Necessary as Blood

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Spitalfields had been London’s main Huguenot district and later a Jewish neighborhood. Close to the port, it and neighboring Whitechapel were first stops for many aspiring immigrants. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Bethnal Green was a haven and staging-post for Huguenot refugees escaping from persecution in France, who made an enormous contribution to the architectural, economic and demographic history of East London…

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

“You can’t possibly consider letting Sandra Gilles’s mother have Charlotte.”

“Inspector James.” Janice Silverman’s voice, usually cheerfully friendly, had taken on a frosty note. “I appreciate your concerns. But you, of all people, should understand that you have to let us do our job.”

Gemma took a breath and loosened her grip on the phone. Yesterday evening, she’d talked to Betty, confirming what Hazel had told her about Charlotte. Then this morning she’d snatched the first free moment in her office to ring Janice Silverman. “Of course,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory. “But from what we’ve heard, Gail Gilles is not at all suitable-”

“Gail Gilles is Charlotte Malik’s grandmother, her nearest living relative. As such, we have to give her due consideration. That doesn’t mean”-she went on before Gemma could interrupt again-“that we will ignore the issues you’ve raised. Charlotte will stay with Mrs. Howard for the time being. I’ve explained to Ms. Gilles that her sons need to move out of the flat, and that we’ll be checking to ensure that they have done so. We’ll be initiating a home study, and I’ll present the results of our findings to the family court judge at the next hearing.”

“And when will that be?” asked Gemma.

There was a rustle of pages, as if Silverman were checking a paper diary. “Two weeks from yesterday, unless there’s a delay. Of course, you should attend if you have any information that would be helpful to the judge-although I’d suggest it be concrete.”

The phrases “home study” and “family court hearing” were all too rawly familiar to Gemma. She’d assumed that when Silverman said, “But you, of all people,” she’d been referring to Gemma’s work as a police officer. But now she wondered if Silverman had checked the records and found that Gemma and Kincaid had themselves fought Kit’s maternal grandmother for custody.

And won, with good reason, she reminded herself, but a cursory review by someone who hadn’t known the parties involved might make her seem a bit of a nutter.

And was she? she thought, feeling suddenly shaken.

Was the fact that she and Duncan knew firsthand how much damage a supposedly benign grandparent could inflict on a vulnerable child, making her overly sensitive?

Maybe, she had to admit, although no amount of rationalizing could dispel her gut feeling that this child was at risk. And if there was no one else to champion her, Gemma couldn’t afford to alienate the social worker.

To Mrs. Silverman, she said with as much composure as she could muster, “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

“You could benefit Charlotte most by helping her adjust to her foster home.” The nip in Silverman’s voice had thawed, but now Gemma just wanted to get off the phone and think.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help Charlotte, and Betty,” she said, adding, “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Silverman.”

Melody came in as Gemma ended the call. “Coffee run,” she said, handing Gemma a Starbucks cup with a plastic top. “How did it go?”

“She thinks I have a grudge against grannies.” Gemma sipped, wincing as the still-scalding latte burned the roof of her mouth.

“And do you?” Melody perched on the edge of a chair and sipped her own coffee as if she were Asbestos Woman.

“You think I’m overreacting because of Eugenia?” Gemma worked the lid off the coffee and watched the stream rise in a little cloud. Kit’s grandmother seemed to have become more mentally unstable, and these days it was only his grandfather Bob who came for the scheduled monthly visits. On the last occasion he’d confided that he didn’t know how much longer he could care for Eugenia on his own.

“No, there’s no doubt that she was seriously off her rocker,” answered Melody. “But what about your family? Do you get on with your grandparents?”

“I only vaguely remember my mum’s folks. They died within months of each other when Cyn and I were little. My mum always said they never really recovered from the war. And my dad…my dad never even talks about his family. He left home when he was thirteen and never went back.”

“Can’t have been a good situation, then. But Duncan’s parents are all right?”

