Necessary as Blood (28 page)

John Truman didn’t bother to get up from behind his desk. A pudgy man, perhaps in his forties, he boasted thinning hair combed artfully over his scalp. He was straightening a stack of files, and his hands seemed unnaturally pale, the fingers sausagelike. His small mouth was pursed in an expression that managed to combine indignation with self-satisfaction.

Gemma found him instantly repellent. She couldn’t imagine turning her dog or cat over to his care, and the thought of a child—

“This is very inconvenient,” Truman said in a high, slightly breathy voice. “I can’t imagine why you want to speak to me.”

Gemma saw Kincaid’s mouth twitch with annoyance. He wasn’t much for standing on rank, but the man’s behavior towards a senior police officer was appallingly rude. “It’s Detective Superintendent Kincaid, Mr. Truman, Scotland Yard. And this is Detective Inspector
James, and Detective Sergeant Cullen. We understand that you knew Sandra Gilles. I believe you own some of her work.”

“Sandra?” Truman looked genuinely shocked. “I have a collage, yes, in my house. They’re very collectible. But what has that to do with you?”

“You do realize that Sandra Gilles has been missing for months?”

“Well, yes, but as you said, it’s been months. I still don’t see—”

“And where did you learn that Sandra was missing, Mr. Truman? Would that have been at the club in Widegate Street?”

Truman stared at him. His fat white fingers moved convulsively. “That’s not—How did you—I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Was it Lucas Ritchie who introduced you to Sandra?” asked Gemma. She sat, uninvited, in the chair in front of Truman’s desk, leaning forward so that she encroached on his personal space as much as possible.

“Well, yes, but there’s nothing wrong with that.” Truman looked incensed. “I still don’t see—”

Kincaid took up the volley. “Where were you Saturday before last, Mr. Truman?”

“Why on earth do you—I was in Spain, if you must know. It
is
August, and the last I heard there was no law against taking a holiday.” Glaring at them, he added, “Are you the ones responsible for hounding Lucas Ritchie? I saw that piece in the newspaper. That sort of thing should be against the law.”

“The newspaper story may have been in questionable taste, but I don’t think it crossed the line into libel,” Kincaid said pleasantly. “And I assure you we’re not hounding anyone. We’re merely doing our job, which is to investigate the disappearance of Sandra Gilles and the murder of her husband, Nasir Malik.”

“Murder?” Truman came close to squeaking.

“Surely you were aware of that? Lucas Ritchie knew, and it seems to have been common knowledge at the club.”

“I haven’t been there much lately,” Truman muttered, apparently losing sight of the fact that he’d been denying any knowledge of the place a moment before. “Maybe I did hear something, but it meant nothing to me. I never met the man.”

“That’s a bit unfeeling of you, considering you knew Sandra.” Hands in his pockets, Kincaid had moved round one side of Truman’s desk, studying the plaques on the walls. Cullen walked to the other side and stood, watching Truman. Kincaid and Cullen had learned, Gemma realized, that instant and silent communication required of partners. She felt a twinge of jealousy, quickly repressed. That was as it should be.

She caught an unpleasant whiff of sweat. They were succeeding, at least, in making Truman uncomfortable.

Kincaid turned from studying the certificates. “Conferences in Brussels, and Bruges, and Lisbon. And you were just in Spain, you say? You must like to travel, Mr. Truman. Have you ever been to Asia? India, perhaps, or Bangladesh?”

“What? No. Why would I want to go there? Those places are hardly civilized.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But some areas are very poor, and people will do desperate things to survive. Things like selling their children, for instance.”

Truman stared at Kincaid. He was sweating visibly now, and had gone slightly blue around the lips. Gemma hoped he wouldn’t keel over from a heart attack or a stroke right in front of them. “I’ve never been to Asia,” he said. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You can check my passport.”

“And the holiday in Spain, two weeks ago? Can you document that?”

“Of course I can.” A bit of Truman’s bluster returned. “I drove. I had my passport stamped getting on and off the ferry.”

He was more comfortable accounting for his movements during the time of Naz’s murder, Gemma thought, than he had been with
the questions about Asia. And Kincaid’s remark about the selling of children had frightened him badly. He definitely knew something dodgy.

Somewhere beneath them, a dog barked. “Mr. Truman.” Gemma smiled at him. “I take it your surgery is downstairs?”

