Necessary as Blood

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The British Bangladeshi population has therefore described itself in several different ways during the last sixty years: Indian, Pakistani, Bengali, Bangladeshi. Nowadays the last two terms are used interchangeably. In addition, many use the term “sylheti” to describe themselves, this being the part of Bangladesh from which most British Bangladeshi families originate.

– Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron, Michael Young, The New East End

Kincaid didn’t like not having his own team on the ground from the beginning of an investigation, but as Bethnal Green had got in first, it made sense to run the incident room from Bethnal Green Police Station. And he wanted Weller whether Weller wanted him or not, so once the DI was out of court he’d have to put up with a new SIO on his patch.

He’d set up in a conference room with a computer terminal and a whiteboard, assigning an officer to man the public phone line and another to correlate the statements taken from witnesses in the park. Then he’d had the very attractive DS Singh bring him every bit of information on file regarding Naz Malik and Sandra Gilles.

He handed the Malik files to Cullen and started in on the disappearance of Sandra Gilles himself, reading with interest. People did simply vanish, of course; one only had to read the missing persons files. But in most cases, enough digging would unearth a trigger-a row, depression, financial problems-or a witness would report some small thing that gave credence to a theory of violence. But Sandra Gilles, successful artist, devoted wife, and adoring mother, just seemed to have been swallowed by the earth on that bright Sunday afternoon in May. There must have been something more.

He read through the e-mail Gemma had sent him, describing in detail the events of the weekend. Then he compared Gemma’s notes with the brief report DI Weller had filed. There was no mention in Weller’s report of Tim Cavendish’s comments about Sandra Gilles’s alleged affair with a man named Lucas Ritchie. Why?

Tim had referred to Ritchie as a club owner, but if he had mentioned its name, Gemma hadn’t caught it. Kincaid dialed Tim Cavendish on his mobile, heard the surprise in Tim’s voice when he said he had questions about the case. “Yes, I’ve got my fingers in the pie now,” he told Tim, but didn’t elaborate. “Tim, about this Lucas Ritchie bloke-did Naz tell you anything else? The name of the club?”

“No. Look, I shouldn’t have said-”

“Don’t be daft, man,” Kincaid interrupted. “You should have told Gemma on Saturday. I’ll ring you back.”

He called in Sergeant Singh. “Does the name Lucas Ritchie mean anything to you? Owns an exclusive private club in the area?”

She shook her head, but her brown eyes were alert, her expression interested. “No, sir. But I can run a search of local business records.”

He gave her a friendly smile. “Do that, why don’t you, Sergeant. And get straight back to me with the results.” He was treading carefully here. It wasn’t a good idea to openly criticize Weller to his staff, but he didn’t want any failures of communication.

“Yes, sir,” Singh answered, a slight frown creasing her smooth forehead. Pondering the implications, Kincaid thought. A bright girl. “Oh, but, sir,” she added, “I was just coming in to tell you. Dr. Kaleem, the pathologist, rang. He wanted to speak to DI Weller, but since he’s not available at the moment-”

“Sergeant,” Kincaid interrupted her firmly. “I know it’s a bit awkward for you, but I’m in charge of the Malik investigation now, so anything comes directly to me. I’m sure DI Weller will have a chance to make that clear when he comes in. Now, where would I find Dr. Kaleem?”

“At the London, sir.”

“I want you to set up the team in charge of going over the Maliks’ house,” Kincaid told Cullen as they drove the short distance to the Royal London. “I want our lads, not Bethnal Green. And I want them to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb, including any records of Sandra Gilles’s business transactions. The one thing we do know about this Ritchie is that he was one of Sandra Gilles’s clients.”

Glancing at his watch as the bulk of the hospital came into view, Kincaid added, “Oh, and, Doug, drop me at the front and I’ll meet you at the mortuary in about ten minutes.”

Cullen glanced at him for an instant, then shifted his gaze back to the road. “Right, guv.”

“It will probably take you that long to park in this warren,” Kincaid said, but didn’t offer any further explanation. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss Gemma’s personal business with Doug, especially considering Cullen’s pouting over Gemma’s involvement in the case.

He jumped out of the car as Cullen stopped on the double yellows in front of the main building. Admittedly, the hospital’s venerable original building was quite hideous, but looking at the disparate styles of the mushrooming annexes, Kincaid couldn’t help but think the planners would have been better served by sticking with uniform ugliness.

