Necessary as Blood

CHAPTER EIGHT

There was a strong sense of an artists’ community at that time in Brick Lane. The rich and famous were yet to move in, the streets still felt like unexplored territory and it was possible to survive financially in the area on very little.

– Rachel Lichtenstein, On Brick Lane

Dr. Kaleem had released the body and ordered it to be sent to the mortuary at the London. “I’ll see how soon I can get him into my schedule,” he told Weller as they walked back towards the street.

“You can put any old ladies eaten by cats in the cooler for a bit,” Weller told him, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I do have my priorities, Inspector, thanks very much,” Kaleem retorted. “I’ll ring you as soon as I have a prelim.” Then he flashed Gemma a brilliant smile and jogged across Audrey Street. He slipped through the police cordon, bag swinging, and disappeared from view.

“You two know each other well?” Gemma asked Weller, wondering at the barbed familiarity of the exchange.

“Snotty-nosed little Bangladeshi from a council estate,” said Weller, gazing after him. “I used to sort out the kids who bullied him when I was on area patrol. Gave him ideas above his station.” This was uttered fondly, and with the closest thing to a smile Gemma had seen. “Who’d have thought he’d end up a bloody forensic pathologist? His father beat the crap out of him if he caught him with a book, and his mum never learned to speak English. Rashid practically lived in the Whitechapel Library-the Idea Store, they call it now,” he added with a snort of disapproval, “and put himself through medical school driving a minicab. Bet his old man’s turning in his grave.”

“Why didn’t his father want him to read?”

“Strict Muslim. Thought anything other than the Koran would corrupt the boy. Right bastard, old Mr. Kaleem. I suspect the missus gave thanks to Allah when he died. Heart attack. Keeled over right in the middle of his dinner.” Weller stuffed his hands in his already baggy pockets and shrugged. “Rashid was surprisingly cut up.”

Gemma wondered if it had been Weller who’d informed Kaleem that his father had died. Then the enormity of what she had to do struck her. “Oh, lord. I’ve got to tell Tim. And we’ll have to ring social services. There’s no one for Naz Malik’s little girl to go home to.”

Weller had said he’d follow Gemma in his own car, leaving Gemma grateful for a few minutes alone. Her Escort had been parked in the sun, and she swore as the driver’s seat scorched the backs of her thighs through her jeans. She rolled down the windows and started the car. Hot air blasted from the vents into her already-burning face as she carefully reversed and turned the car round.

She debated ringing Kincaid, but didn’t want to talk without pulling over, and DI Weller, in an old white BMW that looked as rumpled as Weller himself, stayed right on her tail.

All too soon she’d reached Islington, and still she had no idea how to break the news to Tim. Death notification was always difficult, but telling a friend was so much worse…She realized that the last time she’d had to break such news to someone she knew well, it had been Hazel.

It felt odd now, pulling up in front of the detached house in the leafy square, rather than turning into the side road and parking in front of the garage that had been her flat. Last night, in a hurry to get home, she had handed Tim the keys at the door. She hadn’t actually been in the house since Hazel had moved out. Although they had kept up with Tim, he had come to them, or they had occasionally met him out for a drink or a meal.

Then, to her surprise, she saw Hazel’s car parked in front as well, and after yesterday’s tensions she wasn’t sure if her friend’s presence would be a help or a hindrance.

Weller found a spot nearby and got out of the BMW, closing the door as carefully as if it had been the newest model. He looked tired, and she realized he must have driven back from Shropshire that morning. Perhaps his rumpled look was more circumstantial than habitual.

When he reached her, he nodded back at his car, and she felt embarrassed that he’d seen her studying it. “Putting two kids through uni doesn’t leave much for upgrading the old wheels,” he said, as if in apology. “And besides, they don’t make the Beamers the way they used to. I’ve got quite fond of the old girl.” He looked up at the house. “This your friend’s? Not bad digs.”

“He’s a therapist,” said Gemma. “Well, they both are, Tim and his wife, Hazel, but they’re separated and Tim’s kept the house. They share custody of their daughter, and it looks as if Hazel’s here, too.” The explanation seemed awkward, but she didn’t want to have to make it in front of Hazel and Tim.

“He kept the house?” Weller gave her a curious look, but followed her up the walk without further comment. Gemma rang the bell, aware of his large presence beside her, aware of the sweat trickling down her neck, and the sound of her own breathing. No one answered, and there was no sound from within the house. Gemma rang again, and waited. After a moment, she said, “Let’s try the garden. They must be here unless they’ve gone to the park.”

As she led Weller back into the street, an older-model Ford drew up and pulled into the curb. The driver seemed to check the house number against a note, then spotted Gemma and Weller. “CID?” she called out briskly as she opened the door and got out.

Weller introduced himself, then Gemma.

