– Rachel Lichtenstein, On Brick Lane
To Gemma the street seemed like a canyon, a last bastion of the old London, close and crowded, steeped in the bustle of centuries, while beyond it the great towers of the modern City advanced inexorably, like armies of jagged glass shards. “I wonder why it was called Widegate?” she said aloud.
Melody, who was scanning the frontages as she walked beside her, answered absently. “These are eighteenth-century silk merchants’ houses, most of them. Maybe there was a gate into Spitalfields-literally into the fields, I mean. Look, this must be the club. It’s a new building, but very cleverly done.”
The building matched the description that Kincaid had given Gemma. She rang the bell, and after a moment, the door clicked open.
The girl who met them in the elegant reception area, however, was not the girl Kincaid had described. This one was a delicate blond, with a Nordic look that reminded Gemma of Pippa Nightingale, but Gemma’s gaze was held by the large fabric collage over the desk. Sandra’s work, undoubtedly, and as stunning as the pieces she had seen in Sandra’s studio.
They had no sooner asked to see Lucas Ritchie than a tall, fair man appeared from the small office area behind the reception desk. He came towards them with a hand outstretched, but his expression was a bit wary. “I’m Lucas Ritchie. Can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Gemma James, and this is DC Talbot. But I’m not here officially, Mr. Ritchie.” As Gemma shook his hand, she gave him the same explanation she had given Roy Blakely and Pippa Nightingale, and took the opportunity to study him. Good looking, yes, but-she couldn’t quite put her finger on what she found disconcerting. Perhaps he was just a bit too neat and perfectly tailored, although there was a suggestion of muscle under the fine fabric of his suit jacket. Or maybe it was the faintest hint of red to his fair hair, or the freckling on his lightly tanned skin-something she had a personal bias against. “Pippa said that you and Sandra went back a long way,” she went on, trying to mesh this very polished man with what she knew of Sandra. “I thought that if you’d known her family…”
Ritchie moved away from the desk, although the blond girl had disappeared into the office area. A pale, heatless flame flickered in the sitting-area fireplace, even on such a warm day. It was meant to invoke a cozy atmosphere, Gemma supposed, but Ritchie didn’t offer them a seat.
“I told your superintendent-Kincaid, was it?” Ritchie said, and Gemma nodded vaguely, as if she hadn’t a clue as to who he meant. She certainly wasn’t claiming possession at this point. “I told Superintendent Kincaid yesterday that I really didn’t know Sandra’s family.” Ritchie leaned against the back of an armchair, folding his arms. “You have to understand, when we first met, we were kids in art school. Those aren’t the sort of things we talked about. We were going to change the world, and we didn’t want any baggage while we were doing it.” There was a faraway look in his caramel-colored eyes. After a moment, he added reflectively, “Although I think you could say Sandra tipped the balance for the better. And she had more cachet than most of us, even in the beginning, being a genuine working-class girl, although she didn’t make stock of it.”
“Was she ashamed of her background?” asked Melody. In her tastefully pin-striped dark suit, she looked as if she belonged on the club staff.
“Sandra?” Ritchie laughed. “You didn’t know Sandra. She was proud of being an East Ender-a real East Ender, some would say now-although Sandra was never the type to exclude anyone. She was unusually touchy about prejudice against race or religion, even for the multicultural crowd we hung out with.”
“Mr. Ritchie,” said Gemma, trying to come up with a tactful way to say it, “were you and Sandra always…just friends?”
He gave her an assessing look, then shrugged. “I don’t know why it should be anyone else’s business. As I’ve said, it was a long time ago. But if you want the truth, I always fancied Sandra more than she fancied me. She thought I was all flash and no substance, and I have to admit my track record hasn’t been great, relationship wise. And then, when she met Naz, everyone else was history.”
“How did she meet Naz, do you know?”
“He bought flowers from her.”
The blond girl came out of the little office, carrying a tray set with a teapot and cups. “Sorry, Lucas,” she said. “Phone kept ringing.” She set the tray down on the coffee table in the sitting area, then hurried back to the desk as the front door buzzed.
