“It will be all right. It will just be the girls’ faces.”
Gemma thanked her and rejoined Kincaid. Cullen and Melody had gone to speak to the tow truck driver. “I want to go into the house,” she said.
“I thought you would.” Kincaid handed her the white overall he’d taken from the boot of the Escort. “I’ll be right behind you. I just want to have a word with the SOCOs about getting those photos copied as soon as possible.” The head of the crime scene team had just come out, carrying samples to the van.
When Gemma had slipped on her overall, she walked in slowly, studying the house. The decor seemed late Georgian, and was based, she guessed, on the period when they had begun to use gilt to reflect light. And although the rooms were laid out simply, as in the other Georgian houses she’d seen, the furnishings looked authentic, and of museum quality. The few pieces of contemporary art on the pale-stone-colored walls worked well, rather to Gemma’s surprise.
The ground-floor rooms were the grand reception rooms, and in both sitting and dining rooms the elegant fireplaces served as focal points. But in the sitting room, the wall above the mantel was empty-a look at odds with the careful placement of furniture and artwork elsewhere in the house.
Gemma gazed at the room, and at the size of the empty space, and thought of the unfinished collage on Sandra’s worktable. Had it been meant to go here?
That would explain so much. If Sandra had been working on a piece commissioned by Alexander, and had come to the house to get a feel for what her client wanted, and where the piece would go, she might have stumbled across something that made her connect the story she’d heard at the clinic with Alexander. Could it have been the little girl the neighbor saw, the latest of Alexander’s victims?
But if so, what had become of the child?
Gemma went downstairs, and through a sleek, modern kitchen into the high-walled garden beyond.
The garden, like the house, was formal, with rows of neatly clipped hedges around the borders, and a paved courtyard with a fountain at its center. There were no flowers, and no color other than the green of the shrubs and the pale ocher of paving, gravel, and fountain. And although there were two stone benches, it was not a place in which Gemma could imagine spending time.
She looked down at the paving stones, so perfectly, newly laid. And she thought of Sandra’s haunting, faceless girls and women, preserved forever behind the bars of their gilded cages.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“When you are on the streets in Brick Lane the interior spaces are external to you. There aren’t many reasons to go inside the buildings and get into these private spaces that hold their time in a different way to street time, which is always contemporary.” [Iain Sinclair]
– Rachel Lichtenstein, On Brick Lane
Doug Cullen came into Kincaid’s office and laid an evidence bag containing a familiar-looking, gold-stamped leather folder down on Kincaid’s desk. “Forensics just delivered Alexander’s passport. Makes for very interesting reading.”
“I bloody well hope so,” Kincaid said, with feeling. It was Monday morning and he had been up most of the night. Miles Alexander had been singularly uncooperative, either sneering or silent, and Kincaid was tired and frustrated. “We’d better come up with something that will make the child-trafficking charges stick like glue, because we haven’t got enough so far to sell the prosecution on a single homicide, much less a double one. And I do not want to let this bastard go.”
He felt quite sure that if Miles Alexander walked out of Scotland Yard, he would disappear, just like his friend Truman.
He still had hopes that the lab would find fiber transfer that would place Naz Malik in Alexander’s house or car, but even that might be too little and too late. Alexander could argue that Naz had visited him, or ridden in his car, at any time. What they really needed was to match Alexander with hair or fiber that had been found on or around Naz Malik’s body. But the processing of trace evidence took time, and he doubted he’d get a result soon enough to allow him to keep Alexander in the nick.
“What about Gemma’s project?” asked Cullen, his face schooled into a neutrality Kincaid was sure he didn’t feel. “I hear the super’s not best pleased at the expense.”
Kincaid knew Cullen was less than enthusiastic about Gemma’s suggestion that they excavate Alexander’s garden. “Slow going. They’ve got the fountain moved and the pavers up, but apparently it’s teaspoon digging from now on. They can’t risk disturbing any evidence.”
“If there’s any evidence to disturb.”
