Necessary as Blood (13 page)

For a long moment, Weller stared back belligerently, then his shoulders relaxed and he drained his pint. “Point taken,” he said, carefully aligning his glass on the beer mat. “Rashid sent me the tox report. If he’s right—and he usually is, the smug bastard—it would be a very odd coincidence if Sandra Gilles disappeared and three months later someone just happened to kill her husband. But I’ll be damned if I know who to move to the top of the list.”

“How about we start with Azad,” Kincaid suggested.

Weller frowned. “Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Mr. Ahmed Azad. I don’t think you’ll get very far.” He pushed his empty glass aside. “But I can introduce you to him, if you like. He lives right round the corner.”

Gemma wasn’t sure if her call to Janice Silverman had reassured her or made her more anxious about Charlotte.

“Oh, not to worry about the sister,” Silverman had said. “We ran a check on her. She’s had half a dozen reports filed against her—neglect, too many boyfriends coming and going, her three little boys showing up at school with the unexplained bruise.”

“She still has her kids?”

“For the time being, although they’ve had a couple of short-term stays in foster care.” She sighed. “We can’t put half of London permanently in foster care, so we do the best we can. Her caseworker is making regular visits.”

Gemma passed on what Alia had told them about Sandra’s and Donna’s brothers.

“I’ll send a note to Donna’s caseworker. Her boys may not have regular contact with their uncles, but the information should go in the file. Thanks. And thanks for recommending Mrs. Howard, by the way,” Silverman added. “A nice woman, and she seems to be doing a good job with Charlotte. Nice of you to visit, as well. The more interested parties, the better, in our business.”

Gemma had said she’d look in on Charlotte again as soon as she could, and hung up feeling a warm rush of pleasure at the idea that she might have made a positive difference.

That soon faded, however, as she chewed over scenarios involving Sandra Gilles’s brothers and drugs. If the brothers dealt in heroin, it made it more likely that they would have access to the Valium and ketamine that had been used to drug Naz.

But why would they have killed Naz? And how could they have got the drugs into him if he refused to have any contact with them?

She did her best to put the questions aside while spending an hour with her mother at the hospital. But when she could see Vi beginning to tire, she kissed her good-bye and drove to Islington.

When she pulled up, she found Tim sitting on the front steps of the house, drinking a mug of tea and watching Holly play in the front garden of the house next door. The treetops in the communal garden had begun to filter the late-afternoon sun, and Gemma sat down beside Tim gratefully, watching the slightest ripple of breeze through the foliage.

“Too hot to stay in the house,” Tim said. “Too hot to drink tea, really,” he added, inspecting his mug. It had been one of Hazel’s fa
vorites, Gemma remembered, with a pattern of leaves and cherries on a cream background and lettering that spelled out
TIME FOR TEA
. It looked awkwardly feminine in Tim’s hand. “But it’s that time of day, and too early for beer,” he continued. “Would you like some?”

“Beer, or tea?” Gemma asked, teasing. She thought he looked exhausted. “No, thanks, really. I’ve just had a liter or two of industrial-strength brew at the hospital.”

“How’s your mum?”

“Better. They’re sending her home tomorrow. She’s rather proud of her chemo port—calling herself a bionic woman and showing it off to all and sundry.” She didn’t say that Vi had looked frighteningly frail. Settling more comfortably on the step, she watched the children. Holly’s playmate was a dark-skinned little boy, perhaps a year or two younger, and Holly was giving him intricate instructions that Gemma couldn’t quite hear. “She’s quite the little martinet, isn’t she?”

“Dictator in the making,” Tim agreed with a chuckle, then sobered. “She does have a soft spot beneath all the bossiness, though. Hearing that Charlotte’s dad died upset her, and she’s taking being separated from Hazel very hard.”

Gemma hated to let go of the few minutes of peaceful reprieve, but now that Tim had brought it up, there was no putting it off. “Tim. About Naz. We’ve had the toxicology report. They found very high levels of Valium and a veterinary tranquilizer called ketamine. He—”

“But that’s not possible.” Tim smacked the mug down with a scrape of porcelain against concrete that made Gemma wince. “I’ve told you—Naz wouldn’t touch—”

“They’re not saying he did.” Gemma touched Tim’s knee in reassurance. “The pathologist thinks someone else dosed him.”

