Necessary as Blood

by Deborah Crombie

  She stopped and checked her A to Zed. Rivington Street ran parallel to Old Street, and she was almost within a stone’s throw. She would check in with work, and then she could just pop in Pippa Nightingale’s gallery for a quick word.

  Not knowing the exact address, she started at the bottom end of the street and walked up, searching for the name. Rivington Street had that air of slightly shabby trendiness she was coming to associate with the East End. There were clubs and clothing boutiques, a health clinic, offices, and galleries. Too many galleries-she reached the top end of the street, anchored by the friendly looking Rivington Grill, without finding the gallery she wanted. Starting back the other way, she looked more closely. Halfway down the street, she was rewarded by the sight of very discreet lettering announcing the NIGHTINGALE GALLERY, beside a plain facade and an anonymous-looking door.

  Gemma studied the building, then pushed the buzzer. When the door latch clicked, she went in. She found herself in a small vestibule with a staircase. There was nowhere to go but up.

  As she climbed, she saw that tiny jewel-like paintings hung on the stairwell walls. The works were abstract, with layers of line and color that created such depth she had an odd sensation of vertigo. But it was the handwritten prices on the cards mounted beside the paintings that made her gasp. Lovely, but certainly beyond her reach.

  When she reached the first floor, the space opened out into a long, narrow gallery. The walls were painted a stark white, the floor was unvarnished planks, and light poured in from a large window at the front. Only half a dozen works hung on the walls. Gemma wasn’t sure if she should call them paintings, for they were monochrome, except each picture had one splash of brilliant scarlet pigment.

  She moved closer, fascinated. The meticulously rendered drawings made her think of the Hans Christian Andersen tales she’d been reading Toby. There was a magical, foreboding feeling to them, a sense of deep woods and snow. Female figures morphed into wolves, male figures into stags, and half-formed creatures peered from crags and branches. The red was visceral, shocking. As were the prices, again.

  Gemma stepped back and looked round. The space seemed cavernously empty, but there was a door at the back of the room. She walked towards it, calling out, “Anyone here?”

  A woman stepped out, and Gemma had the impression that one of the drawings on the wall had come to life. Waif slender, the woman was dressed in black, but her skin and hair were ice pale. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was on the phone. Can I help you?” Her voice was polished and surprisingly husky.

  “Are you Pippa Nightingale?” asked Gemma. As she moved closer, she saw that the woman’s eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.

  “Yes.” Now she sounded slightly wary. “Did someone send you?”

  “Not exactly.” Gemma gave her a condensed version of her explanation to Roy Blakely, finishing with “Roy said you and Sandra had known each other for a long time, and that you represented Sandra’s work. So I wondered if you could tell me anything more about Sandra’s relationship with her family.”

  Pippa Nightingale’s eyes filled, and she clutched at the skirt of her black jersey dress. “I can’t believe Naz is dead,” she whispered.

  There were no chairs in the gallery area. Spying two chrome-and-black-plastic models in the office, Gemma guided Pippa inside, saying, “Here, sit down, why don’t you?” Pippa sank into one of the chairs, the backs of her fingers pressed against her upper lip. “Can I get you some tea or something?” Gemma asked.

  Pippa took a shaky breath. “There’s a kettle on the worktable, and some teabags.” She nodded towards the back of the room. Unlike the gallery space, the office was cluttered-it looked as if every bit of detritus that might have sullied the pristine display space had been sucked into this room. Paper spilled from desk and worktable; file folders lay open, disgorging their contents in cascades; stacks of stapled exhibition brochures teetered precariously near edges.

  Gemma found the sleek stainless-steel kettle, some obviously hand-thrown pottery mugs, and a box of PG tips. The kettle had water in it, so she flipped the switch and it boiled quickly. She didn’t see milk or sugar, so poured water over the teabags, then stirred the cups for a moment with a used and bent spoon she’d found beside the kettle. She fished out the teabags, tossed them into an overflowing rubbish bin, then carried them round the desk. She cleared a spot for Pippa’s cup, then sat in the other chair, holding her own.

