
“And when will that be?” asked Gemma.
There was a rustle of pages, as if Silverman were checking a paper diary. “Two weeks from yesterday, unless there’s a delay. Of course, you should attend if you have any information that would be helpful to the judge-although I’d suggest it be concrete.”
The phrases “home study” and “family court hearing” were all too rawly familiar to Gemma. She’d assumed that when Silverman said, “But you, of all people,” she’d been referring to Gemma’s work as a police officer. But now she wondered if Silverman had checked the records and found that Gemma and Kincaid had themselves fought Kit’s maternal grandmother for custody.
And won, with good reason, she reminded herself, but a cursory review by someone who hadn’t known the parties involved might make her seem a bit of a nutter.
And was she? she thought, feeling suddenly shaken.
Was the fact that she and Duncan knew firsthand how much damage a supposedly benign grandparent could inflict on a vulnerable child, making her overly sensitive?
Maybe, she had to admit, although no amount of rationalizing could dispel her gut feeling that this child was at risk. And if there was no one else to champion her, Gemma couldn’t afford to alienate the social worker.
To Mrs. Silverman, she said with as much composure as she could muster, “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
“You could benefit Charlotte most by helping her adjust to her foster home.” The nip in Silverman’s voice had thawed, but now Gemma just wanted to get off the phone and think.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help Charlotte, and Betty,” she said, adding, “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Silverman.”
Melody came in as Gemma ended the call. “Coffee run,” she said, handing Gemma a Starbucks cup with a plastic top. “How did it go?”
“She thinks I have a grudge against grannies.” Gemma sipped, wincing as the still-scalding latte burned the roof of her mouth.
“And do you?” Melody perched on the edge of a chair and sipped her own coffee as if she were Asbestos Woman.
“You think I’m overreacting because of Eugenia?” Gemma worked the lid off the coffee and watched the stream rise in a little cloud. Kit’s grandmother seemed to have become more mentally unstable, and these days it was only his grandfather Bob who came for the scheduled monthly visits. On the last occasion he’d confided that he didn’t know how much longer he could care for Eugenia on his own.
“No, there’s no doubt that she was seriously off her rocker,” answered Melody. “But what about your family? Do you get on with your grandparents?”
“I only vaguely remember my mum’s folks. They died within months of each other when Cyn and I were little. My mum always said they never really recovered from the war. And my dad…my dad never even talks about his family. He left home when he was thirteen and never went back.”
“Can’t have been a good situation, then. But Duncan’s parents are all right?”
“They’re lovely. And you’re beginning to sound like
a caseworker,” Gemma added with a touch of asperity. And that was unusual, she realized, as Melody tended to avoid discussing personal matters. “What about you?” she asked, giving tit for tat.
“Oh, I was hatched from aliens,” Melody said with a grin, then quickly sobered. “So what are you going to do about little Charlotte?”
If Gemma knew about self-serving grandmothers because of their experience with Kit, she also knew that the social services’ home studies were undertaken thoroughly and responsibly. But she realized that in the last few minutes her worry had hardened into resolve. She was not willing to trust Charlotte Malik’s fate to the bureaucratic machine.
“I think,” she said, “that I want to have a nice, long talk with Gail Gilles.”
Kincaid stepped out of the buzz of the Bethnal Green incident room to take Gemma’s call. He listened, nodding at passersby in the corridor whose faces were already becoming familiar.
“No, I don’t want to talk to Gail Gilles yet,” he said when he could get a word in edgewise. “And I don’t want you to talk to her either. Not until I’ve interviewed Kevin and Terry Gilles. We’re having a hard time tracking them down, and the last thing I need is their mum putting the wind up them.”
He’d sent an officer to both brothers’ purported places of work that morning, one a betting shop on Bethnal Green Road, and the other a minicab business nearby. Neither business seemed to be too sure what the brothers did for them, or to know where they were at the moment. Kincaid had staked plainclothes constables on both places, as well as a third on Gail Gilles’s flat.
