Necessary as Blood (25 page)

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,” Hazel 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.”

“Oh, no. My phone.” Gemma remembered tossing it onto the seat before she went into Betty’s, and that was the last time she’d thought of it. Had it fallen onto the floor of the car and turned itself off? “I think I might have lost it.”

“You think?” He frowned at her. “What do you mean, you think? Either you lost it or you didn’t.”

“I can’t…remember.” The room wavered. She sank down onto the hall bench, knocking the dogs’ leads to the floor. “I—I don’t feel very well. My head’s gone all fuzzy.”

“Gemma?”

At least that was what she thought he said. His lips moved, but a buzzing sound rose like a wave, drowning the sound of his voice. Then his face receded to the end of a white tunnel and blinked out.

The next thing Gemma knew, Duncan was stroking her cheek and saying her name, urgently. Then he turned his head and shouted for Kit and Toby.

She winced. “Ouch. Don’t shout. It hurts my head.”

“Gemma, are you okay? What happened there?” His face was inches away, his eyes intent.

“Just a bit dizzy,” she mumbled. “I’m all right.” She liked his hand on her face. It felt warm, and she pressed her cheek against it, closing her eyes against the light. But he tightened his grasp, using his other hand to turn her head.

“Open your eyes, Gemma. Look at me,” he said sharply.

“The light makes my head hurt,” she protested, but complied.

“Your pupils aren’t normal.” He sounded as if he was angry with her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

The boys came thundering down the stairs, the dogs at their heels, barking excitedly at the commotion. The noise made Gemma’s head feel like it was going to split open. She covered her ears, so that when Duncan spoke, his voice came through fuzzily.

“I’m taking your mum to hospital. Kit, I want you to look after Toby until we get back. I’ll ring you.”

“I don’t want to go to hospital,” said Gemma, pushing Duncan’s hands away. “I hate that place.”

“No argument.” He slipped an arm round her waist and lifted her, and she found that in spite of her resistance, she needed the support.

“I’ll start the car.” Kit scooped the keys off the floor, where Gemma must have dropped them. She caught a flash of his face, white and frightened, as he went out the door.

“Kit, I’m fine,” she tried to say, but it came out a thread of sound, and as Duncan started to walk her towards the door, the world began to go white and fuzzy again.

After that, she let Duncan fold her gently into the car, but she managed a smile at Kit as they drove away.

Then it was a blur of glass doors and gurneys and long, ugly corridors. Duncan stayed with her, holding her hand. At last they were through with scans and exams, and a young, female doctor came into the curtained cubicle to speak to them.

“The bad news is that you do have a concussion, Mrs. James,” she said, and Gemma didn’t correct her on the name or the marital state. “The good news is that there’s no sign of subdural hematoma,” the doctor went on. “But you should have come in sooner. Head injuries can be quite dangerous. Now, you’re going to need to stay quiet for three or four days”—she must have seen Gemma start to protest because she said more firmly—“and that means bed rest. We
don’t want to see you back here. We’ll give you something for the headache that will help the pain and reduce the swelling as well.”

“But I can’t—”

“I’ll see that she stays in bed.” Duncan’s tone brooked no argument. He took down the doctor’s final instructions, then rang Kit as she was being checked out.

Gemma made one last feeble attempt at resistance when he brought a wheelchair. “I don’t need—”

“Hospital rules. It’s the only way you’re getting out of here.”

She shuddered and let him help her into the wheelchair and then into the car. When he had climbed in beside her, she said, “I hate that place,” and was mortified to find that her voice was shaky. “And I’m sorry you’re angry with me.”

He turned to look at her in surprise. “Angry with you? Don’t be daft, Gemma. It’s myself I’m angry with. I should never have let you go round with that lump on your head without having it checked out. You have an excuse because you weren’t thinking clearly. I have none but stupidity. And believe me”—he gave her a dark look—“I’m going to make sure you do what the doctor said.”

“But I promised I’d take the boys to see Mum tomorrow—”

“I’ll take them, as long as you get someone to come and stay with you. Maybe Hazel or Melody. Or Betty.” His voice had softened, and she saw the glint of a smile. “Otherwise”—he paused while he eased the car out into Ladbroke Grove—“you’ll be running laps.”

“Hazel’s working. I’ll ring Melody.” She’d said it so quickly that Duncan gave her a suspicious glance. Gemma settled back in her seat, deciding she’d just have to make the call when he’d left her alone. Fuzzy headed she might be, but she wasn’t about to tell him she had an ulterior motive. Not yet.