  “Thanks.” Pippa’s voice had recovered some of its huskiness. She lowered her hand, taking the pottery cup gingerly by the rim and handle. “Sorry the place is a tip. I haven’t been keeping up with things very well lately. And this…” Her eyes started to tear again and she shook her head.

  “You knew Naz, then?” Gemma asked.

  “Of course I knew Naz. Sandra and I were friends before they married. It’s not that Naz and I were ever all that close-I think Naz resented my influence on Sandra, and vice versa, I’m sorry to say-but I-” She stopped to sip at the still-steaming tea. “It’s just that-I can’t believe he’s dead. Now I don’t think Sandra will ever come back.” This time the tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.

  “You thought Sandra would come home?” asked Gemma, surprised. She realized it was the first time anyone she’d talked to had genuinely seemed to believe it.

  “I know it’s stupid, but yes. Somehow I thought she would just walk back into her life one day. But with Naz gone, I can’t imagine Sandra coming back.”

  “What about Charlotte?” Gemma felt immediately incensed on Charlotte’s behalf.

  “Oh, I don’t mean she didn’t love Charlotte. She adored her. But long before Charlotte was born, Naz and the house were her lodestones, the things that mattered most to her-even more than her work.” This was said with the faintest of frowns on her unlined, almost translucent face.

  “Should her work have mattered more?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Some of Pippa’s initial wariness seemed to have returned. “I’m still not quite sure why you wanted to talk to me. I never met any of Sandra’s family.”

  “Roy Blakely said you and Sandra hadn’t been as close lately, and that you weren’t representing her work any longer.”

  “Sandra told him that?” Pippa stared at her, and Gemma found her pale eyes disconcerting. “It wasn’t that simple. Sandra and I had…a difference of opinion…over the direction her career was taking. I thought she was accepting too many commissions. She should have sold only through exhibitions and galleries-that’s how you build a reputation.” She gestured towards the gallery space. “I have two artists here now who may win major prizes. You won’t find them selling paintings to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who wants something pretty for his sitting room.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  “It is if you want to be taken seriously. And it is a business, make no mistake. Sandra thought art was meant to be seen, and that it was up to the viewer to decide the meaning of a piece.” From Pippa’s tone, Sandra might as well have insisted that the world was flat. “That silliness I could have dealt with by careful marketing, building a mystique,” Pippa went on, “but I could only do that by representing her exclusively.” She drank more of her tea, although Gemma still found it too hot to touch.

  “But Sandra wouldn’t agree to that?” she said, as neutrally as she could manage.

  “No. Sandra could be infuriatingly stubborn. So I told her in that case I couldn’t represent her at all, thinking it would change her mind. But it didn’t. And there we were.” Pippa hunched over her mug, pushing back the curtain of her long, flaxen hair as it fell over her face. The color, Gemma saw, went all the way to the roots, and at the parting her scalp was pink. “I never meant it to go on,” Pippa said. “It wasn’t worth losing a friendship. And now I can’t take it back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gemma said. “That must be hard. But we don’t know for certain what happened to Sandra.”

  “No. But I can’t imagine…and I can’t bear t
o think of her learning Naz was dead. Do you-I know you said you weren’t officially with the police-but do you know what happened? How-how Naz was killed?”

  Knowing that no information about the drugs in Naz’s system had been released, Gemma couldn’t enlighten her, although she wondered what Pippa Nightingale’s reaction would be. Instead, she said, “Pippa, when I came in, you already knew about Naz’s death. Who told you?”

  Pippa Nightingale looked up, her delicate eyebrows raised, and Gemma had to resist the urge to look away from those strange eyes.

  “Why, Lucas of course,” she said.

  Ahmed Azad must have more relatives than most people had acquaintances, Cullen thought as he sat wearily back from the computer screen at his desk.

  According to the immigration records Cullen had accessed, Azad had already sponsored nieces, nephews, great-nieces and-nephews, cousins, and a few second cousins thrown in for good measure. Mohammed Rahman, the missing great-nephew, was only the latest ripple in a years’ long flood. And young Mohammed had been working at his uncle’s restaurant, living in his uncle’s house, reporting regularly to his contact with the prosecution-and then he was not. Mohammed Rahman’s blip had simply disappeared from the radar screen.