“Thanks, Karen,” he called after her. Then, motioning them to sit, Ritchie joined them and poured the tea himself. Two men came in, greeting the blond girl. The doors behind the desk opened to reveal a lift, and a group of men stepped out, making way for the incomers. They nodded at Ritchie as they headed for the front door.
“Last of the lunch crowd clearing out,” Ritchie murmured. “It’ll be drinks soon.”
“So Sandra met Naz when she was working for Roy?” said Gemma, pleased by the idea.
“A bit fairy tale, but yes. I think he came every Sunday for a month before he got up the nerve to ask her for coffee.”
“You’ve known Naz for a long time, too, then.” Gemma balanced the fine white china cup on her knee. She wasn’t sure why Ritchie was being so accommodating-she had the sense that it was in some way a performance-but she wasn’t going to let an opportunity go by. “What was he like? It’s been harder to get a feeling for him, for what made him tick.”
“We all thought she’d gone bonkers at first. It wasn’t that he was Asian-if you were racially prejudiced you certainly didn’t admit to it-but he was a lawyer, for God’s sake. Older, sober, hardworking-none of those things was in our art student manifesto.” Ritchie drank some of his tea and stared into the cold fire. “It was only later, as I got to know him a bit better, that I saw the sense of humor beneath that serious exterior. But there was also a sort of rock-solid steadiness to Naz. They balanced each other, or maybe it was that he saw something in Sandra that no one else did.
“And they were both completely committed to being a family.” He frowned, as if testing his memory. “I don’t think Naz had any family left, and Sandra, well, it comes back to that, doesn’t it?”
He glanced at her, as if considering, then went on more slowly. “There was something that happened, I’d forgotten. In art college, when she first starting going out with Naz. She came to class one day with a black eye. She hadn’t tried to cover it up, she wasn’t like that-there was always a bit of defiance to Sandra-but she wouldn’t talk about it either. If you asked something she didn’t want to answer, she would just give you a look that would freeze your marrow.
“But I asked her, because I didn’t know Naz well then, if it was this new guy, and she looked truly shocked. She said, ‘Bloody hell, do you think I’m some sort of slag?’ and she wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”
“Was she living at home still?” Gemma asked.
“Yeah. Dreadful council flat. I picked her up and dropped her off now and again, but she never let me come in.”
“So do you think someone in her family did that to her?”
“Well, if it wasn’t Naz-and I don’t believe it was-she had those two younger brothers. I got the impression she’d never known her dad, but then I suppose her mum might have had boyfriends…”
“Don’t discount the mum,” Melody put in. “It wouldn’t be the first time a mother lost her temper, even with a grown daughter.”
Gemma had considered that Gail might neglect Charlotte, or verbally abuse her, or expose her to bad influences, but it hadn’t occurred to her that Gail might physically harm her. But of course it was possible. She felt stupid, and more than a little horrified.
“Mr. Ritchie, would you be willing to testify in family court about the possibility that Sandra was abused by someone in her family?”
“Family court?” He stared at her as if she were the one who’d gone bonkers. “But it’s completely unsubstantiated. And it was years ago. I really don’t see-”
He looked round and even though there was no one else in the reception area, lowered his voice. “I can’t afford to be involved in some sort of squabble that would damage the club’s reputation.”
“Squabble?” Now it was Gemma’s voice that rose. “Mr. Ritchie, a child’s well-being depends on-”
Melody touched Gemma’s arm, a definite back-off signal. “Boss, I think Mr. Ritchie’s been very helpful.”
Realizing that Melody was right, Gemma forced a smile. “Of course. I understand your concerns, Mr. Ritchie. But if you think about Charlotte-”
“Look, I’m not much of a kid person. And Sandra didn’t bring Charlotte when she came to the club, so I suppose I haven’t seen her since she was in nappies-she’s not still in nappies, is she?” Ritchie looked a little dismayed at the thought.