A quick query at the main information desk sent him outside again, and a brisk walk took him to the building that housed Vi Walters’s ward. He found her alone, and dozing, but when he came in she opened her eyes and gave him a delighted smile. “Duncan! What are you doing here? Did you come all this way to see me?”

He kissed her cheek. “I was in the neighborhood. A new case,” he said. “But I couldn’t pass up a chance to check on you and make sure you were behaving yourself. I can’t stay long.” He was waffling, he knew, covering his shock. She seemed to have shrunk since he’d last seen her, and her skin was almost translucent. Her left arm was neatly bandaged.

“Sit, then,” she said. “You look wilted as an old lettuce. Is it hot?”

He stayed beside the bed, hand on the rail. “Broiling.” Thank God the wards had air-conditioning.

“You’d never know it in here.” Vi gave a shiver, and he realized that her bed was heaped with blankets. “Always did like a touch of the sun,” she added, a little wistfully.

“Well, you should be home soon, and you can toast yourself to your heart’s content.”

Vi started to lift her bandaged arm, then seemed to think better of it and waggled her fingers at him instead. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ve got my own personal plug, as of this morning. No more sticking me black and blue with needles.”

Gemma had told him about the chemo port, and he wasn’t at all sure that was a good sign. “You’re brilliant,” he said. “A regular bionic woman. Gemma’s coming in to admire the handiwork a bit later, I think.”

“She shouldn’t come all this way.” Vi sounded a little fretful. “I’ve told her a dozen times.”

“I’m glad she listens to you,” he tossed back, grinning.

“Oh, go on with you.” Vi shook her head, but her smile was back. “Give us another kiss, then, and go on about your business.”

When he leaned down and touched his cheek to hers, it was cool. At least she no longer had a fever. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Duncan.” She touched his hand as he straightened up. “About Gemma. You know she’s been stubborn as a mule since she was in nappies. Don’t let her balk.”

Kincaid gave her a gentle squeeze in return. “And you know as well as I do that no one can make Gemma do anything.”

If it had been cold on Vi’s ward, it was arctic in the hallway leading to the mortuary. Kincaid pulled up the knot of his tie and shrugged the lapels of his jacket a little closer together, wondering if the denizens of these depths lived in thermal underwear. But a consultant wearing a coat and tie walked briskly towards him, showing no evidence of Eskimo bundling. The man gave a curt nod as they passed, shoulders almost brushing, but Kincaid stopped. “Dr. Kaleem?”

“What?” The consultant looked startled.

“Can you tell me where to find Dr. Kaleem?”

“Oh. Office just down the hall. No one could miss it.” The tone was impatient, as if implying that no one sensible would have had to ask.

“Thanks,” Kincaid said, shrugging as he went on. Suddenly, he caught the distinctive smell that had been masked by the cold, decay compounded with chemicals, and he heard Cullen’s voice. Then, when he reached the office, he saw that the passing consultant might have been referring to the office itself rather than Kincaid’s navigational abilities.

Books covered the shelves, made towers on the floor, and overflowed the surface of the desk, where a computer monitor looked as if it were fighting for its life. File boxes were interspersed with the books, and the only visible spot on the wall was covered with an intricate bit of graffiti art. There were no chairs other than the one behind the desk.

Louise Phillips’s office sprang to Kincaid’s mind, but while Phillips’s clutter had seemed indicative of carelessness, this room somehow conveyed enthusiasm, as if its occupant’s interests had overruled the limits of the physical space.

The voice he’d heard responding to Cullen’s was male, with a cut-glass accent, and now seemed to be coming from beneath the desk. “Bloody printer’s jammed.” There was a thump, then a whir, followed by an exclamation of satisfaction. “Kicking it sometimes helps. I love technology.”

A man emerged, holding a sheaf of papers victoriously aloft. Kincaid grinned. No wonder Coat-and-Tie had radiated disapproval. For if this was Dr. Kaleem, the pathologist was at the very least a sartorial nonconformist. He wore a faded, rock band T-shirt and tattered jeans, and his blue-black hair was gelled into spikes. He was also, as Gemma had curiously failed to mention, extraordinarily good-looking.

