“And besides,” Melody went on raggedly, “all I ever wanted for as long as I can remember was to be in the police. I grew up watching every cop show, reading books on how to be a detective…Dad thought if he sent me to the best schools, and university…that I would eventually grow out of it, that I’d learn to be ‘normal.’ But I didn’t.”
“And you’re telling me that you would even consider letting him get away with this? I don’t believe it.” A desire to tell Ivan Talbot what she thought of him was making Gemma’s head pound. “You are good at this, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want the force to lose you. I am not going to accept your resignation. And you-you’re going to be much more careful from now on. No more research at the paper. No hints to your father about any cases, no matter how innocently given. Is that settled?”
“But-but how can you possibly trust me after this-”
“Because I know you.” And in spite of Melody’s dissembling, Gemma felt sure that she did. “What your father does is really no one else’s business. And there is nothing that links you to this story”-Gemma tapped the paper-“other than your word and mine. And we’re not going to discuss it again. With anyone.”
There was a long moment in which Gemma and Melody looked at each other, and Gemma wondered if she had made the right judgment call.
Then Melody stood, giving Gemma a crisp nod. “Thank you, ma’am. I won’t disappoint you.” Her round face was set with resolution. “And I can promise you something else. My father is going to pay for this, one way or another.”
The rest of Friday passed uneventfully, but Gemma was still thinking about her conversation with Melody as she drove to Betty Howard’s late on Saturday morning. She wondered how much her new knowledge would change her perception of Melody. Already she better understood both Melody’s doggedness in pursuing an investigation and her personal reticence. And although she sympathized with Melody’s desire to stand on her own merits, she thought it unlikely she would be able to keep her identity secret indefinitely. Gemma had kept her word, however, and had not told Duncan, but the omission niggled uncomfortably at her. She didn’t like his taking the fall for something that had been her fault. It had been she who had taken Melody to Lucas Ritchie’s club, starting the chain of events that had led to the story, but she couldn’t see any other alternative.
It was already hot, and she hadn’t felt like walking, although driving meant negotiating the jam on Portobello Road on market day. The boys had fussed about wanting to see Charlotte-Toby, in particular, was still coveting Charlotte’s pencils-but they’d had their own activities.
Duncan had taken Toby to his Saturday football match, whispering as he left that there was nothing he’d rather do than sit in the sun in the park and watch a bunch of uncoordinated six-year-olds chase a ball, and Kit was meeting some school friends at Starbucks to discuss an out-of-term project. Or so he said-she suspected there would be good bit more gossip and music swapping than discussion, but she was glad to see him getting out a bit more socially.
She had just found a parking spot near Betty’s flat when her mobile rang. Her heart skipped a bit when she saw it was her sister, although she had just talked to her mum that morning and Vi had said she was feeling fine.
“Hi, Cyn,” she said, hoping as always that if she started the conversation on an upbeat note, it might stay that way.
“Mum said you’re not coming to Leyton.”
“I’m not coming today,” Gemma clarified. “I told her I’d bring the boys tomorrow. They’ve got things on today, and I promised to see Charlotte-”
“Charlotte? That’s this little girl Mum says you’ve taken in?”
“I haven’t taken her in.” Exasperation was beginning to make Gemma’s head pound. “I arranged for her to stay with Wesley’s mother, and I feel responsible-”
“You feel responsible for someone else’s child and not your own mother?” Cyn’s voice had risen over the sound of her kids, Brendan and Tiffani, squabbling in the background. “Will you two just shut it?” she shouted without covering the phone, nearly splitting Gemma’s eardrum, and the noise level dropped momentarily.
Wincing, Gemma said, “Cyn, whatever is the matter with you? That’s ridiculous. Of course I feel responsible for Mum-”
“Do you? You haven’t seen her since she came home from hospital. She’s so-so frail, and I don’t-She seems old, Gemma, and I don’t know what I would do-” To Gemma’s horror, her ruthlessly unflappable sister sounded near tears.
