Necessary as Blood (17 page)

“It’s a small return to the community.” Alexander glanced at his watch, then gave them a perfunctory smile. “Sorry. A business appointment. If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded, then left them to join a cluster of men at the bar.

Ritchie turned towards the lift and handed Kincaid a business card. “If there’s anything else I can do, Superintendent, you know where to find me.”

“There is one more thing, Mr. Ritchie,” Kincaid said. “We’ll need to know your whereabouts last Saturday.”

“A bit full of himself, don’t you think?” said Cullen as they stepped out into Widegate Street. “Conceited git. Just assumes that every woman is gaga over him.”

“Maybe they are.” Kincaid grinned. “Seems like a good-looking bloke, but we might want to get a female opinion. What I think is more interesting is his address.” He touched the card in his breast pocket. With some reluctance, Ritchie had scribbled an address and phone number on the back.

“I was at my parents Saturday afternoon and evening. It’s a slow day for the club, and there was a birthday party for my niece,” he’d told them.

“St. John’s Wood,” Kincaid said thoughtfully as they walked back towards Liverpool Street. “If he comes from that sort of background, why the neutral accent?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to scare off working-class boys who made good. But you can still tell he’s public school.”

“How?” Kincaid asked, looking curiously at Cullen.

Cullen shrugged. “I don’t really know. You just can.”

“Makes you wonder about his ‘contacts in the City’ who were so willing to funnel money into the club, doesn’t it?” Kincaid mused. “Old schoolmates? Friends of his parents?”

“He will be connected,” agreed Cullen. “Whether he likes it or not. And he has a bloody suntan,” he added darkly, as if that were the worst imaginable offense.

“Maybe he jogs, or rows, or plays tennis. It is August, after all,” Kincaid said with a grin. “
You
might even have a suntan if you ever got out of your flat. How’s the flat hunting going, by the way?”

“Not.” Cullen sounded discouraged.

“Well, if nothing major breaks, maybe you could take off a bit early this afternoon. But first, check out Ritchie’s alibi, and see if you can track down the not-missing girl. Kylie Watters.”

Melanie’s pretty mouth had turned down in distaste when they’d asked her about her former flatmate. “I don’t know where she is,” she’d told them. “And her mobile’s disconnected. I tried to ring her last week because she still owes me money on the rent. She was always late and coming up with excuses for it.”

“You don’t have another address or number for her?” Kincaid had asked.

“No. We weren’t really friends. It was just a convenient arrangement. And then she made a fool of herself with Lucas and made us all look bad. Silly cow.”

With a little more coaxing, she’d given them the defunct mobile number, said that she thought Kylie came from Essex, and had of
fered a description. “Mousy. And a bit chubby. I can’t imagine why Lucas hired her” had been her final, damning pronouncement.

They crossed Bishopsgate and Kincaid paused as they reached the escalators that led down into Liverpool Street Station, turning to Cullen. “Oh, and any luck with Azad’s missing nephew, by the way? We seem to be accumulating missing persons at an alarming rate.”

Gemma walked back towards Old Street, more slowly this time. She was beginning to wish she’d worn more sensible shoes. Given the continuing hot spell, strappy sandals had seemed the right choice that morning, but now she had a blister starting.

She slowed a little more, favoring her foot and thinking about her conversation with Roy Blakely as she walked. She’d given him Janice Silverman’s number and he’d said he would ring her. But when she’d asked if he would appear in family court, he’d hesitated, saying, “Of course I want what’s best for Charlotte…but I’ve known the family most of my life. And I’ve nothing specific to say, other than that Gail hasn’t done that great a job with her own kids, and that’s just my opinion.”

“Well, have a word with Janice. That’s a start,” Gemma had said, sensing she couldn’t push him further at the moment, and with that she’d had to be content.

But she had a clearer picture of what had happened the day Sandra disappeared, and she was more convinced than ever that Sandra had not gone voluntarily. And she was curious about this woman called Pippa Nightingale who Roy had mentioned.

She stopped and checked her A to Zed. Rivington Street ran parallel to Old Street, and she was almost within a stone’s throw. She would check in with work, and then she could just pop in Pippa Nightingale’s gallery for a quick word.