“I’m Janice Silverman.” She pumped their hands with the same cheerful energy. “Social services.” She was, Gemma guessed, in her forties, with short, wavy, graying hair, and even in the August midday heat she wore a serviceable but lint-specked black sweater and skirt.

“Didn’t expect you so quickly,” said Weller, sounding genuinely impressed.

“I’m super-social-worker. Changed in a phone booth.” She gave them an unexpectedly impish smile. “Seriously, I was in the neighborhood, just leaving a council estate in Holloway, so thought I wouldn’t keep you waiting. What’s the situation here?”

“Father found this morning. Suspicious death. Mother missing for the last several months.” Weller pulled at his collar, the sun glinting off the stubble on his chin. He nodded at the house. “Friend of the father. Kept the child last night when the dad didn’t come home.”

“And the child”-Silverman glanced down at her notebook-“a little girl? She’s two? Has anyone spoken to her yet?”

“She’s almost three,” said Gemma. “And no, she’s not been told anything.”

“Best let me handle it.” Silverman sighed, and some of her vitality seemed to dissipate. “Mother disappeared, you say?” She shook her head. “That seems particularly hard under the circumstances. Still”-the briskness came back in force-“best get it over with.”

“No one’s answering the door,” Gemma explained, and as she led them round the side of the house they heard children’s voices coming from the garden.

Her flat looked just the same, except that the black garage door was shiny with new paint. Tim must have been busy with DIY, she thought. But when she glanced in the windows by the garden gate, she saw the familiar furnishings, the black half-moon table next to the tiny kitchen, the modern steel-and-leather chaise she and Duncan used to call the torture lounger, the neatly made bed with its bookcase headboard. It seemed only the fresh flowers Hazel had always left for her were missing, and the untidy flotsam of Toby’s books and toys. She felt eerily out of sync, as if her life had zigzagged back on itself.

And today, she saw as she looked over the wall, it was not Toby and Holly playing in the garden, but Holly and little Charlotte Malik. Tim sat on the patio, a beer on the flagstones beside his chair. Hazel, wearing the same cotton shorts and sleeveless blouse as the previous day, pushed the little girls on the swings.

When Gemma opened the wrought-iron garden gate, Holly flew out of the swing and ran to her, shrieking, “Auntie Gemma! Auntie Gemma! Come and push me!”

Gemma picked her up and hugged her. “I’ve missed you, too, poppet. But I can’t push you just now. I’ve got to talk to your dad.” She let Holly slide to the ground and sent her on her way with a pat.

Tim stood slowly, taking in Gemma’s face and the presence of the man and woman beside her. Hazel let Charlotte’s swing come to a rest. Then, looking down at the child, she called to Holly, “Come push Charlotte’s swing for a bit, sweetie. It’s your turn.”

“But I don’t want-”

“Now,” said Hazel, in a tone that brooked no argument. Holly went, her expression sulky, but she glanced back at her mother as if sensing something amiss. Hazel crossed to the patio and stood a few feet from Tim.

Gemma made the introductions. “Tim. Hazel. This is Detective Inspector Weller, from Bethnal Green. And Janice Silverman, from social services.”

“It’s bad news, isn’t it?” said Tim, starting towards them.

“I’m sorry, Tim.” Gemma touched his arm. “Naz Malik was found dead in Haggerston Park this morning.”

“What-How-” Even though Tim had seemed prepared, he swayed a little. “I don’t-”

“Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Cavendish.” Weller steered him back to his chair. Tim sank into it, grasping the arms as if they were anchors, and Weller pulled up another. “We don’t yet know exactly what happened to your friend,” continued Weller. “If you could go over what you told DI James, here-”

“But I-” He looked across the garden and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Charlotte. Oh, Christ. What about Charlotte?”

“She’ll have to go into foster care,” Janice Silverman explained, “until we’ve contacted any relatives.”

“But Naz had none. He was orphaned, and the aunt and uncle who brought him up here died a few years ago.”

“There’s the wife’s family.”

Tim shook his head. “They didn’t see Sandra’s family. Didn’t want Charlotte to have anything to do with them. Why can’t she stay here?”

“Do you or Mrs. Cavendish have any legal status regarding the child?”

“Well, no, but she’s comfortable here. She knows me, and Holly-”

“We’re separated,” broke in Hazel. “Tim and I are separated. We share custody of Holly, so she’s only here during the school week.”

“Then it would certainly be unsuitable for the child to stay with you, Mr. Cavendish. Now, I’ll need to talk to her, and then I’ll get the placement machinery rolling.” She glanced at the children, her expression softening. The girls had stopped swinging and were watching the adults. “Charlotte is the younger of the two?”

“Yes,” said Tim.

“Perhaps you could call your little girl, Mr. Cavendish?” suggested Silverman.