“No. She’s almost three, and she’s a lovely, bright little girl.” Gemma leaned forward, at her most persuasive. “She is, I imagine, a lot like Sandra. And she’s missing her mum, and now her dad. Mr. Ritchie, I’ve met Sandra’s mother, and I don’t think anyone who cared for Sandra would want Charlotte to go there.”
“That’s straight-out blackmail, and you’re very well aware of it,” he shot back, but the animosity had gone from his tone. “Look, I want to help Sandra’s little girl. But it has to be something better than repeating a speculation about an incident that happened years ago. Are you sure Pippa can’t tell you anything more? She and Sandra were closer, in some ways.”
“Roy Blakely told me that Sandra and Pippa hadn’t been getting on. When I asked Pippa, she said they’d disagreed over the way Sandra was marketing her work, and that Pippa was no longer representing her. But she seemed very upset over Naz.”
“Put it down to a guilty conscience over being a bitch,” said Ritchie, with such unexpected bite that Melody, who had been watching a newcomer get into the lift, looked round, as startled as Gemma.
Seeing their faces, Ritchie shrugged and set his empty cup down on the tray. “You have to take anything Pippa tells you with a grain of salt. She disapproved of Sandra’s commissions for me, and for my clients. Those who can’t do have to find some way to criticize those who can.”
“Pippa was jealous of Sandra?” asked Gemma, thinking back over their conversation.
“Pippa would have killed for Sandra’s talent. Oh, I don’t mean that literally, of course,” he amended, seeming to realize what he’d said. “And to give Pippa credit, she does have a gift for recognizing talent. But her own work was always derivative, all about following the latest trend rather than expressing any personal vision. Not that I was much better.” His smile was rueful. “But Pippa…Pippa couldn’t give up gracefully. If she couldn’t create art, she wanted to control it, and Sandra wouldn’t play. Sandra just wanted to do what she loved and make a decent living at it. Most of us should be so fortunate.” His eyes went to the collage hanging over the reception desk, and the emotion drained from his face. He stood. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a club to run.”
Karen had been fielding a steady influx of members and had begun to cast harried glances Ritchie’s way.
Having obviously been dismissed, Gemma and Melody followed suit, and he walked them to the front door. As he opened it, he said, “Surely there’s someone looking out for Charlotte Malik’s interests.”
“Social services, Mr. Ritchie,” said Gemma, now more certain than ever that that wasn’t good enough. “And me.”
“What’s his game, do you think?” asked Melody as they walked back towards Spitalfields. “He never actually answered when you asked him if he and Sandra were lovers.”
“No, he didn’t, did he?” answered Gemma. “And I’m not quite sure why he would evade one way or the other. What does he have to lose? But I do get the sense that he and Pippa Nightingale aren’t on the best of terms.”
“Really?” Melody grinned at her. “So do you think this Pippa has the unrequited hots for him, and held a grudge against Sandra because he preferred her?”
Gemma considered as she walked. They passed the old nut-roasting warehouse, the lettering on the brick facade faded against the deep August blue of the sky. “Pippa’s a strange one. A bit fey…and I think Ritchie’s right about the controlling issue. She likes being the center of the drama. And maybe there was more to her falling-out with Sandra than art.”
“Could she have been jealous enough to kill Sandra?” asked Melody.
“You’re assuming that Sandra is dead.” Gemma kept her voice even, and didn’t look at Melody.
“Aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to think so.” But Gemma recalled the short walk from Columbia Road Market to Pippa Nightingale’s studio, and she couldn’t shake the image of the monochrome paintings with the brilliant splashes of red pigment. What if Sandra had gone there that day to talk to Pippa, and they had argued? Gemma had sensed a ruthlessness beneath Pippa’s elfin looks, and Lucas Ritchie had confirmed it-if he was telling the truth.
They had reached Brushfield Street, and the permanent canopy erected over the west end of the Spitalfields Market looked jaunty, like a sail. A busker in bright African costume played the steel drums, and families congregated in the awning’s shade, talking and laughing and eating ice cream. Surely, Sandra and Naz had brought Charlotte here, Gemma thought, and she had had ice cream, too.
