She gazed in shock at all the familiar faces-in the dining room and sitting room, spilling out of the kitchen-all staring back at her with ear-splitting grins. Tim and Holly. Melody. Doug Cullen. Gemma’s boss from work, Mark Lamb, and his wife, Diane. Duncan’s guv’nor, Denis Childs, and his wife. Her sister and brother-in-law. Her niece and nephew. Erika, and Erika’s friend Henri. Wesley, Betty, and Charlotte. And sitting stiffly on chairs in the dining room, her parents.
Hazel was behind her now, pushing her gently forward. Toby thundered down the stairs, shouting, “She’s here, she’s here!” He wore a white shirt and his school trousers, as did Kit, who followed him.
“What-”
Duncan appeared from the kitchen and came to meet her. He, too, was smartly dressed, in a suit she didn’t recognize. But unlike the others, he looked anxious. Kissing her on the cheek, he said, “Hullo, love. You look absolutely brilliant.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I didn’t-What’s going on? Has something happened? Is it someone’s birthday?”
“No, it’s a wedding.”
“In our house?” She felt completely baffled. “Whose wedding?”
He met her gaze and held it. “Ours, love. If you’re willing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Mothers and daughters always draw closer to each other as the years pass.” [Sister Julienne]
– Jennifer Worth, Farewell to the East End
“But that’s not possible.” Gemma looked at Duncan in confusion. “It’s not a legal venue.”
“No. But it is possible to have a blessing. There’s a humanist celebrant, a nice woman, waiting in the garden. Usually it’s done the other way round, the civil wedding, then the blessing. But I explained that we were a little, um, unusual, and she agreed to come.
“We can have a ceremony, then next week we can go to Chelsea Town Hall and start the paperwork. Because that’s all a civil marriage is-paperwork. This”-he gestured at their friends and family gathered round-“this is what matters.”
Gemma suddenly realized that the house was filled with flowers-vases of roses and lilies and lovely things she couldn’t name.
Following her gaze, Duncan said, “Wesley organized the flowers from the market this morning. Betty’s cooking Caribbean food for after, and Wesley’s going to take pictures. I organized the champagne-there’s cases of it in the kitchen.”
“And the cake?”
“I’m afraid we couldn’t get a proper cake made in time. Wesley’s bought loads of cupcakes from the bakery on Portobello.”
Gemma started to laugh. “Oh, that’s perfect, just perfect.”
Duncan smiled back. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Is that a yes, then?”
She slipped an arm round his neck and whispered back, “What would you have done if I’d said no?”
“Had a hell of a party.” He brushed his lips against her cheek, and suddenly she wanted him so fiercely her knees went weak.
“Hey, no snogging before the ceremony,” Kit called out. “Let’s get this show on the road. Everyone, outside.”
“I take it Kit has appointed himself master of ceremonies?” Gemma said, reluctantly letting go of Duncan.
As the crowd began to shift towards the garden, Charlotte, who had been hiding behind Betty’s skirts, ran over and wrapped her arms around Gemma’s knees. “Ooh, look at you.” Gemma lifted her into a hug. “You’ve got a new dress, too. Aren’t you pretty.”
“I’m da flower girl,” Charlotte told her, giving her a somewhat sticky kiss.
“Oh, flowers.” Gemma began to feel a flutter of nerves. “I don’t have a bouquet.”
“Yes, you do,” said Wesley. He sounded uncharacteristically shy. “I had them make it at Tyler’s. I hope it’s okay.” He handed her a spray of white roses and greenery, tied with a pale green silk ribbon.
“It’s lovely, Wes.” She saw that the dogs, who had joined the melee, had matching ribbons. She turned to Hazel. “And what would you have done if I’d refused to buy the dress?”
“I had confidence in my powers of persuasion. I spent all my off hours for a week finding that bloody dress. You were going to buy it or else.” She pulled a lipstick and a hairbrush from her bag. “Here, touch-up time.”
Gemma tidied up in the hall mirror, then turned to Hazel for inspection. “Do I look all right?”