“Rashid Kaleem,” he confirmed, transferring the papers to his left hand and reaching across the desk to shake Kincaid’s right. “You must be Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen here has been telling me you’re taking over from DI Weller.” He glanced round, as if thinking of asking them to sit, then propped himself on a corner of his desk, pushing a stack of books precariously aside as he did so.

“I was telling Sergeant Cullen,” Kaleem continued, “that I managed to rush the tox scans. I was curious about this case.” He tapped a page. “Your victim was loaded with Valium, which was not too surprising.”

“Then he did commit suicide,” said Cullen, sounding almost disappointed.

“No, wait.” Kaleem waved the papers at them. “That’s not all. I found ketamine as well, and while the high concentration of the two drugs could certainly prove fatal, it’s an unlikely suicide cocktail.”

Kincaid stared at him. “What the hell was Naz Malik doing with ketamine in his system?” The veterinary tranquilizer was cheap and popular as a street drug, and made veterinary clinics obvious targets for robbery.

“It’s possible he might have taken the Valium, valid prescription or not, and bought the ketamine off a street dealer to boost the high. In which case, he might have died from an accidental overdose,” said Kaleem.

“But you don’t think so.”

“No. This guy would have been out of it. It’s like I told the old-It’s like I told DI Weller. I don’t believe the victim could have got himself into the park in his condition, and there was no evidence indicating that he took pills or used a needle on the site. Nor did I find any puncture marks on the body. So my guess is that somebody walked him, or half carried him, to the spot where he was found. And then there’s the head.”

Kincaid frowned. “What about it? There was no evidence of trauma.”

“I explained to the DI from Notting Hill-” Kaleem paused, a little smile turning up the corners of his mouth, as if he was remembering something pleasant. “People don’t just fall with their noses in the dirt.” All trace of amusement vanished, and Kaleem’s handsome face hardened. “I think he was helpless. I think someone held his head in that position, with his breathing compromised, and waited for him to suffocate. And that is very, very nasty indeed.”

“Why haven’t I met you before?” Kincaid asked when they had gone over the rest of the report with Kaleem.

“I worked the Midlands for almost eight years. I’ve only been back in London about ten months, although I grew up here, in Bethnal Green. The prodigal returns, and all that.”

The pathologist must be older than he looked, Kincaid surmised. But he was, as Gemma had been, impressed with Rashid Kaleem. Glancing up at the spray-painted wall, he asked, “That yours?”

“Have to keep my skills up,” Kaleem said with a grin.

“Nobody minds?”

“Nobody comes down here voluntarily. Look.” He stopped them as they turned to leave. “About Weller. He did the right thing turning this over to you. He’s a good copper, but this-I think this is something that’s out of his league. Just watch yourselves.”

Gemma sat through what seemed another interminable staff meeting, fighting post-lunch dullness as she listened to Sergeant Talley trying to micromanage everyone else’s cases. She’d had trouble with the career sergeant repeatedly, and she supposed it was time to have another little talk. But it was better done privately, in her office.

She wondered, not for the first time, why Melody Talbot, who was much more competent than most of the department’s sergeants, was content to stay a detective constable. Gemma had broached the subject of promotion a few times, telling Melody she’d be glad to make a recommendation, but Melody had merely smiled, said she’d think about it, and never raised the subject again. It seemed odd, as everything else about Melody’s performance and character marked her as a highflier.

Gemma had decided she was going to have to interrupt the longwinded sergeant when her phone clattered and scooted across the conference table like a crab, then beeped stridently. So much for the inconspicuous Vibrate option. Aware of all eyes on her, Gemma grabbed the mobile and read the text message from Kincaid, a succinct Ring me.

“I’ll have to take this,” she said, escaping gladly into the corridor.

“You’ve just rescued me from staffing hell,” she said when he answered. “What’s up?”

“And I’ve just had a meeting with your pathologist,” Kincaid said.

“My pathologist?” Gemma decided to ignore the teasing note. “Dr. Kaleem? What did he say?”

“Naz Malik was pumped full of Valium and ketamine.”

“Ketamine? You think it was suicide, then,” said Gemma, “or accidental overdose.” She felt an odd stab of regret. Not of course that she wanted Naz Malik to have been murdered-that was unthinkable-but she hated the idea that he could have willingly abandoned Charlotte to an unknown fate.