“I might want to have another chat with Pippa Nightingale,” she said to Melody. “But just now I want to go home, check on the boys, call Betty, see how Charlotte’s doing today. What about you? Can I give you a lift?”
Melody seemed to hesitate. “There was something…no, never mind.” She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll get the tube. I have an…errand…to do before I go back to Notting Hill.”
Melody got off the train at High Street Kensington, and walked-or rather shoved-her way down Kensington High Street the short distance to the Whole Foods Market, for it had just gone six o’clock and the pavements were teeming with shoppers and commuters.
The enormous natural foods store offered a respite from the heat as well as the crowds. It was an American chain, and Americans seemed to consider air-conditioning a religion, a quirk of national character for which Melody at the moment was profoundly grateful. She doubted there was a dry spot left on the once-crisp blouse beneath her suit jacket.
Having had much practice, she made a beeline for the ready-meals case at the rear of the store. After a moment’s consideration, she chose a carton of carrot and coriander soup, and a small plastic tub of pomegranate salad-and on second thought, she went on to the wine section and picked up a bottle of pinot grigio.
After her late lunch with Gemma, that should be supper enough, and her shopping was a delaying tactic as much as a necessity. As she walked back through the store, she passed the oyster bar and the champagne bar, and tried to imagine a life in which she would waltz up to either and order without guilt. Maybe the next time she came in, she would live a bit more dangerously.
The DJ at the mixing station near the front entrance looked up as she passed and smiled at her, cueing Corinne Bailey Rae’s “Put Your Records On.”
She smiled back, an indulgence she usually didn’t allow herself, and tried not to bounce to the beat.
But her temporary buoyancy evaporated quickly when she reached the street. She walked on, her purchases heavy in one hand, still mulling over what she had seen that afternoon in Lucas Ritchie’s club.
She’d thought she recognized a man who had come in, not as someone she’d met, but from a photo she’d seen in a newspaper, and fairly recently.
Well, she had an archive at her fingertips, almost literally, and this evening she couldn’t resist the temptation to take advantage of it, in spite of the attendant risks.
Turning the corner, she looked up at the great Art Deco building that housed one of the country’s most blatant purveyors of tabloid news, the Chronicle. Then she used her pass card in the door.
“Evening, Miss Melody,” said the guard at the main desk
as she crossed the lobby towards the lifts. “Your dad’s just left.”
“Just as well, George.” Melody stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the top floor.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was in January 1978 that Margaret Thatcher had famously spoken on television about the fear of white people that they were being ‘swamped by people with a different culture’. White panic had already been triggered and was not allayed. Bangladeshi tenants had been encountering increasing harassment, and violence had already started to boil over on the streets.
– Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron, Michael Young, The New East End
Melody had to skirt the editorial room. She passed by quickly, nodding at a few familiar faces but not stopping to chat, and hoping that she wouldn’t have the bad luck to encounter her erstwhile blind date Quentin.
She slipped into her father’s glass-fronted office suite, glad to see that his über-efficient personal assistant, Maeve, had gone as well.
There must not be any major breaking news-or a juicy scandal-to keep the Chronicle’s owner late at his desk.
No one had questioned her right to be here-no one would dare question Ivan Talbot’s only child. This had been her world through childhood, the humming heart of the great newspaper, with its adrenaline yo-yo of breaking stories and frantic deadlines, countered by the desperate tedium of filling space on dead-news days.
This could be her world still if she chose, and her father had never given up hoping that she would give up this silly policing idea and put her talents to proper use. But even if she started as a junior reporter, she would always be the boss’s daughter, and she would never believe she stood on her own merits.
The skills she’d absorbed by osmosis, however, often proved extremely useful. Availing herself of Maeve’s desk and computer station, she accessed the system, typed in the paper’s internal password, and began to search.
Necessary as Blood Page 23