Sniffing, Hazel gave her a quick hug. “Angelic. Now go.”
“Cue the music,” shouted Kit, and from the sitting room came the sound, not of Mendelssohn, which Gemma despised, but of a joyously ringing Bach prelude.
Then as she turned back to the room, she realized that the only people not smiling, and not moving towards the garden, were her parents. She went to them quickly. “Mum. Are you feeling all right? What is it?”
Vi looked up, her lips trembling, but it was her dad who spoke first. “It’s not a proper wedding, is it? Not legal, like.”
“We’ll have a civil wedding in the register’s office,” Gemma explained. “As soon as we can arrange it.”
“That’s all very well,” said her mum. “But there’s no reception hall, is there? And what about the Rolls-Royce with ribbons and things? And, Gemma, your dress-you can’t get married in green.”
Gemma smiled, trying hard to hang on to her temper. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mum. I’m not exactly entitled to wear white.”
“Don’t you be cheeky to your mother, miss.” Her dad was scowling now, his color rising. “You’ve let down your mum and her friends, who were expecting a proper do. What are we going to tell people?”
She looked at them, then at the last of the other guests, trailing out into the garden. Duncan waited by the French doors. The Bach played on, a counterpoint to the happy murmur of voices. The scent of lilies came to her on the warm air. Her anger evaporated.
“I don’t give a fig what anyone expected,” she said firmly. “This is my day, and I’m not going to let anyone spoil it. I would like for you to stay and to wish me well, but that’s up to you.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve someone waiting for me.” She bent and kissed her mum’s cheek, and after a hesitant moment, her dad’s. Then she walked towards Duncan without looking back.
At the door, Wesley handed her the bouquet, and Duncan took her arm. “Rings.” She pulled away in a last moment of panic. “We don’t have rings.”
“We do,” Duncan assured her. “Toby has them. At least I hope Toby has them.”
“You’re very brave,” she said, beginning to smile. A tide of joy was rising in her like a spring.
“Very brave or very mad.” He looked at her, his face suddenly serious. “Or both. Are you sure, Gemma? Are you sure this is what you want?”
She glanced round at the expectant faces of their gathered friends, and at the children, who looked ready to burst with pride and excitement. “You did this for me. All of this. It couldn’t be more perfect. And you”-she touched his cheek, then brushed back the wayward lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead-“you are exactly what I want.”
Duncan took her hand and led her out into the garden.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Many Houses were then left desolate, all the People being carried away dead…
– Daniel Defoe, A Journal of the Plague Year
Somewhere between the second and third glass of champagne, Gemma kicked off her shoes.
The blessing had been short, simple, and beautiful, a celebration of their relationship as partners in life, and Gemma couldn’t have imagined anything more perfect. The children had behaved with remarkable decorum, even Toby, and most of the guests had been a bit teary-eyed-as had Duncan and Gemma themselves.
Afterwards, Bach had given way to reggae, then eighties pop and sixties soul. The happy couple had been toasted, and they had all eaten, and drunk, and danced, and finally Gemma and Duncan had made a great show of cutting their respective vanilla and chocolate cupcakes.
Gemma’s parents
had stayed, and even seemed to enjoy themselves, although they’d picked at Betty’s lovely Caribbean food. But by the cake stage, Gemma could tell her mum was beginning to tire, and they had left soon after.
Most of the other guests had followed as it began to get dark, including Hazel, Tim, and Holly. Gemma had walked Hazel to the door and hugged her.
“Thank you for everything. I’m glad you’ve come back. Although you are surely the most devious person I know-after Duncan.”
“Thank you, I think.” Hazel laughed. “Maybe I should think about becoming a wedding planner. Or a spy.”
Now Gemma sat in the kitchen, rubbing her aching feet. Duncan and Betty were doing the washing-up, while Wesley, Melody, and Doug, the stragglers, clustered round polishing off a huge pot of tea Wesley had made. The children were playing in the garden with the dogs, and Gemma felt utterly, blissfully content. For the hundredth time, she held up her left hand and admired her ring.