“They’re lovely. And you’re beginning to sound like a caseworker,” Gemma added with a touch of asperity. And that was unusual, she realized, as Melody tended to avoid discussing personal matters. “What about you?” she asked, giving tit for tat.

“Oh, I was hatched from aliens,” Melody said with a grin, then quickly sobered. “So what are you going to do about little Charlotte?”

If Gemma knew about self-serving grandmothers because of their experience with Kit, she also knew that the social services’ home studies were undertaken thoroughly and responsibly. But she realized that in the last few minutes her worry had hardened into resolve. She was not willing to trust Charlotte Malik’s fate to the bureaucratic machine.

“I think,” she said, “that I want to have a nice, long talk with Gail Gilles.”

Kincaid stepped out of the buzz of the Bethnal Green incident room to take Gemma’s call. He listened, nodding at passersby in the corridor whose faces were already becoming familiar.

“No, I don’t want to talk to Gail Gilles yet,” he said when he could get a word in edgewise. “And I don’t want you to talk to her either. Not until I’ve interviewed Kevin and Terry Gilles. We’re having a hard time tracking them down, and the last thing I need is their mum putting the wind up them.”

He’d sent an officer to both brothers’ purported places of work that morning, one a betting shop on Bethnal Green Road, and the other a minicab business nearby. Neither business seemed to be too sure what the brothers did for them, or to know where they were at the moment. Kincaid had staked plainclothes constables on both places, as well as a third on Gail Gilles’s flat.

“If social services has told them to move out of the mother’s flat, they’ll have to go somewhere,” said Gemma. “I’d try the sister.”

“Good idea. I’ll hunt up the address.” He’d heard the disappointment in her voice when he’d said he didn’t want her talking to Gail. “I understand how you feel, Gem. Really. But the caseworker’s right. You have to let social services do their job. If there’s anything dodgy, I’m sure they’ll find it.”

“Are you?” said Gemma, her tone decidedly distant.

He was cursing himself for saying the wrong thing when Sergeant Singh came out of the incident room and beckoned. “Sir, they’ve rung from downstairs,” she mouthed. “Mr. Azad is here with his solicitor.”

“Look, I’ve got to go,” he said to Gemma. “I’ll ring you just as soon as I’ve run the Gilles brothers to ground.”

Ahmed Azad had been as good as his word. Louise Phillips had rung first thing that morning, making an appointment to come in with her client as soon as possible.

Sergeant Singh showed them into the office Kincaid had purloined as an interview room and equipped with a table, chairs, and a pot of coffee. He meant to at least begin their discussion under the semblance of a friendly chat. Cullen was still at the Yard, and Neal Weller was involved with his own division’s business. Kincaid was curious to see what Azad would say without Weller’s interference.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Weller, who had defended Azad on the one hand and felt obliged to play the bully on the other.

Sergeant Singh showed Azad and Louise Phillips into the office and, at Kincaid’s nod, unobtrusively took a chair in the corner. Kincaid poured the coffee himself.

This morning Ahmed Azad was dressed in a deep blue suit, perfectly tailored for his slightly plump frame. The fine fabric had the sheen of silk, as did his pink-and-blue-striped tie. He was freshly shaved and smelled strongly of bay rum.

Louise Phillips, on the other hand, looked haggard and hollow-eyed, as if she hadn’t slept, and her rumpled black suit was liberally speckled with what looked to Kincaid like dog hair.

“Thank you for coming,” he said when they were all settled with their cups. Singh had made the coffee, and it was strong but good.

“Very considerate of you.” Azad sipped his coffee and nodded his approval. “One appreciates that, Mr. Kincaid. There is no reason why we cannot talk in a civilized manner.”

“Oh, I agree, Mr. Azad. Completely. And I appreciate your taking the time from your busy schedule to clear up some things for us.”

Singh’s eyes had widened. Kincaid flashed her a smile. She was obviously more accustomed to Weller’s interrogation methods. Not that Kincaid was averse to playing bad cop when it suited him, but he’d read Azad as the type to respond more willingly to flattery than force.