“Yes.” He sounded a little wary, but relieved by the change in direction. “And there is a small boarding facility adjacent to the garden. The garden here is quite large, you know.”

“You must have assistants,” Gemma said, in a tone of sympathetic interest. The man was wearing a suit. Perhaps he traded his jacket for a lab coat, but she couldn’t imagine him dealing personally with anything that might involve contact with blood or bodily fluids.

“Yes. Eric and Anthony. They’re very good.”

“Of course they are, or I’m sure you wouldn’t employ them.”

Truman had relaxed enough to glance at his watch. “And they’ll be waiting for me to start afternoon surgery—”

“Do you use ketamine in your practice, Mr. Truman?” Gemma asked.

He stared at her as if a friendly dog had turned and bitten him. “Ketamine? It’s not uncommon. It’s a useful sedative.” Puffing out his cheeks, he said, “Look, is this about drugs? I’m not stupid. I know ketamine is sold as a street drug, but if you’re accusing me—”

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Kincaid broke in. “But I’m assuming you keep records of use against supply.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you won’t mind if we have a look at them.”

“I certainly would.” Truman had regained his obstinate attitude. “You might as well accuse me of being a common criminal, and I won’t have it.”

“We could get a warrant,” Kincaid said.

“Then I suggest you do it.” Truman stood, and Gemma saw that he was a good deal smaller than he’d looked sitting down. His body seemed oddly proportioned, long in the torso compared to his legs.
Perhaps that was why he’d preferred to face them from behind his desk.

“But you will let us have a look at your passport?”

“I will not.”

Kincaid shook his head. “That’s most uncooperative, Mr. Truman. We have only to check with Immigration.”

“Then I suggest you do that, as well.” Truman crossed his arms, the stance of a man prepared to stand his ground. “And I won’t speak to you again without a solicitor present. This is police bullying.”

“I think you’ll find it’s not,” Kincaid said, with a smile that would have made Gemma quail. “And you do realize, Mr. Truman, that the people who insist on solicitors are most often those who have something to hide.”

“We’ve done nothing more than put the wind up him,” said Cullen when they’d reached Gemma’s car. “And given him a chance to falsify his drug records.”

“If he’s been selling veterinary drugs on the side, I suspect he’ll have done that already,” Kincaid answered. “And the amount given to Naz Malik would likely not be traceable. I thought he might slip and connect the question about the ketamine to Naz’s death, as we’ve never released that information, but he didn’t.”

“Meaning either he didn’t know or he’s very clever,” put in Gemma. “And I’m not sure I buy the very clever.”

“He knew something about the girls,” insisted Cullen.

“I thought so, too.” Gemma unlocked her car and opened the door a bit to let the interior cool. “But if his passport’s clean—”

“He could have traveled on false papers.”

“I’m just not sure I see him as that enterprising. Or competent.” Gemma gave a shrug of frustration.

Kincaid had been standing, gazing thoughtfully at the front of
the house. “Truman ticks all the boxes. The connection with Sandra. The connection with Ritchie’s club. The access to ketamine. But even if we assume that Sandra was onto him, either about the girls or the drugs, and that he was somehow responsible for her disappearance, we can’t connect him with Naz. The pieces don’t fit. There’s something missing, and I’m damned if I know what it is.”

While Kincaid and Cullen returned to the Yard to begin the tedious process of checking John Truman’s record with Customs and Immigration, Gemma went back to Notting Hill.

“We’ll have to come up with something more solid to have any hope of getting a warrant to look at his passport,” Kincaid had said, and although Gemma knew he was right, she felt frustrated and discouraged. They were so close to the truth, but she couldn’t see how to move forward.

The more she thought about what must have happened to Sandra Gilles and what would happen to Charlotte, the worse things seemed. Everything they had was merely hearsay, speculation. No matter how convinced they were that they were right, they had no proof.

They couldn’t talk to Alia again without risking her trust; nor could they interview Lucas Ritchie without presenting a very convincing case to Kincaid’s guv’nor and the assistant commissioner.