“They’ve said it’s the chemo, Cyn,” Gemma hastened to reassure her. “Try not to worry-”
“And she asked me this morning about the wedding.” Cyn’s indignation had come back in full force. “What am I supposed to tell her? Have you done anything at all about making the arrangements?”
“I-I just haven’t had a chance. I’ve been busy at work, and-”
“Right. It’s always something, Gemma.” Cynthia’s voice had gone cold. “You don’t care who you disappoint. I’m surprised Duncan puts up with you. And you know how much Mum is counting on this. You’ll be the death of her if you keep on like this, you mark my words.” The connection went dead in Gemma’s ear.
“Cyn?” Gemma said. “Cyn?” Then, when it sank in that her sister had really hung up on her, she shouted, “Harpy,” at the hapless mobile and threw it onto the passenger seat. It didn’t make her feel any better.
With the things that had happened in the last few days, she had managed to put the wedding completely out of her mind. Now, all the weight of obligation came rushing back, and with it the nausea that had been nagging her since Sandra’s brothers had cracked her head against the Escort’s door. The interior of the car suddenly seemed unbearably hot and confining.
She got out carefully, fighting a wave of dizziness, and collected the holdall with Charlotte’s things from the backseat. This time she looked round before she leaned into the car, but that made her dizzier.
Then, feeling oddly disconnected from her feet, she walked the few yards to Betty’s building. As she went in and glanced up the stairwell, the climb seemed as daunting as Mount Everest. Slowly, gingerly, she made the ascent, stopping on each landing to ease the thumping in her head.
By the time she reached Betty’s flat and Charlotte ran into her arms for a hug, she felt she was the one most in need of comfort.
Charlotte had finally been persuaded to let go of Gemma and settle down with her pencils at the small table in Betty’s kitchen. She drew with grave concentration, while in the sitting room, Betty exclaimed over the clothes Gemma had brought.
“Her mama was that good to her,” Betty said softly as she refolded a little pink skirt. “Oh, I don’t just mean the clothes,” she added. “But you can tell, with the little ones, when they’ve been loved. And I don’t believe for a minute that this one’s mama left her of her own accord.” She added a neatly folded T-shirt to the skirt. “Not unless there was drink or drugs involved.”
“Not on her mum’s part, anyway,” Gemma agreed, but when Betty gave her a questioning look, she merely added, “I’d have heard something by now, I think, if there was anything like that.”
“Will she be all right if she goes to her granny?” Betty asked. “I do worry, and I haven’t heard a thing more from the social worker.”
“I know,” said Gemma. “I’m worried, too.”
The admission brought back her sister’s hateful words in full force. Was she as selfish as Cyn had said? Should she be doing more for her mother and less for Charlotte? But how could she not do everything in her power for this child, who had no one else to protect her? And if Cyn was right, was she letting Duncan down, as well? Was he losing patience with her?
“Gemma, honey, you’re right away with the fairies. Are you all right?” Betty was looking at her in concern, and Gemma realized she hadn’t heard a word Betty had said.
“I’m sorry. It’s just-” She couldn’t begin to explain what was wrong, and especially not in fr
ont of Charlotte.
“Look, Gemma,” said Charlotte, holding up her paper. She had drawn stick figures, the larger two red and blue, the smaller one yellow. They were a bit squiggly, but still recognizable as people. “That’s a mummy and a daddy and a little girl,” Charlotte informed her.
Gemma studied the picture with the seriousness it deserved. There were clouds, and a sausagey-shaped thing with legs near the yellow stick figure’s feet. “That’s very good, lovey. The little girl is yellow. That’s a happy color. And is that her dog?”
“Georgy,” Charlotte said. She still couldn’t manage the d sound in Geordie. “I want to see Georgy.”
“Maybe you can come over for a bit, this afternoon or tomorrow, if it’s all right with your auntie Betty here.” To Betty, she added, “The boys are quite smitten. As are the dogs,” she added, summoning a smile. “Sid, I’m not so sure about.”
“You should stay and have some lunch,” said Betty. “I’ve made a cold salad.”