“But how—”

“We don’t know. Tim, did Naz ever talk about Sandra’s brothers being involved with drugs?”

“Sandra’s brothers? Could they have done this?” At the sound of
her father’s raised voice, Holly looked over from next door, her small face creased in a frown.

“Daddy?” she called, dropping the plastic spade she’d been using as a stick horse and coming towards them.

“It’s all right, love.” Tim took a deep breath and waved her away. “You play with Sami while I talk to Auntie Gemma for a bit longer.”

Holly went back to her playmate obediently, but cast worried glances their way. With the muting of the children’s voices, Gemma noticed how quiet it was in the street. A car swished by in the next road; somewhere a small dog yipped, but even those sounds seemed faded. No birds sang. The evening itself seemed drugged with heat haze, and it was hard to imagine the things that had happened to Naz Malik on an equally tranquil Saturday night.

“Do you think Naz would have gone somewhere with them?” she asked Tim.

“No. Not unless—not unless it had to do with Sandra. But they were cleared of having anything to do with Sandra’s disappearance.”

“So they were,” Gemma mused. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean they didn’t know anything about it. Tim, are you sure that Naz didn’t tell you anything else? I know he was your friend, and I know you don’t want anyone to think badly of him, or of Sandra, but—”

“No.” Tim’s whisper had the force of a shout. “I’ve been racking my brain. We just talked about, I don’t know, ordinary things. Our childhoods. University. Kids. Naz said”—Tim looked away—“Naz said he didn’t know what he would do if he were separated from Charlotte.”

Suddenly, Gemma saw what Hazel had seen so clearly. Tim had needed a confidant as badly as Naz. Someone to sympathize, someone who understood what it was like to have the foundations of your life snatched away.

She asked, knowing she had no right, “Tim, did you tell Naz about Hazel?”

“Of course not,” he said, too quickly. “Well, just that we were
separated, obviously, but nothing more.” He picked up his cup again, staring at the dregs of tea as he swirled them, then looked up at her. “Gemma, I’m worried about Hazel. I’ve been ringing since she left here yesterday. She won’t pick up and she won’t return my calls. She only has a mobile, so she should have it with her.” He wrapped his arms round his knees, dangling the mug by its handle. It made him look like a gangly, overgrown boy. “I know if I showed up at her place, she’d be furious—she hasn’t even invited me inside when I’ve dropped Holly off.”

A cooling feather of air touched Gemma’s cheek. The wind was shifting, a milky scum of cloud creeping over the sun. She glanced at her watch—it had gone six, and she was suddenly anxious to be home, although she had spoken to Kit and Toby on her way to Islington. She felt an irrational need to have everyone she loved corralled, like errant ducklings, and she wanted to talk to Duncan. He hadn’t rung her since they’d parted at Alia’s.

“I wouldn’t worry,” she told Tim. “But I’ll ring her, and I’ll tell her to ring you.” Although their friendship had never been physically demonstrative, she leaned over and kissed Tim’s bearded cheek, then stood. “Or else.”

She’d meant to wait to ring Hazel until she reached the house, but the image of Hazel as she’d been on Sunday, gaunt, unwashed, brittle with rage, unnerved her and she couldn’t focus on her driving. Pulling off the Caledonian Road, she stopped the car in a quiet street near the canal.

Although she’d told Tim not to worry, she hadn’t reassured herself. Why hadn’t she called to make sure Hazel was all right? What sort of friend was she?

The thought of Sandra Gilles and Naz Malik leapt unbidden into her mind—the specter of meetings not kept and phones not answered, of things gone terribly wrong.

Switching off the Escort’s engine, she took her phone from her bag and punched in Hazel’s number. A gull cried out over the canal, and as the signal connected, she felt the rumble of trains from nearby Kings Cross, a bone-deep counterpoint to the shrill and persistent ringing of Hazel’s phone.

It was an anomaly among the terraced Georgian houses—a high wall, covered with creeping vines and flowers, secured by a heavy wooden gate. Beyond the terrace, the spire of Christ Church seemed to brood over the street, as if reminding its mortal inhabitants not to take life too lightly. A man in skullcap and
salwar kameez
hurried past, not raising his eyes to theirs.