Hazel reacted first. She called Holly to her, then, taking her hand, said, “Mummy needs some help in the kitchen, sweetheart. It’s hot-we’ll make some cool drinks, shall we?”

Holly went with her willingly enough, glancing back only once at her playmate as she entered the house.

“Do you have to tell her? About her dad?” Gemma said quietly to Silverman.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Silverman went to Charlotte and knelt beside her swing, Gemma following. “Charlotte, I’m Miss Janice. I’m going to be looking after you for a bit.”

Sliding from her swing with her thumb in her mouth, Charlotte looked from Silverman to Gemma, her eyes wide.

“Your daddy’s had an accident, Charlotte,” Silverman went on gently. “He was hurt, and he died. That means someone else will take care of you now. I have a nice friend you can stay with, where you’ll be very safe.”

Slowly, Charlotte removed her thumb from her mouth. “Don’t want to,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I want my daddy.”

“Your daddy is not coming home, Charlotte. I’m sorry.”

“My mummy is coming home,” Charlotte stated with conviction.

Silverman glanced at Gemma, then said, “Well, that may be. But your mummy isn’t home now, so you’ll have to stay with someone else. Why don’t we-”

“I want my daddy!” Charlotte’s wail ended on a hiccupping sob, and when Janice Silverman reached for her, she threw herself at Gemma.

Gemma gathered Charlotte into her arms, cradling her head and feeling the dampness of the child’s tears against her shoulder. The girl smelled of the newly mown garden grass, and faintly, of chocolate. Tightening her grip, Gemma murmured, “You are a little love, aren’t you?” and suddenly found she couldn’t bear the thought of this precious child being turned over to a stranger.

“Look, Mrs. Silverman,” she said, “can’t I take her? I’m a police officer. I’ve got two boys, and my-partner”-she’d been about to say husband and realized she couldn’t, not yet-“my partner and I could look after her until things are sorted.”

“She’s obviously formed an attachment to you. Have you done any foster care?”

“No, but-”

Silverman shook her head. “Then you’re not in the system. I’m sorry, but you’d have to be evaluated, and we need someone who can take her right away. I’ll just-”

“Wait,” said Gemma as inspiration struck. “I know someone. Just let me make one phone call.”

“I’ve a friend,” Gemma explained when the still-tearful Charlotte had been coaxed into Tim’s arms. “She’s fostered children before. If she’s willing, would that be acceptable?”

“If she’s in good standing,” Silverman said cautiously. “I’d have to speak to her myself, and do a check.”

“I’m sure she’d be fine. She’s the mother of the friend who helps look after our kids. She’s great with them.” Gemma knew she was over-explaining, and that it was as much to reassure herself as Janice Silverman. Excusing herself, she walked to the back of the garden and looked out over the garage flat as she made the call, fingers crossed.

When she heard Betty Howard’s cheerful voice, West Indian accent still intact after more than forty years in Notting Hill, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Betty, it’s Gemma. I’ve a favor to ask.” She explained the situation as succinctly as she could.

“Oh, the poor child,” said Betty. “I’d be glad to take her, Gemma. Only thing is, I’ve got the costumes for carnival-”

“We could help out,” Gemma offered. Betty had sewn elaborate costumes for the Notting Hill carnival since the seventies, and Gemma knew what a time-consuming job it was. “If that would make a difference.”

“Wesley should be able to pitch in a bit,” said Betty, in a considering tone. “Though it would mean less time with your two. But if you could take the child the odd hour or two in the evening, I think we could just manage.”

“You’re a dear, Betty. I’ll let you speak to Mrs. Silverman, then.”

When Betty had given her information to Janice Silverman, and the caseworker was calling her own office to confirm them, Gemma went into the house to put together Charlotte’s things. She found Hazel in the kitchen, pouring orange squash into glasses that held a few meager ice cubes.

“This is all there is,” Hazel said. “Tim’s run out of anything decent to drink. Not to mention he’s forgotten to fill the ice trays. And I can’t,” she added, her voice rising, “bloody find anything.” She opened the fridge door, then slammed it shut again.

Gemma stared at her in surprise, but Hazel didn’t meet her eyes. “Even water would be fine,” Gemma said after a moment, treading carefully, not sure what had triggered the outburst. “It doesn’t matter, really. Hazel, I just need to get Charlotte’s things together. Do you-”

“No. I don’t know where Tim’s put her things. I’ve just said I don’t know where anything is.” Hazel pushed the most recently filled glass into the others on a tray, causing them all to slosh, then went into the sitting room, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Gemma heard her say more calmly, “Holly, can you put Charlotte’s things in her little bag? Is it in your room? Good girl. Just bring it down when you’re done, and don’t miss anything.”

Then Holly clattered up the stairs, and Hazel came back into the kitchen, muttering, “…herd of elephants.” Her eyes were red. “I’m sorry,” she said to Gemma. “I didn’t mean to snap, and at you, of all people. It’s just that-last night, I thought Tim was manufacturing a drama. I never thought-poor little Charlotte-her father’s really dead?”