Kincaid interrupted her thoughts. “No, actually, Kaleem doesn’t believe the drugs were self-administered.” He went on to detail the pathologist’s reasoning. “Kaleem’s adamant. And if he’s right, it means that we not only have a murder that was premeditated, we have a murderer who was willing to bide his time and watch Naz Malik die.”

Gemma digested this, feeling ice down her spine. “He?”

“Grammatically speaking.”

“A man is more likely, if Kaleem believes Naz was walked or carried into the park.”

“Malik wasn’t a particularly large man. A strong woman might have managed. Or two people.”

“But how would you get the drugs into an unwilling victim?” she asked.

“I’d assume the Valium could have been administered in drink or food, at least enough to make the victim compliant,” Kincaid said. “I don’t know about the ketamine. We’ll have to talk to Kaleem again.”

“We?” said Gemma with a little jolt of excitement.

Kincaid responded with a question of his own. “You’re planning to visit your mum this afternoon, right? So you’ll be in the East End. And you’ve met the nanny-” She heard a rustle of paper, as if he were checking notes. “Alia Hakim. I’ll need to interview her, and I thought it would be helpful if you came along.”

Kincaid had given Gemma the address of the council estate in Bethnal Green where Alia lived with her parents. It was not a high-rise, Gemma saw with relief, and the brown brick blocks were interspersed with panels of turquoise plaster. If the council had intended to add a note of cheer, it seemed the residents had responded in kind. There was an unusually well-kept common lawn. Flags of laundry hung bleaching in the sun on balconies and the ground-floor patios, amid hanging baskets and the inevitable chained bikes.

The Hakims lived in a ground-floor flat at one end of a unit, with access through a gated front patio fenced with eight-foot-high chicken wire. Shrubs had been planted outside the fence, and beside the gate, a half whisky barrel planter held a large palm. A framework of wooden slats had been built over the garden to hold a canvas canopy, now rolled back, and the garden itself held flowering plants, clotheslines, and a motley collection of children’s toys. The Hakims had extended their living space quite efficiently, Gemma thought as she waited for Kincaid to join her.

Watching him cross the lawn, she saw that he’d discarded his tie altogether and had rolled up the sleeves of his pale pink dress shirt. He wore sunglasses, and the sun sparked gold from his chestnut hair.

“It’s blistering,” he said when he reached her, tucking the sunglasses into his shirt pocket.

“You look like you should be in Miami,” she said, repressing the sudden desire to touch his face. “I like the glasses.”

“If it were Miami, there would be ocean. And we would be in it.” He studied her. “Not looking forward to this, are you? I spoke to Mrs. Hakim on the phone. She said Alia’s very upset. Her father’s taken off work.”

Gemma frowned, thinking of the offhand comments Alia had made about her parents. “Not necessarily a good thing, I suspect,” she murmured. “But best to get on with it. Where’s Doug?”

“Gone back to the Yard to do some research on one of Naz Malik’s pending cases. I’ll fill you in later.”

Both the gate and the flat’s front door were open, the doorway protected by a swinging curtain of beads. Gemma and Kincaid entered the garden, but before they could ring the bell, the beads parted and Alia came out. Today, although dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved yellow blouse, she wore the hijab. Her face looked pale and puffy against the head scarf, and the heavy frames of her glasses didn’t quite disguise the fact that her eyes were red from weeping.

“Alia,” said Gemma, “this is Superintendent Kincaid. We just need to talk to you for a bit.”

The girl glanced at Kincaid, then ducked her head and whispered to Gemma, “Is Charlotte okay? I’ve been so worried.”

“She’s fine,” Gemma assured her. “She’s with a good friend of mine.” She didn’t mention Sandra’s sister’s petition. “How are you doing?”

Alia touched Gemma’s sleeve and dropped her voice further. “I didn’t tell my parents I was keeping Charlotte on Saturday. They don’t like-my abba-”

“Alia,” called a man’s firm voice. “Bring your visitors inside.”

“Coming, Abba.” To Gemma, she whispered, “Do I have to-”

“Yes, I’m afraid you do,” Gemma said.

With a resigned nod, Alia held the curtain aside, and Gemma and Kincaid entered the flat.