Not knowing the exact address, she started at the bottom end of
the street and walked up, searching for the name. Rivington Street had that air of slightly shabby trendiness she was coming to associate with the East End. There were clubs and clothing boutiques, a health clinic, offices, and galleries. Too many galleries—she reached the top end of the street, anchored by the friendly looking Rivington Grill, without finding the gallery she wanted. Starting back the other way, she looked more closely. Halfway down the street, she was rewarded by the sight of very discreet lettering announcing the
NIGHTINGALE GALLERY
, beside a plain facade and an anonymous-looking door.

Gemma studied the building, then pushed the buzzer. When the door latch clicked, she went in. She found herself in a small vestibule with a staircase. There was nowhere to go but up.

As she climbed, she saw that tiny jewel-like paintings hung on the stairwell walls. The works were abstract, with layers of line and color that created such depth she had an odd sensation of vertigo. But it was the handwritten prices on the cards mounted beside the paintings that made her gasp. Lovely, but certainly beyond her reach.

When she reached the first floor, the space opened out into a long, narrow gallery. The walls were painted a stark white, the floor was unvarnished planks, and light poured in from a large window at the front. Only half a dozen works hung on the walls. Gemma wasn’t sure if she should call them paintings, for they were monochrome, except each picture had one splash of brilliant scarlet pigment.

She moved closer, fascinated. The meticulously rendered drawings made her think of the Hans Christian Andersen tales she’d been reading Toby. There was a magical, foreboding feeling to them, a sense of deep woods and snow. Female figures morphed into wolves, male figures into stags, and half-formed creatures peered from crags and branches. The red was visceral, shocking. As were the prices, again.

Gemma stepped back and looked round. The space seemed cav
ernously empty, but there was a door at the back of the room. She walked towards it, calling out, “Anyone here?”

A woman stepped out, and Gemma had the impression that one of the drawings on the wall had come to life. Waif slender, the woman was dressed in black, but her skin and hair were ice pale. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was on the phone. Can I help you?” Her voice was polished and surprisingly husky.

“Are you Pippa Nightingale?” asked Gemma. As she moved closer, she saw that the woman’s eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.

“Yes.” Now she sounded slightly wary. “Did someone send you?”

“Not exactly.” Gemma gave her a condensed version of her explanation to Roy Blakely, finishing with “Roy said you and Sandra had known each other for a long time, and that you represented Sandra’s work. So I wondered if you could tell me anything more about Sandra’s relationship with her family.”

Pippa Nightingale’s eyes filled, and she clutched at the skirt of her black jersey dress. “I can’t believe Naz is dead,” she whispered.

There were no chairs in the gallery area. Spying two chrome-and-black-plastic models in the office, Gemma guided Pippa inside, saying, “Here, sit down, why don’t you?” Pippa sank into one of the chairs, the backs of her fingers pressed against her upper lip. “Can I get you some tea or something?” Gemma asked.

Pippa took a shaky breath. “There’s a kettle on the worktable, and some teabags.” She nodded towards the back of the room. Unlike the gallery space, the office was cluttered—it looked as if every bit of detritus that might have sullied the pristine display space had been sucked into this room. Paper spilled from desk and worktable; file folders lay open, disgorging their contents in cascades; stacks of stapled exhibition brochures teetered precariously near edges.

Gemma found the sleek stainless-steel kettle, some obviously hand-thrown pottery mugs, and a box of PG tips. The kettle had water in it, so she flipped the switch and it boiled quickly. She didn’t see milk or sugar, so poured water over the teabags, then stirred the
cups for a moment with a used and bent spoon she’d found beside the kettle. She fished out the teabags, tossed them into an overflowing rubbish bin, then carried them round the desk. She cleared a spot for Pippa’s cup, then sat in the other chair, holding her own.

“Thanks.” Pippa’s voice had recovered some of its huskiness. She lowered her hand, taking the pottery cup gingerly by the rim and handle. “Sorry the place is a tip. I haven’t been keeping up with things very well lately. And this…” Her eyes started to tear again and she shook her head.

“You knew Naz, then?” Gemma asked.