She called Melody into her office and told her about her unexpected encounter with Alia and about their interview with John Truman. “The man’s a complete slime. I know he’s dirty—I’m just not sure how dirty. And if he really was in Spain, he couldn’t have killed Naz, and we’re back to square one—Sandra’s brothers.” She sighed. “But we couldn’t have got this far without that list, and your help,” she added. “Now, if I just knew what to do next…”

“I’ll have another look at the list. Maybe there’s something we’ve missed.” Melody stood up and gave her an odd look. “Oh, by the way, Hazel rang you here. Your phone was off and she wanted to make sure you got the message. She wanted you to call her as soon as possible. Something about lunch tomorrow.” Looking as if she were trying to suppress a grin, Melody went out.

What had got into Melody? Gemma wondered. She shook her head, which was aching again, but obediently dialed Hazel’s number.

“What’s this about tomorrow?” she asked when Hazel answered.

“I’m taking you to lunch at the Oriel Café,” Hazel announced.

“Oh, Hazel, I’d love to, but I’ve said I’d go to Leyton, and anyway, I’m not sure I feel much like—”

“No, it’s all set. Tell your mum and dad you’ll come on Sunday. I’ve organized the day off tomorrow, and I’ve already worked things out with Duncan for Holly to play with Toby while we’re out. It will be a treat for all of us, and you, darling, need a bit of pampering.”

“But that’s what I said last week—”

“Well, you had a good excuse for not showing, I should think. Now, really, I’m insisting. I’ll call your mum myself if I must. I’ll be round about eleven,” she added, ringing off.

Gemma stared at the phone, bemused. Hazel could be a stubborn cow when she set her mind to it. Gemma found she was glad to see her friend more like her old self. And she was relieved, although
she hated to admit it, to put off her visit to Leyton for a day. She was going to have to tell her parents—and more than likely her sister—that she still hadn’t made plans for the wedding. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Maybe a day out with Hazel would make it seem easier to cope.

When Hazel and Holly arrived on Saturday morning, Hazel examined Gemma’s bruised forehead, then gave her a pat on the arm. “Much better. I’d say you’re coming along nicely. But you’ve had a rough week, and we’re going to make the most of our day.”

Gemma was happy enough to get out of the house. Her whole family had been behaving oddly since the evening before; Duncan was preoccupied and seemed anxious to get rid of her, Kit was unusually serious and silent, and Toby kept breaking into hysterical fits of giggles over nothing. Gemma hoped he was just wound up over Holly’s visit, and not sickening for something.

Hazel whisked her off to Sloane Square, insisting on driving rather than taking the bus or the tube. “We’ll park in the garage at Marks and Sparks,” she said, “and walk up the King’s Road. It’s a lovely day for it.”

The Oriel Café, a bustling French brasserie, was a Sloane Square institution. They got a table by the window, and as Gemma sipped the glass of prosecco Hazel had ordered, she began to relax. Over their fish cakes and mussels, she told Hazel what she had learned from Alia the day before, and then about the vet, John Truman.

When she finished, Hazel’s dark eyes were sober. “We know these things happen—have always happened, in some form or another, but that doesn’t make it any easier when you actually confront them. That poor girl, whoever she was. And the others, because there must be others.”

“On top of that, Charlotte’s placement hearing is on Monday,” said Gemma. Now that things had started spilling out, she didn’t
seem to be able to stop them. “I’ve rung the social worker again, but I haven’t heard back. I simply will not let that horrible Gail Gilles get her hands on that child. I don’t care what it takes.

“And, Hazel—” She paused, then blurted out the worry she hadn’t been fully willing to admit, even to herself. “Last weekend, I told Duncan I was dreading the wedding. I tried to explain that it wasn’t because of us. I thought he understood, but now he won’t talk about it. I’m afraid—I’m afraid I’ve totally screwed things up.” She gulped the last of her wine. When the bubbles went up her nose, she had an excuse for her watering eyes.

“Gemma.” Hazel leaned forward and clasped her hand for a moment. Her touch was warm and comforting. “You absolutely cannot save the world single-handedly, as much as you want to. I don’t see what more you can do about this case. Let Duncan get on with trying to find something more on this vet.

“As for Charlotte, try to have a bit of faith in the system. I know it’s not perfect, but you haven’t actually seen what social services can do. Let it go for a day or two, see what happens on Monday.

“And I’m quite sure Duncan understands about the wedding. In fact, he’s probably relieved. After all, what man wants to get dressed up in a monkey suit and put on a show. Give him a bit of credit, too. Stop worrying.” She pushed her glass aside and smiled. “And in the meantime, we’re going shopping.”