“Gemma’s right, Doug,” Kincaid said, his patience fraying. “If Alexander killed Sandra Gilles, he had to put her body somewhere, and the garden is as good a place to start as any.”
He took Alexander’s passport out of the bag and flipped through it, raising an eyebrow as he read. “Quite the traveler, I see. Regular trips to Thailand and Bangladesh, as well as visits to Spain, favorite holiday spot of his mate Truman.”
Cullen pulled a chair up to the desk. “And quite the serial monogamist, too, if you believe the records.” His face lit up with a self-satisfied grin. “I’ve been through the files. Every couple of years for the past decade, he’s married a girl-supposedly of age-in Bangladesh or Thailand, then brought her into the U.K. Then after a year or two-I’d assume it’s when they’ve got too ‘old’ for his taste-he files for divorce, in each case assuring the judge that he’ll pay the girl maintenance so she won’t become a burden on the state. Then the girl disappears from the system. Very neat.”
“Any-”
Cullen cut Kincaid off. “The best part is yet to come. It’s been the same court in every case, and the judge’s name is on the members’ list of Lucas Ritchie’s club.”
“And was his lawyer the same bloke who’s representing him now?”
Cullen thought about it. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, it was.”
“How much do you want to wager that the lawyer’s name is on Ritchie’s list, too?” Kincaid asked with rising glee. Shuffling through the papers on his desk, he found the list, then ran his finger down it until he found the name he was seeking. “Bloody hallelujah.” Grinning, he looked up at Cullen. “Bingo. I thought his name sounded familiar. No wonder he’s looked so nervous.”
“If he’s one of Alexander’s playmates, he’ll be thanking whoever he prays to that he wasn’t in Alexander’s photo album.”
Kincaid glanced at his watch. “Speaking of the photo album, Ritchie should be at the club by now. It’s time we took those photos round. I’ll just-” His desk phone rang and he broke off to answer.
It was the receptionist informing him that a Ms. Louise Phillips was downstairs. “Have someone show her up to my office,” Kincaid said, deciding he’d rather speak to her there than in an interview room.
“News travels fast,” he said to Cullen, and a few moments later, a uniformed constable showed Louise Phillips in.
She looked better than when he had last seen her, as if she were beginning to pull herself together after the shock of her partner’s death. But she still smelled of smoke, and her dark eyes were as intent as ever. Taking the chair Cullen offered her, she got right to the point. “I hear you arrested someone, a suspect in Naz’s murder-an anesthetist named Alexander.”
“Do you know him?” Kincaid asked.
“No. But there’s something you should know. I’m here on behalf of my client.”
“Azad?” Kincaid wondered if they’d been wrong to discount Azad’s involvement in the child trafficking.
“Mr. Azad has been very distressed over Naz’s murder. He didn’t feel he could speak, however, as long as he was in the delicate position of facing charges himself.”
“Are you telling me the Crown dropped its case?”
“Mr. Azad’s nephew has returned. He no longer wishes to testify against his uncle.”
“Please, enough of the lawyer-speak, Ms. Phillips,” Kincaid said, exasperated. “What are you here to tell us?”
Phillips touched her bag, as if she were about to reach for a cigarette, then sat back in her chair with a sigh. “Look, it’s like this. Azad’s silly nephew got himself involved in a forced labor scheme in East Anglia. They promised him the moon, then kept him in a hut for weeks, except when they sent him and the others they’d recruited out to work in the fields. No decent food, little water, no lavs, no medical care-even after he suffered a bad cut-and absolutely no communication with the outside world.
“But day before yesterday, he managed to get away and thumb a ride back to London. He’s thrilled to be back in his uncle’s house, and now thinks washing dishes in the restaurant kitchen is heaven on earth. So he’s not about to bite the hand that-quite literally-feeds him.”
“I’m sure his uncle must be thrilled by his nephew’s safe return,” Kincaid said sardonically. “But I don’t see-”
“Having heard about Alexander’s arrest, Azad feels he may have had some degree of responsibility for what happened-although of course he didn’t realize this at the time.”