Melody arrived about ten on Sunday morning. Earlier, Gemma had got up, made the bed, put on shorts and a T-shirt, then been ordered
back to bed by Duncan. She’d compromised by staying dressed and propping herself up on the bed with just a throw for a cover. To tell the truth, she didn’t feel up to much, and had dozed off again when she heard the bell and voices in the hall.

Duncan called out, “Melody’s here, and we’re off,” and a few moments later Melody came into the bedroom.

“Wow,” she said. “This is lovely,” and Gemma realized Melody had never been upstairs. Nor did she ever remember seeing Melody in anything as casual as the jeans and cotton print top she wore today, with her dark hair tousled and her cheeks pink from heat and sun. Even when Melody had come to their dinner party in the spring, she’d worn a white silk blouse and black trousers, an outfit that had seemed an extension of her uniformlike work clothes.

“It is, isn’t it?” Gemma agreed. “I suppose there are worse places to be confined.” She nodded towards the slipper chair in the corner. “Sit, please.” Suddenly, she felt a little awkward in such intimate circumstances with this unleashed Melody who seemed so different from the woman she had thought she’d known.

But Melody pulled the slipper chair closer to the bed and perched on it, showing no hint of discomfort. “Columbia Road was brilliant,” she said. “I want a garden. Or at least a patio or a balcony with room to plant things.”

“But surely you’ve had a garden.” Gemma, whose only previous experience with a garden had been a scraggly square of lawn at the house she’d owned in Leyton with her ex-husband, Rob, tended the terrace and patio garden of the Notting Hill house with much trepidation, and with considerable help from Duncan and boys.

“I grew up in a Kensington town house. With topiaries. My grandparents—my mum’s parents—have a very formal garden in Buckinghamshire, strictly the province of the gardener, and my nan, my dad’s mum, still lives in her council flat in Newcastle. She refused to move, no matter how much Dad bullied her.” Melody grinned. “I always wanted to be like her when I grew up.”

The words seemed to spill from Melody, and Gemma wondered how long it had been since she had really talked to anyone.

“I want a riotous garden,” Melody added with a grin, “and now I know where to get things. I just have to figure out the how to manage the garden bit. And I apologize”—the smile faded—“for never having had you round, when you’ve been so kind to me, but there’s not much to see in my flat.”

“Well, I’ll come whenever you like. But in the meantime, tell me about Roy. Did you speak to him?”

“Yes. He was a bit leery at first, but when I assured him I knew you, and I told him that Sandra’s brothers were responsible for the attack on Azad’s restaurant, he was furious.

“He said Sandra didn’t tell him that she knew what they’d done, but he thinks it was the Sunday a week before she disappeared that he saw bruises on her arms.”

Gemma sat up so fast it made her head pound. “Bruises? And he didn’t tell me?”

“I’ve checked the dates. That would have been a week after the firebombing of Azad’s restaurant. I’d guess either they bragged to her or she heard it from someone else and confronted them.”

“Bloody hell,” said Gemma, sinking back into the pillows. “That gives them a second motive for wanting Sandra out of the way. Maybe she threatened to shop them for that, instead of the drugs. Or as well as the drugs.”

“Are you going to tell Duncan?”

Gemma rubbed her head. “I don’t know. He’ll be livid, but his hands are tied as far as the Gilles brothers are concerned. I don’t think he could pull them in, even if he had hard evidence.” She could see that Melody wanted to ask more, but she didn’t.

Instead, she said, “Well, you’d better tell him, nonetheless.”

“He won’t be best pleased with me either, but I suppose you’re right.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Melody reached for her handbag and
pulled out a small bakery box. “Roy sent this, for Charlotte. It’s a lemon cupcake from a shop near his stall, called Treacle. He said it was her favorite.”

Melody had excused herself before Duncan and the boys returned from Leyton. “Sunday lunch at my parents’ in Kensington,” she’d said with a grimace. “And my mum is famous for inviting unsuitable blind dates for me to her Sunday soirees.” Her face settled into the expression Gemma had seen on Friday. “We’ll hope she hasn’t asked anyone else today, because I can tell you, it is not going to be pleasant.”

For just a moment, Gemma felt sorry for Ivan Talbot.

When Melody had left, Gemma rang Betty and asked if Charlotte could come for a visit that afternoon, as an old friend had sent a treat for her. “And besides,” she added, “I miss her.”

She then had to explain why she hadn’t come round herself, reluctantly relating the previous day’s trip to hospital and the doctor’s orders to take it easy.

She hadn’t admitted to anyone how much that hospital visit had unsettled her. The memories of pain and loss associated with the last time she had been there were still too close, too shatteringly clear.

“Oh, I blame myself for not making sure you got that head looked at,” said Betty, clucking a bit. “I could tell you were not fee-lin’ yourself yesterday.”