Except for a box of toys, the sitting room reflected none of the jumble of the front garden. There was a three-piece suite in a floral print and a coffee table made from a brass tray on a stand, and center stage against the far wall an enormous flat-screen TV played a Bollywood channel with the sound off. Gemma wondered if the flat had been tidied especially for their visit.

Shelves held colorful Eastern knickknacks, but there were no visible books or magazines. On a side table, a rotating fan pulled in warm, sluggish air and feebly distributed it round the room. Gemma saw that Alia’s upper lip was beaded with sweat, but didn’t know if the girl was suffering from nerves or the heat.

The woman sitting on the sofa was an older, rounder version of Alia. She, like her daughter, concealed her hair with a scarf, but she wore a matching orange salwar kameez rather than Western dress. As she gave them a shy smile, a man Gemma assumed must be Alia’s father came into the room from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

“Mr. Hakim?” Kincaid held out his hand. “I’m Superintendent Kincaid. This is Inspector James. Thank you for seeing us.”

“It is our duty.” Having draped the towel over a chair in the small dining area, Mr. Hakim grasped Kincaid’s hand, but appeared not to see Gemma’s. Short and stocky like his wife and daughter, he had thick, dark hair going gray, and a severe mustache. His white shirt was neatly tucked into dark trousers. “Will you sit, please? My wife will bring tea.” Like Alia, he wore thick glasses.

Alia’s mother nodded and slipped soundlessly from the room. As Gemma and Kincaid sat side by side on the sofa, Mr. Hakim remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. He continued, “This is a very bad thing. It is bad for our daughter to be associated with this, and I am hoping your questions can be answered quickly.”

Perching on the edge of one of the overstuffed armchairs, Alia tapped a sandaled toe against the carpet. Her toenails were painted a bright coral with pink polka dots, a surprisingly feminine contrast to her plain, un-made-up face. “Abba-”

“Mr. Malik was a man of good character, although we did not think it right for our daughter to be in his house with his wife away. I cannot think how this thing can have happened.” When his wife was away? Gemma wondered if this was a euphemism, or if Mr. Hakim didn’t know that Sandra Gilles had gone missing months earlier.

“Abba,” Alia said more forcefully, and this time her father looked at her. “I’m trying to tell you. I was there on Saturday, taking care of Charlotte. I know you don’t like me to be there on the weekends, but Naz-Mr. Malik-asked me to come for just a few minutes while he went out.” Her accent, in contrast to her father’s singsong lilt, seemed even more nasally Estuary than Gemma had noticed before. “I might have-maybe I was the last person to see him alive.”

Mr. Hakim’s mustache turned down at the corners as he tightened his lips. “You, Alia. If this is true, you have been very disobedient. I think you will have to pay a visit to your auntie in Sylhet if you cannot show respect for your parents’ wishes. We have had enough of this nonsense about lawyer school, this going and doing without any sense of what is proper. Your sisters-”

“My sisters have married totally boring men and lead totally boring lives,” Alia said vehemently as her mother came back into the room with a tea tray. “All they think about is babies and sweets and the latest Indian pop song-”

“Alia.” The sharpness of Kincaid’s tone stopped her midword. “You may not have been the last person to see Mr. Malik alive. We think Mr. Malik may have been murdered, and I need you to tell me anything you can remember about that day.”

The shock was mirrored on the faces of parents and child, but it was Alia who spoke. “Murdered? Naz murdered? But how-Why-”

“The police pathologist thinks someone gave him drugs and he suff-” Kincaid hesitated, and Gemma guessed he was searching for a more palatable description. “He stopped breathing.”

“Drugs?” said Mr. Hakim. “Alia, for you to be involved-”

“I am not involved,” Alia snapped at him. “And neither was Naz. Naz wouldn’t have anything to do with drugs.” She turned back to Kincaid and Gemma. “Why would someone do this to him?”

Out of courtesy, Gemma accepted a cup of the tea Mrs. Hakim had poured, sipping gingerly. It was lukewarm, tasted of cardamom, and was teeth-achingly sweet. “Did Naz say or do anything that was different on Saturday?” she asked, glad for an excuse to set down her cup.

“No.” Alia shook her head slowly. “But he was…distracted. I told him I’d made samosas, and he-he didn’t thank me.” She carefully avoided meeting either parent’s gaze. “He was usually very polite.”