“Of course,” Kincaid agreed, with no small degree of sarcasm.
“Look,” Lou Phillips said again. She brushed at her lapel. “Azad’s not a bad guy, really. Feudal, yes, but that means he takes care of his own. He’s loyal to his friends and his family, and he would never condone child prostitution. He heard rumors going round in Ritchie’s club. Maybe because he’d been charged with human trafficking, certain people let things slip. They were checking him out, he thought, to see if he was interested in abusing children.
“But Azad was disgusted. He told Naz about it. Then the day before Naz disappeared-the day before he was murdered,” Louise corrected herself, “they had a row. The upshot was that Azad finally agreed to tell Naz the names of the people he thought might be involved. Alexander was one of them. But Naz must have made the connection between Alexander and Sandra himself.”
“And then Naz went round to confront Alexander,” Kincaid finished. “With disastrous consequences. You realize I could charge your client as an accessory. Or, at the very least, with obstruction.”
Louise Phillips gazed levelly back at him. “I don’t think you will. My client has only just realized the pertinence of his information.”
Knowing he couldn’t prove otherwise, Kincaid conceded with as good a grace as he could muster. “Would Mr. Azad be willing to testify?”
“Maybe,” Louise said. “But first you lot have to make a case that will hold up.”
Gemma nibbled a sandwich at her desk, trying to concentrate on shifting her neglected caseload. But between glancing at the clock and checking to make sure her phone was really turned on, she wasn’t making much progress with lunch or work.
She’d left two messages for Janice Silverman, even though she knew that the family court hearing might have run behind schedule. She’d managed to refrain from ringing Kincaid, as she knew he’d call her as soon as he heard anything about the excavation of the garden in Hoxton.
When her phone actually rang, she dropped her egg salad and cress on her computer keyboard.
It was Betty Howard, and her warm voice sounded unusually harried. “Have you heard anything, Gemma?”
“No. I promise I’ll call as soon as I do, but Mrs. Silverman may call you first.”
“She’s that unsettled today, little Charlotte,” Betty said softly. “She didn’t want to sleep in her bed last night. She wanted Toby, and she kept fretting for you, and ‘the big man.’”
“The big man?” Gemma asked, puzzled. She cleaned the remains of her sandwich off her keyboard and tossed it in the bin.
“She means Duncan, but she can’t say his name very well.”
Gemma smiled. Naz Malik had been a small-framed man, so compared to her father, Duncan must seem large to Charlotte-and apparently comforting as well. Charlotte had become attached to him very quickly, but her trusting nature terrified Gemma as much as it touched her. The child had never been mistreated. How would she cope with Gail and her uncles?
“Oh, Betty, surely they won’t place her with the family. At least not yet.” She knew she was trying to reassure herself.
“Listen, Gemma…” Betty sounded hesitant. “I’ve been worryin’ a good deal. Even sayin’ the judge decides against the family, they may not place her with me. She’s mixed race, and they may feel she’d be better off with a white family. And…truth be told, I’m not gettin’ any younger, and I’m not sure I can give the child the best care in the long term.”
Gemma felt as if she’d been kicked. “Are you saying you don’t want her?”
“No, no, I’m not meanin’ that at all,” Betty said. “I’m just worried. I’d have to think hard about raisin’ up another child-about what’s best for her. She’s special, this girl. She deserves more than I can give her.”
“But, Betty, no one could do more-”
“Just you ring me soon as you hear somethin’,” Betty interrupted, and disconnected.
Gemma stared at the phone, her head reeling. She’d thought that if she could protect Charlotte from her family, the child would be assured of care and a safe future.
But if Betty didn’t take Charlotte…
It wasn’t that Gemma didn’t understand Betty’s concerns. Betty had raised five children of her own, and the responsibility of another child at her age would be daunting.
Still, Gemma shook her head in dismay. She couldn’t bear the thought of Charlotte vanishing into the care system.
When her phone rang again, and she saw from the caller ID that it was Kincaid, she answered a little shakily.