Weller pushed the ornate brass bell set into the wall, and from
within the compound they heard an answering chime. “Welcome to the seraglio,” Kincaid murmured.

“Closer than you might think,” Weller replied.

The gate opened a crack and a young Asian woman peered out. She took in their suits with a frightened glance, then started to close the gate again, whispering, “Not home. Not home,” but Weller wedged his shoulder in the gap.

“Oh, I think he is home. Tell Mr. Azad that Inspector Weller is here to see him.”

She flinched away from him, giving Weller the advantage, but didn’t loosen her grip on the gate. “No, Mr. Azad not home,” she insisted, but she looked more terrified than stubborn.

Kincaid saw that the gate opened onto a courtyard filled with tubs of plants anchored by an ornate three-tiered fountain. Water burbled over the lips of the fountain bowls, and he caught the scent of hot cooking oil and spices. It seemed Ahmed Azad had his bit of paradise, indeed.

Before the tableau at the gate turned into a shoving match, a man’s voice said, “Leave it, Maha.” The gate swung wide, revealing a short, plump man with a wide face and thinning dark hair, the long strands of which were carefully combed over his bald spot.

The young woman pulled her head scarf a little tighter and hurried back towards the house, but her steps were hampered by her sari.

“To what do we owe the honor, Inspector Weller,” said their host. Azad’s English was formal and only faintly accented, and he wore Western dress, a crisp white short-sleeved shirt loose over tan trousers.

“We’d just like a word, Mr. Azad, if we could come in. It’s about Naz Malik.”

“Ah. I have heard the sad news about Nasir Malik. Tragic.” Azad’s eyes narrowed, as if he were considering. “Come into the courtyard, then, where we will not disturb my family.”

As they passed through the gate, Kincaid saw that wooden benches were set among the potted plants. Beyond the garden stood the house, a square, stucco structure painted a soft pink and sporting several arched doorways. Kincaid caught a glimpse of movement inside, a flash of color, and heard the murmur of voices not quite masked by the splash of the fountain.

Near the fountain, a pair of benches faced each other. Azad took one, Weller and Kincaid the other, leaving Cullen in the awkward position of having to choose between sitting next to Azad, or standing. He chose the latter, stepping back a little way and looking usefully idle.

Azad studied Kincaid with dark, intelligent eyes. “And your friends, Inspector Weller?”

“Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen.” Weller made no mention of Scotland Yard, but Kincaid thought he saw a flicker of calculation in Azad’s gaze at the mention of his rank.

“A superintendent,” said Azad with evident approval. “It is very fitting that Nasir Malik should have a superintendent to investigate this crime, you know. This is a lawless country, Mr. Kincaid. Such a thing would never have happened in Bangladesh.”

“What exactly do you think happened to Naz Malik, Mr. Azad?” Kincaid asked, knowing that the cause of death was still speculative even within the investigating team.

But Azad said smoothly, “He was found dead in the park. I assumed he was set on by youths. These young people have no respect, and some of them, I am sorry to say, are Bangladeshi.” He shook his head with the regretful exasperation suited to a fond uncle. “Nasir was a good man, in spite of the questionable wisdom of some of his choices.”

Weller cocked his head like a large, rumpled bird. “Choices?”

Azad shrugged. “I mean no offense, Inspector, but Nasir married a white woman. Marriage is difficult enough without racial and cultural differences.”

“Malik spent most of his life here,” said Weller. “He seemed very English to me.”

“Did you know Sandra Gilles, Mr. Azad?” asked Kincaid.

“Of course I knew Sandra. Everyone in and around Brick Lane knew Sandra. She often stopped into my restaurant.”

“You didn’t like her?”

Azad looked irritated. “I said nothing about liking, Mr. Kincaid. It was simply a matter of what is appropriate. And she brought shame on Nasir.”

“Shame? How?”

“A man must be able to keep a wife, Mr. Kincaid.”

“So you think Sandra Gilles left Naz voluntarily, Mr. Azad?”

Azad shrugged again, less patiently. “It seems that is the most likely thing to have happened.”

“Why is that, when you immediately assumed that Naz had been killed by a gang?”

“Because you have found poor Nasir, but not Sandra,” Azad said, as if his logic were irrefutable.