Gemma suddenly wondered if there were more to Mr. Hakim’s disapproval than fatherly overprotectiveness. Perhaps not on Naz Malik’s part, but it was only natural that this rather awkward girl might have developed a crush on her employer, especially if she had romanticized Sandra’s disappearance in some way.

“Did he mention anything about a case he was working on?” asked Kincaid. “He was defending a Mr. Azad, a restaurant owner.”

“No. Naz-Mr. Malik-never talked about work. Well, only a little, when I’d have questions about my law texts, but then it was only, you know, general. It would have been unethical for him to discuss his clients.”

Definitely an echo of hero worship in the slightly prim reply, thought Gemma, but she said, “Alia, did Mr. Malik ever mention a man called Ritchie? Lucas Ritchie?”

“No.” Alia frowned. “Who is he?”

“Someone Sandra might have known. Did Mr. Malik ever talk to you about what he thought had happened to Sandra?”

“No. No-well, only at first. The same sort of things you’re asking me. ‘Did she say anything?’ or ‘Was there anything different?’”

“Do you know why Naz and Sandra didn’t get along with Sandra’s family?”

“I-No, not really,” said Alia, but her covert glance at her parents was unmistakable. “It wasn’t my business,” she added, making Gemma even more certain that she had absorbed every detail of Naz Malik’s and Sandra Gilles’s lives.

“And it is no longer her concern,” Mr. Hakim broke in, addressing Kincaid. “I think my daughter has nothing more to tell you, and I must get back to my work.”

“Mr. Hakim, we can interview your daughter here, or we can talk to her at the police station. A murder investigation does not revolve around your convenience. And Alia is of age-your presence is not required.”

“But I don’t know what else I can tell you,” said Alia, with another anxious glance at her father, and Gemma thought they’d get no more out of her in these circumstances.

“We appreciate your time, Alia.” Having apparently come to the same conclusion, Kincaid stood and pulled a card from his pocket. “If you think of anything else or need to get in touch-”

Alia plucked the card from his hand before her father could reach for it. “I’ll walk you out. I’ll only be a moment, Abba.” She obviously intended to forestall her father with speed, and Gemma just had time to say a quick good-bye to Mrs. Hakim, earning another shy smile. As she followed Kincaid and Alia from the flat, she wondered how much of the conversation Alia’s mother had understood.

Alia led them out through the patio garden and onto the lawn, then, when she was out of earshot, turned back so that she could survey the flat. “You have to understand about my father,” she said quietly, vehemently. “I don’t want you to think badly of him. He is not an uneducated man. In Bangladesh, he had a university degree. And he’s a good businessman-he owns a call center in Whitechapel Road. But he works all day with immigrants. He sees himself as an immigrant. His dream is to make enough money to retire in Bangladesh, and he wants…” She frowned, as if struggling to work out the words. “He doesn’t want anything in this life to-to stain that one.” Alia took a breath and went on, more hurriedly, “But me-I’m British first and Bangladeshi second. It doesn’t mean I disrespect my parents or my culture, but it’s different for me.”

Mrs. Hakim came out of the flat and began hanging laundry on the patio, glancing over at them as she lifted a sheet from her basket.

“Alia,” Gemma said urgently, afraid they would be interrupted, or that Alia would lose the nerve to make the confession she was obviously trying so hard to justify. “What is it that you don’t want your father to know?”

“My father-he disapproved of Naz and Sandra’s marriage, even though Naz was not Muslim. In Abba’s eyes it’s not right for an Asian to be with a white person. And Sandra-if he knew about her family-he would think I’d disgraced him, just by my connection with them. Even though I don’t know them personally.” Alia cast a wary eye towards her mother and ran a finger between her chin and the hijab. “It’s-what do you call it? Guilt by association.”

“What? How?” asked Gemma. “What could be that bad?”

“Drugs,” Alia whispered. “Sandra’s brothers do drugs.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Alia, half the city does drugs. Surely that’s not so unusual-”

“No.” Alia shook her head. “You don’t understand. I don’t mean they smoke a bit of weed or pop X at a party. I heard Naz and Sandra arguing, before Sandra disappeared. Sandra’s brothers deal heroin.”