  Cullen had tried every database he could think of, including missing persons and John Does. Mohammed’s friends and acquaintances had been questioned by Immigration, but Cullen would have to institute another go-round.

  Nor had he had much better luck with Lucas Ritchie’s former employee Kylie Watters. There had been no activity on her national insurance number, so she wasn’t drawing benefits, and if she was working, it was off the record. The mobile number Melanie had given them was indeed out of service, having been canceled for nonpayment a few days after she had moved out of Melanie’s flat.

  Kylie’s national insurance number linked back to an address in Essex. He’d found a phone number through reverse look-up, but there had been no answer. That meant more legwork, as did checking out Lucas Ritchie’s alibi for the day Naz Malik had been killed. The St. John’s Wood address Ritchie had given them was listed as belonging to a Matthew Ritchie, and a quick search had revealed that Matthew Ritchie was not a banker, as Kincaid had speculated, but a record company executive, with two children listed as Lucas and Sarah. So perhaps Ritchie had been telling the truth about the niece’s birthday party, but learning whether all his time could be accounted for would require a personal visit. And family alibis were always liable to be dodgy.

  Looking at his watch, Cullen saw that there would be no flat hunting on the agenda that afternoon. As he pulled out his mobile to check in with Kincaid, he thought about the call he’d had earlier from Gemma, asking for Roy Blakely’s address. Should he mention it? Had she told Kincaid, as she’d promised? Either way, Cullen would look like a telltale if he said anything about it, and that irritated him. Whatever her rationale, she was meddling in their case, and he didn’t like it. He disliked even more the fact that he couldn’t complain about it.

  But he would just have to bide his time.

  Betty Howard rang just as Gemma was walking into the house. Putting her handbag down, Gemma juggled her mobile while trying to pet the dogs jumping excitedly at her legs. There was no suit jacket tossed carelessly over the coat rack-Duncan wasn’t home yet. Nor was there any immediate sign of the boys, so she guessed they were in the garden.

  Betty’s rich voice came distantly until she managed to get the phone to her ear. “-hate to bother you so soon, Gemma, but Wesley’s working at the café tonight and I’ve got a carnival meeting-an emergency costume summit.” Betty chuckled. “Would you mind keeping little Charlotte? It will only be for an hour or two.”

  Gemma suddenly found that her heart was beating a bit faster. “No, of course I don’t mind. What time will you bring her? Or do you want me to pick her up?”

  “I’ll drop her in half an hour, if that’s all right. She’ll have had her tea.”

  “Right. See you then.” Gemma was hanging up when she heard a tread on the front steps and Duncan came in, jacket already thrown over his shoulder, tie off and shirt sleeves rolled up.

  “You look positively pink,” he said. She felt the rasp of stubble as he kissed her cheek. She put a hand to his shoulder and held her cheek to his a moment longer. When she let go, he studied her. “Are you sunburned, or are you glad to see me?”

  “No. Yes, I mean. Both.” She didn’t know why she felt so flustered. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how to look after a toddler, although it had begun to seem a long time since Toby was that small. “What I mean is, we’re having company.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  …for home to me was certainly never anything remotely material. It consisted, I have decided, in something I sensed as refuge: an atmosphere of safety in the love between my parents. It came in a tone of voice, in the preparation and eating of meals, in conversations during washing up and being busy in the garden.

  – Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street: The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

  It was rough going at first. Charlotte had come willingly into Gemma’s arms when Betty had dropped her off, but once in the house, the dogs barking and jumping up had frightened her and she had buried her head against Gemma’s shoulder.

  “It’s all right, lovey,” Gemma had soothed. “The doggies just want to be friends with you.” But Charlotte had clung even more tightly to Bob, her plush elephant, and watched the dogs with wide, frightened eyes. Naz and Sandra hadn’t had a dog, Gemma thought, so perhaps she wasn’t accustomed to them.