“Perhaps she went to the same place as your nephew—or was it great-nephew?” suggested Weller, lazily.

The pouches of flesh under Azad’s eyes tightened, and although he didn’t move, there was a sudden tension in his posture. “This has been very pleasant, Mr. Weller, but if you are going to discuss my personal business, I’d think I’d prefer that my lawyer be present.”

“That would be Miss Phillips, then?” said Weller. “It must be rather inconvenient for you, losing one of your lawyers just as your case is coming to trial. And I can’t help but wonder,” he added, “how comfortable you feel with a woman as your sole representative.”

Smiling, Azad stood. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your condolences on the loss of my friend. If you will ring Ms. Phillips in the morning, I’m sure we can agree on a mutually convenient time to continue our discussion. Now, let me show you out.”

Having decided that she would go home and check on the boys before deciding what to do next about Hazel, Gemma walked into a quiet house redolent of the smell of baking.

Neither boys nor dogs came to greet her. There was no blare of the telly, no murmur of voices. There was, however, she realized as she stood and listened, a soft clanking of dishes coming from the kitchen.

“Anybody home?” she called, setting her bag on the hall bench.

“In here,” replied a familiar voice. Wesley Howard came out of the kitchen, holding a blue pottery bowl in the crook of one arm and a spatula in his other hand. He had a streak of something white across his nose, and a broad smile on his face.

Wesley, Betty Howard’s youngest child and only son, acted as part-time nanny to the boys, and Gemma had felt a special connection with the young man since the day she’d met him.

“Wes,” said Gemma, delighted. “What are you doing here? I thought you had to work tonight. And where is everyone?”

“The boys are walking the dogs. Toby and the mutts were bouncing off the walls—it was like Arsenal versus Man United in here. And I’m borrowing your oven.” Wesley put the spatula in the bowl and wiped his fingers on the tea towel tucked into the waist of his jeans. He wore an orange T-shirt emblazoned with the words
PEACE, LOVE, AND REGGAE
, and had tied his dreadlocks back with a royal blue bandanna. Like his mother, he embraced color. “Tuesday is our slow night at the café,” he added. “I don’t have to be in for a while yet.”

“What are you making? It smells heavenly.” Gemma sniffed again, following him as he headed back into the kitchen. She had a sudden worried thought about Charlotte. “Tell me the cooker in your flat hasn’t gone out.”

“No, just didn’t want to heat the place up any more. You know how small the kitchen is, and it was already stifling.”

Gemma took in the empty layer pans scattered across the work top. On the kitchen table, a large plate held a beautiful cake, half iced.

“And I thought Kit and Toby might like to help with the cake,” Wes continued. “It be verra good strawberry,” he added for emphasis, making Gemma laugh. She’d learned early on that Wes was a chameleon—he turned the West Indian accent on to suit, and usually as camouflage when he didn’t feel comfortable with someone. “You’ve missed your calling, Wes. You should be an actor.”

“I think we’ll save the stage for Toby.” Wes danced a little fencing step, using the spatula as a rapier.

Gemma raised her hands in mock horror. “Oh, no, please don’t encourage him. He’s bad enough already.”

Wesley returned the spatula to the bowl, scooping out more icing and smoothing it carefully onto the top layer of the cake. “I’ll tell him pirates didn’t have cake. Especially not cake with cream cheese icing and pureed fresh strawberries in the batter.”

Sid, their black cat, jumped up on the table and eyed the cake, his whiskers quivering. “No, you don’t, you bad cat. You know you’re not supposed to be on the table,” scolded Gemma. She scooped him up gently, however, and set him on the floor, pausing to rub his head. “So what’s this all about?” she asked Wes, teasing. “Is there a new girlfriend?”

“You might say that.” Wesley dolloped more icing on the top of the cake. “Her name is Charlotte,” he added, grinning. “I brought home a slice of Otto’s best chocolate gâteau from the café last night, but she wouldn’t eat it. So I thought I’d try something different.”

“Oh, Wes.” Gemma sank down in one of the kitchen chairs, feeling a rush of gratitude. “I knew you’d spoil her.”

“You mean you were hoping I’d spoil her.”

“I was counting on it.” She smiled. “How’s she doing today? Will she talk to you?”