“Shopping?” Gemma thought about the children, the work she was still trying to catch up on, all the things that needed doing around the house. “But we hadn’t planned—I wasn’t—I shouldn’t—”

“Oh yes, you should.” Hazel waved the waiter over for the check. “Come on. We’re going to Peter Jones.”

“I need a new wardrobe after Scotland,” Hazel told Gemma as she led her through the women’s clothing collections in the Sloane
Square department store. “I’m not prepared for London summers anymore.”

But she pushed things about on the racks with desultory interest, and didn’t take anything to try on. Gemma followed as Hazel wove her way through the aisles. Then Hazel stopped and lifted a dress, holding it up as she admired it. “Oh, this is perfect.”

It was a pale apple-green cotton, as fine as silk, with capped sleeves, a fitted waist, and a skirt that flared to the knee.

“It is lovely.” Gemma touched it. “But I’m not sure it’s really your color. You do better in bright things.”

“I suppose you’re right, more’s the pity. However”—Hazel held the dress up to Gemma—“it certainly suits you.” She inspected the tag. “And I think it’s just your size. Come on, try it on.”

“But I don’t need a dress,” said Gemma. “Where would I wear it? It’s a garden-party sort of thing—”

“Of course you need a dress.” Hazel gave her a stern look. “How often do you treat yourself to anything, Gemma? As for where to wear it, you’ll just have to come up with an excuse. Make Duncan take you out to dinner or something.” Hazel marched off towards the changing room, dress in hand, without giving Gemma a chance to argue further.

A saleswoman ushered them into the mirrored cubicle, asking if there was anything else they needed.

“Shoes,” Hazel told her, giving Gemma, who had worn jeans and flats, a critical eye. “You can’t try on this dress in those. And a sexy bra and knickers.”

“Hazel, you’ve gone completely mad,” Gemma protested. “I can’t—”

“Just tell her your sizes.”

Feeling giddy, Gemma complied. It must have been the prosecco they’d drunk with lunch, she thought. They were both a little mad.

Hazel carried on a whispered consultation with the clerk, and in
what seemed a remarkably short time, the woman came back with some lacy wisps of underwear and a shoe box.

The bra and knickers were the same pale green as the dress, and each cream, open-toe shoe was adorned with a cream-colored, full-petaled fabric rose.

“I can’t possibly—”

“Just put everything on.” Hazel went out and closed the door with a snap. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

A few moments later, Gemma called out, “I can’t do the zip.”

Hazel and the saleswoman, who had been whispering again outside the door, came in together. “Breathe in,” Hazel commanded, and pulled up the long back zipper. Then she stepped away and gazed at Gemma in the mirror. “Oh,” she said on a sigh. “Oh, it’s gorgeous.”

Gemma stared at her own reflection. Although she would never have chosen the dress for herself, she had to admit it was beautiful. She looked—different. “It’s—I feel like a princess.” She smoothed the skirt.

“So you should. Now spin.”

Gemma spun obediently. When the dress belled out around her, she laughed aloud. Then she peered at the price tag, and her spirits fell. “It’s lovely, but I can’t possibly spend this much on myself…This is ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not, and yes, you can. If you don’t buy it for yourself—and the shoes, and the knickers—I’ll buy them for you.” Hazel glanced at her watch. “And you’re wearing everything home. I’ve just realized I’m late picking up Holly. Can we just snip the tags off?” she added to the clerk.

“Hazel, don’t be daft.”

“I’m not. Duncan and the kids will absolutely love it. Wait and see.”

It was only in the car on the way back to Notting Hill that Gemma said, “Hazel, that was the only dress in that color on display, and it just happened to be in my size. Not to mention the shoes were perfect. I’d almost think you picked them out beforehand.”

“Nonsense. I just have good shopping karma.” Hazel seemed very focused on her driving.

“You didn’t buy a thing.”

“Next time. This was your day.”

When they reached St. John’s Gardens, there seemed an unusual number of cars parked in the street, but Hazel was able to find a spot for her Golf. They got out and walked to the house, Gemma thinking, as she so often did, how much she loved the place. Just as they reached the door, Hazel said, “Oh, I forgot my phone. You go on.”

Gemma opened the door and stepped inside. She heard a childish shriek, and a hum of conversation that fell suddenly still. Looking round, she saw that the house was filled with people.

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.”