“If social services has told them to move out of the mother’s flat, they’ll have to go somewhere,” said Gemma. “I’d try the sister.”
“Good idea. I’ll hunt up the address.” He’d heard the disappointment in her voice when he’d said he didn’t want her talking to Gail. “I understand how you feel, Gem. Really. But the caseworker’s right. You have to let social services do their job. If there’s anything dodgy, I’m sure they’ll find it.”
“Are you?” said Gemma, her tone decidedly distant.
He was cursing himself for saying the wrong thing when Sergeant Singh came out of the incident room and beckoned. “Sir, they’ve rung from downstairs,” she mouthed. “Mr. Azad is here with his solicitor.”
“Look, I’ve got to go,” he said to Gemma. “I’ll ring you just as soon as I’ve run the Gilles brothers to ground.”
Ahmed Azad had been as good as his word. Louise Phillips had rung first thing that morning, making an appointment to come in with her client as soon as possible.
Sergeant Singh showed them into the office Kincaid had purloined as an interview room and equipped with a table, chairs, and a pot of coffee. He meant to at least begin their discussion under the semblance of a friendly chat. Cullen was still at the Yard, and Neal Weller was involved with his own division’s business. Kincaid was curious to see what Azad would say without Weller’s interference.
He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Weller, who had defended Azad on the one hand and felt obliged to play the bully on the other.
Sergeant Singh showed Azad and Louise Phillips into the office and, at Kincaid’s nod, unobtrusively took a chair in the corner. Kincaid poured the coffee himself.
This morning Ahmed Azad was dressed in a deep blue suit, perfectly tailored for his slightly plump frame. The fine fabric had the sheen of silk, as did his pink-and-blue-striped tie. He was freshly shaved and smelled strongly of bay rum.
Louise Phillips, on the other hand, looked haggard and hollow-eyed, as if she hadn’t slept, and her rumpled black suit was liberally speckled with what looked to Kincaid like dog hair.
“Thank you for coming,” he said when they were all settled with their cups. Singh had made the coffee, and it was strong but good.
“Very considerate of you.” Azad sipped his coffee and nodded his approval. “One appreciates that, Mr. Kincaid. There is no reason why we cannot talk in a civilized manner.”
“Oh, I agree, Mr. Azad. Completely. And I appreciate your taking the time from your busy schedule to clear up some things for us.”
Singh’s eyes had widened. Kincaid flashed her a smile. She was obviously more accustomed to Weller’s interrogation methods. Not that Kincaid was averse to playing bad cop when it suited him, but he’d read Azad as the type to respond more willingly to flattery than force.
“And you, Ms. Phillips?” he asked, turning his attention to her. “How are you coping?”
“I’m here representing my client, Superintendent.” Her voice was sharp, and she sat stiffly in her chair, her coffee untouched. Clearly, she was not going to consider this interview a social occasion.
Kincaid carefully replaced his cup on the low table. “Now, Mr. Azad. Since you’ve come in, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us when you last spoke to Naz Malik.”
“Let me see. That would have been on Wednesday last week. Or was it Thursday? Yes, I believe it was Thursday.”
“All right, Thursday then. Was this at Mr. Malik’s office?”
“No, no, Nasir came by the restaurant. We spoke in my office there for just a few moments. Not long enough, it seems now,” he added, his voice heavy with regret.
“And why did Mr. Malik want to see you?” Kincaid asked easily, but he saw Louise Phillips tense.
“Mr. Azad does not have to-”
Azad cut her off with a wave of his hand. “There’s no reason I should not be frank with the superintendent, Louise. Yes, Nasir and I talked about my nephew, if that is what you are wanting to know. Actually, the young man is my great-nephew, the son of my favorite niece in Sylhet. I told Nasir that I did not know where my nephew had gone. Nor did I believe this nonsense story that Mohammed meant to testify against me. He is a foolish young man, yes, but he is not that foolish. All he would gain by such a thing is deportation, and the bringing of shame on his family.” Azad’s tone implied that the latter was by far the worst consequence.