“Of course I knew Naz. Sandra and I were friends before they married. It’s not that Naz and I were ever all that close—I think Naz resented my influence on Sandra, and vice versa, I’m sorry to say—but I—” She stopped to sip at the still-steaming tea. “It’s just that—I can’t believe he’s dead. Now I don’t think Sandra will ever come back.” This time the tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.

“You thought Sandra would come home?” asked Gemma, surprised. She realized it was the first time anyone she’d talked to had genuinely seemed to believe it.

“I know it’s stupid, but yes. Somehow I thought she would just walk back into her life one day. But with Naz gone, I can’t imagine Sandra coming back.”

“What about Charlotte?” Gemma felt immediately incensed on Charlotte’s behalf.

“Oh, I don’t mean she didn’t love Charlotte. She adored her. But long before Charlotte was born, Naz and the house were her lodestones, the things that mattered most to her—even more than her work.” This was said with the faintest of frowns on her unlined, almost translucent face.

“Should her work have mattered more?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Some of Pippa’s initial wariness seemed to have returned. “I’m still not quite sure why you wanted to talk to me. I never met any of Sandra’s family.”

“Roy Blakely said you and Sandra hadn’t been as close lately, and that you weren’t representing her work any longer.”

“Sandra told him that?” Pippa stared at her, and Gemma found her pale eyes disconcerting. “It wasn’t that simple. Sandra and I had…a difference of opinion…over the direction her career was taking. I thought she was accepting too many commissions. She should have sold only through exhibitions and galleries—that’s how you build a reputation.” She gestured towards the gallery space. “I have two artists here now who may win major prizes. You won’t find them selling paintings to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who wants something pretty for his sitting room.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“It is if you want to be taken seriously. And it is a business, make no mistake. Sandra thought art was meant to be seen, and that it was up to the viewer to decide the meaning of a piece.” From Pippa’s tone, Sandra might as well have insisted that the world was flat. “That silliness I could have dealt with by careful marketing, building a mystique,” Pippa went on, “but I could only do that by representing her exclusively.” She drank more of her tea, although Gemma still found it too hot to touch.

“But Sandra wouldn’t agree to that?” she said, as neutrally as she could manage.

“No. Sandra could be infuriatingly stubborn. So I told her in that case I couldn’t represent her at all, thinking it would change her mind. But it didn’t. And there we were.” Pippa hunched over her mug, pushing back the curtain of her long, flaxen hair as it fell over her face. The color, Gemma saw, went all the way to the roots, and at the parting her scalp was pink. “I never meant it to go on,” Pippa said. “It wasn’t worth losing a friendship. And now I can’t take it back.”

“I’m sorry,” Gemma said. “That must be hard. But we don’t know for certain what happened to Sandra.”

“No. But I can’t imagine…and I can’t bear to think of her learning Naz was dead. Do you—I know you said you weren’t officially
with the police—but do you know what happened? How—how Naz was killed?”

Knowing that no information about the drugs in Naz’s system had been released, Gemma couldn’t enlighten her, although she wondered what Pippa Nightingale’s reaction would be. Instead, she said, “Pippa, when I came in, you already knew about Naz’s death. Who told you?”

Pippa Nightingale looked up, her delicate eyebrows raised, and Gemma had to resist the urge to look away from those strange eyes.

“Why, Lucas of course,” she said.

Ahmed Azad must have more relatives than most people had acquaintances, Cullen thought as he sat wearily back from the computer screen at his desk.

According to the immigration records Cullen had accessed, Azad had already sponsored nieces, nephews, great-nieces and-nephews, cousins, and a few second cousins thrown in for good measure. Mohammed Rahman, the missing great-nephew, was only the latest ripple in a years’ long flood. And young Mohammed had been working at his uncle’s restaurant, living in his uncle’s house, reporting regularly to his contact with the prosecution—and then he was not. Mohammed Rahman’s blip had simply disappeared from the radar screen.

Cullen had tried every database he could think of, including missing persons and John Does. Mohammed’s friends and acquaintances had been questioned by Immigration, but Cullen would have to institute another go-round.

Nor had he had much better luck with Lucas Ritchie’s former employee Kylie Watters. There had been no activity on her national insurance number, so she wasn’t drawing benefits, and if she was working, it was off the record. The mobile number Melanie had given them was indeed out of service, having been canceled for nonpayment a few days after she had moved out of Melanie’s flat.