“Not much, yet, but I’ll keep trying. Maybe strawberry cake will do the trick. Mum got out some of the girls’ old toys this morning, but she doesn’t seem much interested in anything but Mum’s sewing. She’s a natural for the camera, though—not the least bit self-conscious.”

“I think her mother took a lot of photographs.”

“That would explain it, then.” Wesley finished smoothing on the last of the icing. Reaching for a bowl of carefully sliced strawberries, he began to make a border round the top of the cake.

“I’ll check on her,” said Gemma. “But first I have to go to Battersea to see Hazel.”

Wesley gave her a puzzled glance. “But isn’t Hazel coming for tea? I’ve got out the best teapot and mugs.” He gestured towards a tray on the work top, where he had placed Gemma’s treasured Clarice Cliff teapot and cups. “I thought I’d have the cake iced by the time she got here. The two of you can have some with the boys, then I can take the rest home for Mum and Charlotte.”

Gemma stared at him, equally perplexed. “Wes, why would you think Hazel was coming for tea? I’ve been ringing her for an hour with no answer, and Tim hasn’t been able to get her for two days. I’m worried about her.”

Frowning, Wesley said, “But she was at my mum’s when I left. I just assumed she was coming here afterwards.”

“Your mum’s?” Gemma felt even more confused. “Why was Hazel at your mum’s?”

Wesley looked at her as if she’d missed the nose on her face. “She came to see Charlotte, of course.”

“Well, that’s put the wind up him,” Cullen said as Azad’s gate clicked shut behind them. He cast a disapproving glance at Neal Weller.

“That’s simply marked your position on the board,” Weller shot back. “Don’t think you could have put anything over on Azad. The question is whether he knows more than he’s told us.”

“And do you think he does?” Kincaid asked as they moved away, heading back towards Commercial Street.

“Azad prefers to be cooperative as long as it doesn’t interfere with his interests, and he didn’t get prickly until I mentioned the missing nephew.” Weller stopped at the corner. “And that surprised me, to tell the truth. I wasn’t expecting a reaction to the dig—he’s usually too cool for that. Maybe Malik’s death has him worried about his prospects in court.”

“Will he stay with Louise Phillips?” Kincaid asked.

They had stopped by the ancient horse trough in front of Christ Church. The pedestrian traffic flowed around them as if they were three suited boulders in a stream, while Weller scratched at the stubble on his chin, considering his response. “He’s not the sort to appreciate women in their professional capacity,” he said after a moment. “But at this point, I don’t think he has much choice, and I suspect that’s making him unhappy.”

“According to Louise Phillips, Naz was getting cold feet about Azad’s case,” Kincaid said. “Maybe Azad was afraid Naz would complicate things. He was certainly ready to lay blame for Naz’s death.”

“Laying blame and being responsible are two entirely different things.”

“You almost sound as if you like him,” said Cullen.

“No law against it.” Weller shrugged and looked at his watch. “I’m off. I’ll see you two hearties bright and early at the station. Thanks for the drinks.” He raised a hand in salute and turned into the crowd.

“Cheeky bastard,” muttered Cullen. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“We’re on his patch, Doug,” Kincaid said. “He knows the currents and undertows—he can read things we’d miss altogether. We need him.” He gave a shrug as expressive as Weller’s. “At least for the moment. I suspect that Ahmed Azad isn’t the only one who knows more than he’s telling.”

“You think Weller’s involved in this somehow?”

“No. Why would he have called us in if he was?” Kincaid shook his head. “But there’s something…I just haven’t quite put my finger on it yet.” He looked round. Shops were closing, passersby carried bags of shopping, and the front of the church had begun to take on a faint gold glow in the western sun. “I’ve got to go, as well. I’m going to stop in at Naz Malik’s house.”

“I’ll come with you,” offered Doug.

“No, you go on, Doug. I won’t stay long. And you should have a look at some more flat adverts.” He clapped his sergeant on the shoulder. “I don’t want you to lose your momentum.”

Fournier Street was a canyon of shadow. The chimney pots looked starkly uniform in the flat light, marching across the tops of the terraces like rigid orange soldiers. Kincaid found the house easily in the short row. There was no crime scene van in the street, and when he tried the door, it was locked. He took out the copied key Sergeant Singh had given him before he left Bethnal Green, unlocked the door, and stepped in.