It was Art Deco, a platinum band set with small diamonds. Henri and Erika had helped Duncan pick it out from a jeweler in the antique arcade on the King’s Road.
“You can change it if you want,” Duncan said, teasing her from the sink.
“No way.” She wrapped her right hand protectively around her left. “You’re not getting this off me for anything.” He’d bought a plain white-gold band for himself, assuring her that it was all he needed.
When the doorbell rang, Gemma stretched and said, “I’ll get it. Someone must have forgotten something.”
But Wesley jumped up, flashing Duncan a conspiratorial grin. “No, I’ll go. You rest your battered feet.”
There were voices from the hall, then Wesley came back into the kitchen, his arm draped casually round a young woman’s shoulders. A familiar tall, auburn-haired woman in surgical scrubs.
Gemma stood, laughing. “Bryony! What are you doing here?” Bryony Poole was their friend as well as their veterinarian. It looked as though Wesley had seen her more recently than Gemma, as there had been something definitely possessive in the way he’d guided her into the room.
“Congratulations.” Bryony hugged Gemma and Duncan, then gestured at her blue scrubs. “I’m so sorry to turn up like this. I had afternoon clinic and couldn’t reschedule. Wesley told me about the wedding the first of the week, but Gavin’s on holiday in Spain, so there was nobody to take over.” Gavin was Bryony’s not particularly well-liked boss. “Have I missed all the fun?”
“No, nor all the champagne.” Gemma poured her a glass from the bottle still standing in a tub of ice.
Bryony raised it to them before she drank. “To the happy couple.”
“Holidays in Spain must be the thing for vets,” Gemma said, sitting down and pouring herself another cup of tea. She told Bryony a bit about their investigation into John Truman’s possible connection with Naz Malik’s murder, leaving out Truman’s name. “Would it be easy for a vet to set aside enough ketamine to stop a man breathing?” The vision of Naz Malik’s body in the park brought the case back with a sickening jolt.
“Well, as little as a gram can be fatal. You can dissolve it-that’s one of the reasons it’s a good date-rape drug-but you might taste that much in a drink.” Bryony swirled her champagne.
“There was Valium in his system, too.”
“There you go, then. First you use the Valium as a relaxant, then you administer the ketamine as a dissociative. Same thing an anesthetist does before you have surgery.”
“An anesthetist?” Kincaid turned from the sink.
“Yeah, sure,” said Bryony, looking a little surprised. “Ketamine is best known as a veterinary drug, but anesthetists use it, too. It’s just much easier for street dealers to steal the stuff from a vet clinic than a hospital.”
Kincaid stood, hands dripping. “Anesthetist. Shit.”
Betty turned, perhaps surprised by his language, but when Gemma saw his face, she held up a hand in a command for silence. She knew that expression all too well.
Wordlessly, Betty handed him a tea towel.
But Kincaid merely crumpled it, as if he had no clue as to what it was for, then tossed it away and wiped his hands on the trousers of his good suit. “Of bloody course. Why didn’t I see it?”
“See what?” Gemma felt the world rock to a stop.
He looked at her, focusing on her face. “There’s an anesthetist on the bloody list. Alexander. Doug and I met him at Ritchie’s club. He came up and introduced himself. He was one of Sandra’s patrons. And Ritchie said something about his sponsorship of a women’s health clinic.”
“Rivington Street,” Gemma whispered. “Oh, my God. The clinic in Rivington Street.” In her mind, the pieces began to fall together with dreadful clarity. “Alia talked about how involved Sandra had been with the work there, and then she said something about Mr. Miles not actually seeing the patients, because they were only comfortable with women doctors, but I didn’t make the connection.”
“Miles Alexander,” said Cullen. “That was his name.”
Gemma felt the blood drain from her face. “He works at the London. Mr. Alexander, the consultant. It must be the same man. He was the anesthetist on my mum’s procedure. Dear God.”
“We saw him the day of the postmortem.” Kincaid started pacing and the others shifted a bit to give him room. “In the corridor by the mortuary, as we went to Dr. Kaleem’s office. I knew he looked familiar. He must have been checking on Kaleem’s results. Do you suppose there was something Kaleem missed?”