“Yes. I saw the body.”

“Oh, God.” With the tea towel, Hazel swiped at the spilled drink on the work top. “Now I feel a complete bitch. Did he-was it suicide?”

“We don’t know. They don’t know,” Gemma corrected as she glimpsed Weller through the kitchen window, reminding herself that it wasn’t her case. “There were no obvious signs of foul play. We’ll have to wait for the postmortem.”

“Surely he wouldn’t have deliberately left that adorable child-” Hazel gestured towards the garden. “Will she be all right?”

“For the moment. I’ve fixed it so that she can stay with Betty Howard.” Gemma went to stand beside her friend. Lowering her voice, she said, “Mrs. Silverman told Charlotte her father was dead. I know, when we-the police-give a death notice, we get it over with as simply and quickly as we can, but for a child that young it seems awfully harsh-”

“No, Mrs. Silverman was right.” Hazel nodded in agreement. She had often worked with children in her therapy practice. “Allowing her to think her dad was coming home would be worse for her in the long run. She would have to be told eventually, and the deception would damage her ability to trust. Not that I would know anything about that.” Hazel folded the tea towel, then shook it out again, staring at it. It had a pattern of little red roosters on a beige background. “This is hideous,” she said. “Where did he find it?” She glanced at Gemma, then away. “And he’s painted the kitchen.”

“I noticed.” Gemma searched for the right thing to say. “It looks nice. But it’s…different.”

“Everything’s different,” said Hazel. “And I know it’s all trivial in comparison to what’s happened to Tim’s friend, but I didn’t think it would be so hard.”

“Dr. Cavendish, from what DI James has told me, you’ll be best placed to help us with inquiries into your friend’s death,” Weller was saying to Tim as Gemma came back out onto the patio.

She’d just given Charlotte a last hug, and a promise that she’d come to visit her later that afternoon. She didn’t know how much the little girl understood. She had clung to Gemma, and after a final fit of sobbing, she’d gone mute in Janice Silverman’s arms.

“I’ve already told Gemma everything I know.” Tim had emptied his glass of squash, apparently having no objection to its safety-glow orange color. Now he sipped at the melting ice cubes, then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Naz loved Sandra and Charlotte. He’d never have done anything to hurt either of them. They were the perfect family.”

Hazel, having got Holly started playing in her sandbox on the far side of the garden, had come to stand at the edge of the patio. At Tim’s words, she winced.

“Perfect, except for the fact that Sandra Gilles disappeared,” said Weller.

Tim stared at him with dawning recognition. “You investigated the case. I remember Naz talking about you. You made him feel he’d done something wrong.”

“And had he done something wrong, Dr. Cavendish? You’d be the one he confided in, the one he felt safe with-”

“No.” Tim thrust his head forward. “Naz thought you’d not taken Sandra’s disappearance seriously, that you’d overlooked things. He said you’d never investigated her brothers thoroughly.”

“Sandra Gilles’s brothers had alibis for the day of her disappearance.”

“Given by their mates down the pub-”

“Naz Malik did not,” said Weller, ignoring the dig. “He said he was in his office, on a Sunday, but there was no corroboration.”

“You’re saying Naz had something to do with Sandra’s disappearance?” Tim was half out of his chair, his fists balled.

Weller raised a hand. “No, Dr. Cavendish. I’m merely saying that you can’t take anything for granted. Even from the mouths of friends. Now, you tell me if your mate Naz Malik really thought his wife was coming back.”

Tim sank back in his chair, his anger seeming to drain away. “No. Yes. Look at it from Naz’s viewpoint, will you? Either something terrible had happened to his wife and the mother of his child, whom he adored. Or everything he believed about his life was a lie, and his wife, his beloved wife, had voluntarily left him. How could he choose between those alternatives? So one day he believed one thing, the next, the other. But I think in his heart he thought something dreadful had happened to her…except…”

“Except what, Dr. Cavendish?” All Weller’s weariness seemed to vanish in an instant. Gemma found herself tempted to caution Tim, but she couldn’t-it was not her interview, she couldn’t interfere. And she wanted to know what he had been about to say as much as Weller.

“I-it was nothing. A rumor. I’d never repeat it if Naz were…here.”

“Go on. What sort of rumor?” asked Weller.

Tim, fidgeting, with obvious reluctance, glanced at Hazel, then back at Weller. “It isn’t anything-” He shook his head. “Some of the last commissions Sandra did were for a club in Spitalfields. A private club. The owner’s name is Lucas Ritchie. Naz heard-”

“Naz heard what, Dr. Cavendish?” prompted Weller.

“There was…talk…that Sandra was having an affair with Ritchie.”