  Duncan had changed into T-shirt and jeans and gone out to fetch the boys from the garden. Now, having seen Betty’s little van drive past, they all came trooping in to examine their guest.

  “Say hello to Charlotte, boys,” said Gemma.

  Toby, already wound up from playing outside and the excitement of Duncan’s homecoming, stomped through the hall shrieking, “I’m Captain Hook, and I’m going to feed you to the crocodile,” and holding up a clawlike hand.

  In desperation, they had retired his Pirates of the Caribbean films and replaced them with every version they could find of Peter Pan. Now, Gemma wasn’t sure that had been an improvement.

  “Toby, if you can’t behave nicely, you can go to your room,” Gemma told him as Charlotte buried her head still farther.

  When Duncan gave him a warning look and said, “Calm down, sport,” Toby subsided a bit, but kept singing under his breath and making little flying motions.

  Duncan touched Charlotte’s curls and said gently, “Well, you’re a pretty girl, aren’t you, love?”

  Kit, who had been standing back, observing, took charge. “She’s afraid of the dogs,” he whispered, then he turned to Charlotte and said, “Hi, Charlotte. I’m Kit. That’s Tess and that’s Geordie.” He pointed at each dog in turn. “They can do tricks. Would you like to see?”

  Charlotte peeped out from Gemma’s shoulder and gave a very small nod.

  Kit put the dogs in a sit, then a down. He had Geordie lift a paw to shake hands, and Tess roll over. The little terrier looked so comical with all four legs straight up in the air and her shaggy face upside down that Gemma thought she felt Charlotte begin to giggle. But when Kit asked her if she’d like to shake Geordie’s paw, she shook her head and clutched Gemma more tightly.

  “Oh, dear.” Gemma shifted Charlotte a little more securely onto her hip. “Maybe we should put the dogs up for a bit until she gets used to us, at least. And I don’t know what we’ll do for dinner-I never got to the shops. I thought I was going to visit Gran at the hospital, but they sent her home this afternoon.”

  “Is she better, then?” asked Kit.

  “Yes, she’s feeling much better.” Gemma didn’t mention that Vi had sounded exhausted at the prospect of going home. “We’ll go see her at the weekend.”

  “Pizza, pizza for dinner,” Toby chanted, and Duncan groaned. “I’m going to turn into a pizza.”

  “Are not,” said Toby
.

  “Oh, yes I am.” Duncan patted his middle. “Or at least I’ll be round as one.”

  “I can make us omelets,” offered Kit. “We have eggs and cheese, and some mushrooms. And I think there’s a tomato. The last time I was at Otto’s, Wes taught me to flip omelets in the pan. I’ve been practicing with dried beans.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” Gemma said, laughing, “but delicious. Can we watch?”

  Kit grinned. “Only if you say ‘Yes, Chef.’”

  “Mushrooms are disgusting.” Toby made a face and stuck out his tongue.

  “Pirates eat mushrooms,” Duncan told him, with great seriousness.

  “Do not.”

  “Do, too. That’s what makes their teeth black.”

  Toby’s eyes grew big. “Really? Will they make mine black, too?”

  “Only if you eat enough of them.” Duncan tousled his hair. “Give the dogs biscuits and put them in the study for a bit, sport. We’ll see if Miss Charlotte likes cats.”

  Gemma sat at the kitchen table with Charlotte in her lap while Kit, with Duncan acting as sous-chef, assembled the ingredients for omelets and salad. Toby, having put the dogs up, ran through the house looking for Sid, who had disappeared with typical feline alacrity when wanted.

  After a few minutes, Gemma felt Charlotte begin to relax, then the little girl squirmed round so that she had a better view of Kit.

  “You are an absolute rock star in the kitchen, Kit,” Gemma said admiringly as Kit deftly chopped mushrooms and tomato. “You’d better be careful or you’ll set a precedent. You’re a much better cook than I am.”

  Kit grinned at her, coloring a little. His cheeks were already flushed from the heat. “I just watch Wes.”

  “You could give your dad lessons,” she teased Duncan.