“Or maybe he was checking to see if there was anything he had missed,” Cullen suggested. “Kaleem said he thought he remembered Naz’s mobile phone being in a different place in the evidence bag, remember? And that day when he spoke to us in the club, was he trying to find out what we knew?”
“Maybe,” Kincaid said. “Or maybe it was just plain bloody arrogance. Him deigning to play a little game with us.”
“Wait.” Melody had been listening intently, but now she shook her head. “You’re making huge assumptions here.”
“No, it all fits,” Gemma said with a certainty that made her feel cold. “He knew Sandra, and probably quite well through their connection with the clinic. He bought her work. He had access to the drugs used to kill Naz, and the knowledge to use them. Lucas Ritchie’s club would have provided a connection to Truman, and possibly others like him, if they shared an interest in little girls.
“The question is, what made Sandra connect the Bangladeshi girl’s story with this doctor she knew, and probably trusted?”
Betty stepped forward, twisting Kincaid’s discarded tea towel in her hands. “I’m not followin’ all these things about girls and clubs. But do I understand that what you are sayin’ is that our little Charlotte’s mother is dead?”
“Yes.” Gemma rubbed the sudden ache in her cheekbones and blinked back the prickle of tears. “I think I’ve always known that Sandra Gilles was dead. The question was always why, and how, and who.”
“And the daddy,” said Betty, “Mr. Naz? You think this same man killed him?”
“Charlotte told me that her dad had gone to look for her mum, but I didn’t listen to her, not properly. Maybe Naz learned something that day. Maybe he went to talk to Alexander. Maybe he was fishing for information and didn’t want to refuse when Alexander offered him a drink.”
“That would explain where Naz was in those missing hours between the time he left the house and the time he died in Haggerston Park,” said Kincaid. “If he went to see Alexander, Alexander could have drugged him and kept him in the house until it was almost dark-”
“And he could get him to the park,” finished Gemma. She turned to Bryony. “How long would the fatal dose of ketamine have taken to act?”
“Not long. And it was probably injected, as it would have been difficult to get liquid down someone already incapacitated. It might have been a puncture mark under the tongue that your pathologist missed. Did your killer intend the death to look like a suicide?”
&nbs
p; “If so, he should have moved his head into a more natural position, after he watched him suffocate.” The thought of what Alexander had done made Gemma feel ill. “Maybe he thought someone was coming and cleared off a bit too soon.”
Cullen had his phone out and was tapping the keys. Looking up, he said, “Miles Alexander lives in Hoxton. I’ve just checked the address. It’s one street from John Truman. And a ten-minute walk from Columbia Road market.”
Gemma saw it all, so clearly now. “What if, when Sandra left Charlotte with Roy that day at the market, she meant to pay a quick call on Alexander? She’d have assumed she’d be back in time to pick Charlotte up and meet Naz for lunch.”
If this were true, she’d been right about Sandra having walked someplace not far from Columbia Road, but she’d focused on the wrong direction, south and east, towards Bethnal Green and Sandra’s family, not north and west, towards Hoxton.
“She meant to be back for an ordinary Sunday lunch with her husband and daughter. Whatever she suspected, she couldn’t have had any idea how dangerous he really was.” Clamping down on the wave of fury that poured through her, Gemma looked at Kincaid and managed to say levelly, “Can we bring him in now?”
Kincaid frowned. “I think we’ll have a patrol car pick up Alexander, on suspicion of Naz Malik’s murder.”
“But we don’t have a direct connection between Alexander and Malik,” protested Doug.
“Sandra is the connection. And there will be others-we just have to find them.”
“Then why don’t we get a team going door-to-door in his road?” Doug argued. “Maybe someone will have seen Naz, or Sandra, going into his house. That way we could serve a warrant, and pick him up at the same time. That would shake him up.”
Kincaid shook his head. “If we start knocking on doors, even in plainclothes, I guarantee you Alexander is going to get wind of it. And if he does, he’s going to get rid of all the evidence he can.”
Necessary as Blood Page 33