“But if Naz believed your nephew meant to testify against you, he might have thought you had good reason to-let’s say, help your nephew disappear.”
“Nasir would never have suggested such a thing,” said Azad, his chin quivering with his disapproval. “He understood the importance of family. He was merely…concerned for the well-being of my relative.”
“So you didn’t argue with Naz about your nephew that day?” Kincaid asked.
“No. You can ask my staff if you feel it necessary.”
“Did you argue with Naz on the day he disappeared?”
Louise Phillips moved abruptly. “That’s enough, Superintendent. I can’t allow-”
“I did not see Nasir again,” Azad said, interrupting her once more. Kincaid wondered why he had insisted on her accompanying him. “Saturday is our busiest day at the restaurant. I was there from before lunch until well after closing on Saturday night. And I had no reason to argue with him. He was my friend as well as my attorney.” Azad’s round face seemed to sag with melancholy. He finished his coffee, tipping back the small cup to catch the last drop. When he’d placed the empty cup on the table, he brushed his hands against the knees of his trousers. The “game over” signal was as clear as a banner. “Now, Mr. Kincaid, is there anything else?”
“I think he’s lying,” said Sergeant Singh when Azad and Louise Phillips had left the room. She’d followed the conversation carefully, watching alertly even as she took notes.
“Oh, I think our very urbane Mr. Azad is certainly lying,” Kincaid agreed. “But the question is, what is he lying about? Does he know what happened to his nephew? Did Naz accuse him of getting rid of the inconvenient nephew? Did he see Naz again? Or is it something else altogether? And why did he drag Louise Phillips along for that dog-and-pony show-unless it was for her benefit rather than ours?” He thought for a moment. “See if you can catch Ms. Phillips, why don’t you, Sergeant? I think I’d like a word with her on her own.”
“You know I can’t discuss my client
’s affairs with you,” Louise Phillips said when Singh brought her back into the small office. She smelled strongly of smoke, and Kincaid guessed Singh had caught up with her in the street as she’d stopped to light a cigarette.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Kincaid dismissed Singh with a smile, then turned to Phillips. “I realize that. But you can discuss Naz Malik’s.” He motioned her back into the chair she had so recently vacated. “Would you like that coffee now? I think the pot is still hot.”
She glared at him, but after a moment, she sank back into the chair and sighed, as if she were too tired to keep up the bristling posture. “Yes, all right,” she said, accepting a fresh cup. “I’ve been trying to give it up. My doctor says my blood pressure is sky high. But with Naz gone, it seems a bit stupid to be worrying about things like caffeine and blood pressure.” Shrugging, she added, “What difference does it make, if you can walk out of your house and end up dead in a park? Or get blown up on a bus? Or get shot in the tube?” She shook her head, then drank half the cup as if she was fiercely thirsty.
“In that case, why don’t you tell me whether or not Naz believed Azad did away with his nephew-excuse me, great-nephew. That would explain why Naz suddenly decided he wanted to drop Azad’s case. And then you can tell me if you think Azad is capable of having got rid of Naz, if Naz had learned he was responsible for getting rid of said nephew. A bit convoluted, but you follow. And you notice I’m not asking if Azad is guilty as charged.”
“I thought you said we weren’t going to talk about Azad,” Phillips countered, but with the faintest suggestion of a smile. “Although I do appreciate the thread of your argument.”
“Merely following your lead. And we are talking about Naz.”
“Quite. But I’m afraid, Superintendent, that I can’t tell you what Naz thought, because I don’t know.” She drank more of her coffee. Already the caffeine seemed to have given her more energy. “If you want my opinion, however-completely off the record-I don’t believe Azad harmed his nephew. I do think the old sod’s quite capable of slipping the boy out of the country in the back of a truck and sending him back to his mum in Sylhet for a good bollocking.” She reached for her bag, an automatic gesture, then drew her hand back. “I do not think that Azad would have had any part in harming Naz. Azad has his own code of loyalty. I don’t know if I fit into it, but I think Naz did. And I think Sandra did, too.”
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