“I’d love to,” Gemma said, although the thought of food made the sweat break out on her forehead. “I’d better go, though. Toby has a football match, and I promised I’d take him to the art store for some pencils like Charlotte’s afterwards.” She stood and kissed Betty’s cheek. “But I’ll ring you, and we’ll see about arranging a visit.”
She gave Charlotte a hug, resisting the temptation to keep her in her arms, then waved as she let herself out of the flat.
The stairs, however, proved almost as daunting going down as they had going up, and when she reached the car, she got in and simply sat.
She felt overwhelmed, as if the pieces of her life were flying off in all directions, out of her control, and she couldn’t summon the focus to hold them together.
Avoiding the tender bruise on her forehead, she rested her head on the hot steering wheel, trying to think. Wedding…Mum…Charlotte…the Gilles brothers…Melody…wedding…
Her mind whirled and she sat up, fighting another wave of dizziness. She couldn’t sort it out, not the way she was feeling. She needed some sensible advice, and suddenly she realized who she could talk to. Putting the key in the ignition, she started the car and drove, not to Toby’s football match, but to Kensington.
Doug Cullen had left home that morning with a list of flats and estate agents in his pocket. But somehow, instead of taking the District Line to Putney, he got on the wrong train and found himself at Victoria. The mistake was half habit and half absentmindedness. But as the reason for the absentmindedness was his mulling over of the business of the newspaper story, he decided to get off the train and go on into the Yard.
He was glad to shut himself in his office, quiet on a Saturday, where he could think it through properly. Something was not right about the whole thing. There was Kincaid’s reaction, to start with. After his first surprise, the guv’nor had gone all quiet and nonchalant about it, and while he might have the clout to buck displeasure from above, Cullen had been in on the interview with Ritchie as well, and he knew he wasn’t bulletproof.
How the hell had someone put together their visit-because that had to have been the “police investigation”-with Azad’s membership in the club, something they hadn’t known themselves?
Unless, of course, there really was another investigation…He picked up a pen and doodled on the message pad on his desk-names, interconnected with big swooping arrows. What if the club was somehow tied into the Narcotics investigation? But if he and Kincaid had been warned off, there was no way any other detectives were going to be going round asking official questions, so that idea didn’t wash.
But Lucas Ritchie did have a connection with Sandra Gilles’s brothers, through his friendship with Sandra. And if the brothers were dealing drugs, was it possible that Ritchie was running them? The club would certainly be a convenient front for money laundering, and some of Ritchie’s clients might be investing in a bit of the action on the side.
But how did Ahmed Azad tie into that? He had never been accused, as far as Cullen knew, of having any connection with drugs.
The pen had leaked as he scribbled. Cullen tore the inky piece of paper into strips, staining his fingers in the process. He shuffled the strips, realizing he’d left something-or rather someone-out.
Gemma. Gemma had been involved in this case from the beginning, even before they’d been called in. And he knew her well enough now to be certain that she hadn’t just walked away from it, especially after she’d helped arrange foster care for Naz Malik’s daughter. But what could Gemma possibly have to do with Lucas Ritchie? The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Gemma was mixed up in all of it, somehow, and he didn’t like the idea one bit. But he needed more information.
Maybe it was time to take advantage of a favor owed him by a reporter on the Chronicle. These things were tit for tat-and Doug, like most detectives, had developed a list of contacts useful to both parties.
He picked up the phone, and after a few calls, managed to track down his sometime source, a veteran reporter named Cal Grogan.
But by the time he rang off, he felt more baffled than ever. Cal had assured him that he’d be more than happy to help, but the story had come straight from the owner’s desk, and Ivan Talbot never revealed a source.
The square tucked away behind Kensington High Street was green and quiet, a residential enclave of elegant town houses. A few of these now housed businesses, including, on the ground floor at the end of a terrace, the café where Hazel had taken a job.