“You all right, love?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, knowing she couldn’t begin to explain, not until she’d had a chance to think it through. “Have they found-”
“I’ve not heard anything yet. But I have a nice surprise for you. I’ve had a call from Narcotics. Meet me at Gail Gilles’s flat in Bethnal Green. Soon as you can.”
Melody had insisted on going with her. “I’m on pins and needles about Alexander,” she’d said. “So I’m not accomplishing anything. And if it’s something about Charlotte, I want to know, too.”
As they drove, Gemma told her about her conversation with Betty.
“Her reservations are understandable,” Melody said. “And she may be right about the placement issues. But you can’t do anything until you know what position the court is going to take, and what’s going on with Gail Gilles. You’re sure Duncan didn’t sound upset?”
“No. I’d almost swear he was laughing.”
But when they rounded the corner into Gail Gilles’s council estate and Gemma saw the police cars, lights flashing, her heart lurched. “What the hell-” she said, climbing out of the car.
Then she spotted Kincaid coming towards them. “What’s going on?” she asked as they met. “Is someone hurt?”
“Well, yes,” he said, his mouth twitching. “Terry Gilles is in hospital. It seems that Kevin and Terry got in a little scuffle with a gang of Bangladeshi kids. Kevin and Terry were moving in on a Bangladeshi estate, trying to sell their wares, and the kids didn’t appreciate it.
“Terry got knifed, and he thought he was dying. A flesh wound in the side, but he bled like a stuck pig. Apparently he was also a little off his head, and felt a great need to confess. He gave the PC who rode in the ambulance with him the full monty, and Kevin didn’t have time to do damage control.” Kincaid broke into a grin. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about Gail Gilles, or Sandra’s sister or brothers, getting custody of Charlotte any time in the foreseeable future.”
As Gemma watched, two uniformed officers came down the stairs, escorting Gail Gilles, who sported handcuffs along with her pink dressing gown and leopard-print slippers.
Gail, however, was too busy ranting at the officers to notice her observers.
“She knew about the drugs,” said Gemma, although she hadn’t much doubt as to the answer.
“She not only knew, she w
as holding for the boys. Not just a hefty stash of heroin, but cash. They found twenty thousand pounds, just where Terry said it would be, in a Manolo Blahnik shoe box.
“And according to Terry,” Kincaid went on as Gail was helped, none too gently, into the back of a panda car, “the sister, Donna, was involved in a smaller way. They’re still searching her flat.”
Gemma shook her head, bemused. “If I were Terry, I’d be hoping they wouldn’t put me in a cell with Kevin.”
“Whatever happens to either one of them, it serves them bloody right.” Kincaid’s voice had gone cold, and Gemma knew he was thinking about her encounter with the brothers.
He turned to her and gave her arm a squeeze. “And now you won’t have to worry about Charlotte.”
Before she could answer, his phone rang. He excused himself to take the call, and when he came back all the levity had gone from his face. “They want us in Hoxton,” he said.
The lower floors of the house had been cleared by the scene of crime team, so that Gemma, Melody, and Kincaid were now able to walk downstairs and through the kitchen without wearing sterile gear. Kincaid had told Gemma that Cullen had gone to speak to Lucas Ritchie, but was now on his way to the house as well.
Rashid Kaleem was waiting for them in the garden-a garden that looked quite different from the serene space Gemma had seen the previous morning.
The stone pavers had been levered up all around the fountain and stacked to the sides. The gravel that had lain beneath the stones had been carefully scooped into buckets and tubs.
The forensic excavation team responsible for the current state of chaos had set up lights and worked through the night.
“When they reached what looked like garden lime, they called me,” the pathologist explained. He squatted by the pit, wearing the jeans and black T-shirt that Gemma thought of as his uniform. But his face and arms were streaked with dust, and his urbane charm seemed to have deserted him, although he gave Gemma a quick smile.
“The lads and the photographer have gone for a bit of a break,” Kaleem continued. “And I’ve called in a forensic anthropologist. What comes next is more his province than mine.”
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