“I’m fine now, Betty, really.”

“Well.” Betty didn’t sound entirely convinced. “I’ll bring the little one round for an early tea, if you’re certain, but only if Duncan and the boys are back to help look after you.”

Kit had insisted on carrying her tea, giving Toby the task of bearing Charlotte’s cupcake, carefully enthroned on a plate. What neither Roy nor Melody had foreseen, however, was that there were now three children and one treat.

“Why don’t we get one?” demanded Toby. “Me and Kit should have a cupcake, too.”

“Kit and
I
,” Gemma corrected automatically. “And the cupcake was a special gift to Charlotte from a friend. You’ve had plenty of treats of your own.”

“Don’t be greedy,” seconded Kit, handing Gemma her mug and settling on the end of the bed.

Charlotte had climbed up next to Gemma. “Wanna share,” she said unexpectedly, and when Toby handed her the plate, she thrust it back.

When Toby reached for the cupcake, Gemma smacked his hand. “Go downstairs and get a knife, then. You’ll divide it properly. And don’t run,” she called after him.

Toby returned, holding a table knife point-down as instructed, and, Kit having declined, the cupcake was ceremoniously divided in two.

“You’re a good girl, Charlotte,” said Gemma. “Toby should take lessons.”

“You eat some, too,” said Charlotte, holding her half up to Gemma, so Gemma cut off a tiny corner and nibbled it, then sipped her tea.

“I feel like the queen, being waited on in bed.”

“The queen never stays in bed.” Toby had dispensed with his half in two bites. “She’s always out with her dogs and waving at people and stuff.”

“I’ll bet someone brings her tea in bed every morning,” said Gemma.

“I wouldn’t want to be queen,” Toby declared. “It would be really boring.”

“Well, there’s not much chance of that, dopey,” Kit told him. “And stop bouncing. You’ll make Gemma’s head hurt.”

“Don’t call your brother names,” Gemma scolded, although she was touched by Kit’s solicitousness.

But Toby was undeterred by Kit’s teasing. “Charlotte could be queen, then, couldn’t she?”

“She could,” Gemma said, snuggling Charlotte a little closer. “But the job is highly overrated. I suspect she could do something much more fun.”

“What’s ‘overrated’ mean?” asked Toby.

Gemma sighed. “Never mind.” It amazed her how quickly she got tired. “Let’s read a story. Something for Charlotte.”

“No. I want pirates,” said Toby.

Kit rolled his eyes. “How about I read
The Count of Monte Cristo?
It has pirates, sort of.” He had discovered an old copy of Duncan’s on the bookshelf. The thin pages were almost translucent, and the smell of mildew that wafted from the book was so strong it made Gemma’s nose itch. But Kit had developed an attachment to it, and Toby loved it, although Gemma doubted he understood much.

“I want the ships, then.”

Kit nipped out and came back with a bounce of enthusiasm that almost equaled Toby’s, book in hand. He curled up again on the foot of the bed and flipped through pages. “Okay. Here’s a bit. ‘Look out there! All ready to drop anchor!’” he intoned, then glanced up at them to make sure he had their attention. Satisfied, he went on. “All hands obeyed. At that moment eight or ten seamen, who composed the crew, sprung some to the mainsheets, other to the braces, others to the ball’”—Kit struggled a bit with the word—“‘the balliards’—”

“What’s a
ball-y-yard?
” piped up Toby.

“I’ve no idea,” said Kit.

Gemma’s eyelids were starting to droop, and the discussion of
sails and jibs passed by her. Charlotte’s head was against her shoulder, and the child was humming to Bob, the plush elephant, and poking his black button eyes with cupcake-sticky fingers.

Then Toby, who had climbed up on the other end of the bed, said, “Who’s Charlotte’s friend?”

Gemma’s eyes flew open. “Which friend?”

“The one who sent her the cupcake.”

“Oh. His name is Roy, and he sells flowers at Columbia Market.”

“Why is he Charlotte’s friend? Could he be my friend, too?”

Sometimes Gemma wondered about the convolutions of Toby’s mind, but did her best to come up with an answer that would satisfy him. “He was Charlotte’s mum’s friend, but I’m sure he’d be your friend if you met him.”

Toby, however, was indefatigable. “Where’s Charlotte’s mum, then?”

Wide awake now, Gemma glanced at Charlotte and said quickly, “Toby, we discussed this—”

Charlotte looked up and said very clearly, “My mummy went away. My daddy went to find her.”

“Did he—Ow!”

Kit had pinched Toby, and now they got into a scuffle. Kit wrestled Toby into an arm hold, still managing to grip the book in his other hand. “I think you need to go downstairs now, sport. I can hear the dogs calling you.”