When Gemma walked in, she saw that the interior of the café was a clean, white space, with only a few tables, and fewer customers lingering over their lunches. Hazel stood at the back of the long, narrow room, stocking clean glassware on a shelf. She wore a white apron and T-shirt over tan trousers, and when she saw Gemma, she gave a radiant smile and hurried forward.
“Gemma! What are you doing here? What a lovely surprise.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t ring first. But I knew you’d said you were working today, and I just-I thought we could talk. Are you too busy?”
Hazel glanced at the remaining diners. “We’re just finishing up the lunch rush. Then there will be a bit of a lull before the afternoon-tea crowd starts filtering in.” She pointed Gemma to a small table at the front. “Have a seat and I’ll bring you some tea. You can enjoy the view, and I’ll be with you in a tick. There are some lunch specials left-have you eaten?”
“Just tea would be fine,” said Gemma, avoiding the question.
“You look dreadful,” Hazel exclaimed, examining her more closely. “What on earth did you do to yourself?”
“Oh, it was just something stupid that happened at work. I’m fine, really.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a better answer than ‘I walked into a door.’” Hazel gave her an assessing, skeptical look, but brought her a cup of tea. When the last customers had left, she took off her apron and sat down beside Gemma with a cup of her own. “Coffee for me, I’m afraid. I need the boost to get through the rest of the afternoon.”
“And this from the woman who used to drink herbal teas?” Gemma teased.
“Ah, well, another time, another place. Another person, really,” Hazel added, with just a touch of sadness, but then she smiled. “And I’ve discovered I quite like coffee. I’m going to take full advantage of my few minutes’ respite while Chef is out making an emergency-supply run.” She looked much better than the last time Gemma had seen her, when they had talked under the Westway.
“I’m glad you’re settling in.”
“So am I. But at the moment, I’m more concerned about you. Is it your mum?”
“In a way.” Gemma told her about the call from Cyn that morning.
Hazel frowned. “Well, no one would deny that your sister can be a bitch, but that’s a bit over the top, even for her. You know she’s jealous of you.”
“Cyn? Jealous of me? But she’s the one gets all the approval.”
“Sometimes you are thick, Gemma,” Haze
l said with a sigh. “I suspect that’s her way of making up for not having your life-your job, your partner, your children, your house. But in this case, I think it’s more than envy. For all her bossiness, Cynthia is much more dependent on your mum than you are. I think she’s terrified of losing her-as is your dad-and you’ve become a convenient scapegoat.”
“But why would-” Gemma rubbed her head, trying to sort out her thoughts. “I don’t understand why blaming me would make them feel better-and I feel like I’m just being stubborn, not giving them what they want.” She swallowed, making an effort to steady her voice. “But this wedding has turned into a monster. I wanted it to be something special, for Duncan and me, and the boys, not some stupid spectacle in a cheap-or not so cheap-hotel. But if it means that much to my mum-”
“Darling, you are letting your father and your sister blow this all out of proportion. Your mother loves you. She wants you to be happy. And I think nothing would please her more than to see you get on with your life, by whatever means. And if you were thinking logically, you would know that your mother’s recovery does not depend on your getting married in the Ritz rather than the register’s office.”
“No. I suppose you’re right,” Gemma admitted, feeling a smidgen of relief, and with an attempt at lightness, added, “Are you sure you shouldn’t be practicing therapy again, rather than working in a café?”
“This suits me very well for the moment, and I mean to hold on to what I have,” Hazel said firmly. “And you-you are not going to let your family spoil your wedding. You are going to do what feels right for you.” Hazel patted Gemma’s hand. “Now, promise me you’ll go straight home and talk to Duncan. You can work this out between the two of you. That’s what counts, after all.”
But when Gemma arrived home, she found Duncan in the hall, looking as if he was on his way out, and his expression didn’t augur well for a discussion.
“Where have you been?” he said, sounding irritable. “I’ve tried ringing you for ages. Toby and I wanted you to meet us for lunch. But when I couldn’t get you, I made sandwiches, and now I’ve promised to take him to the art shop because you weren’t here.”
Necessary as Blood Page 28