“And you, Ms. Phillips?” he asked, turning his attention to her. “How are you coping?”

“I’m here representing my client, Superintendent.” Her voice was sharp, and she sat stiffly in her chair, her coffee untouched. Clearly, she was not going to consider this interview a social occasion.

Kincaid carefully replaced his cup on the low table. “Now, Mr. Azad. Since you’ve come in, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us when you last spoke to Naz Malik.”

“Let me see. That would have been on Wednesday last week. Or was it Thursday? Yes, I believe it was Thursday.”

“All right, Thursday then. Was this at Mr. Malik’s office?”

“No, no, Nasir came by the restaurant. We spoke in my office there for just a few moments. Not long enough, it seems now,” he added, his voice heavy with regret.

“And why did Mr. Malik want to see you?” Kincaid asked easily, but he saw Louise Phillips tense.

“Mr. Azad does not have to-”

Azad cut her off with a wave of his hand. “There’s no reason I should not be frank with the superintendent, Louise. Yes, Nasir and I talked about my nephew, if that is what you are wanting to know. Actually, the young man is my great-nephew, the son of my favorite niece in Sylhet. I told Nasir that I did not know where my nephew had gone. Nor did I believe this nonsense story that Mohammed meant to testify against me. He is a foolish young man, yes, but he is not that foolish. All he would gain by such a thing is deportation, and the bringing of shame on his family.” Azad’s tone implied that the latter was by far the worst consequence.

“But if Naz believed your nephew meant to testify against you, he might have thought you had good reason to-let’s say, help your nephew disappear.”

“Nasir would never have suggested such a thing,” said Azad, his chin quivering with his disapproval. “He understood the importance of family. He was merely…concerned for the well-being of my relative.”

“So you didn’t argue with Naz about your nephew that day?” Kincaid asked.

“No. You can ask my staff if you feel it necessary.”

“Did you argue with Naz on the day he disappeared?”

Louise Phillips moved abruptly. “That’s enough, Superintendent. I can’t allow-”

“I did not see Nasir again,” Azad said, interrupting her once more. Kincaid wondered why he had insisted on her accompanying him. “Saturday is our busiest day at the restaurant. I was there from before lunch until well after closing on Saturday night. And I had no reason to argue with him. He was my friend as well as my attorney.” Azad’s round face seemed to sag with melancholy. He finished his coffee, tipping back the small cup to catch the last drop. When he’d placed the empty cup on the table, he brushed his hands against the knees of his trousers. The “game over” signal was as clear as a banner. “Now, Mr. Kincaid, is there anything else?”

“I think he’s lying,” said Sergeant Singh when Azad and Louise Phillips had left the room. She’d followed the conversation carefully, watching alertly even as she took notes.

“Oh, I think our very urbane Mr. Azad is certainly lying,” Kincaid agreed. “But the question is, what is he lying about? Does he know what happened to his nephew? Did Naz accuse him of getting rid of the inconvenient nephew? Did he see Naz again? Or is it something else altogether? And why did he drag Louise Phillips along for that dog-and-pony show-unless it was for her benefit rather than ours?” He thought for a moment. “See if you can catch Ms. Phillips, why don’t you, Sergeant? I think I’d like a word with her on her own.”

“You know I can’t discuss my client’s affairs with you,” Louise Phillips said when Singh brought her back into the small office. She smelled strongly of smoke, and Kincaid guessed Singh had caught up with her in the street as she’d stopped to light a cigarette.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Kincaid dismissed Singh with a smile, then turned to Phillips. “I realize that. But you can discuss Naz Malik’s.” He motioned her back into the chair she had so recently vacated. “Would you like that coffee now? I think the pot is still hot.”

She glared at him, but after a moment, she sank back into the chair and sighed, as if she were too tired to keep up the bristling posture. “Yes, all right,” she said, accepting a fresh cup. “I’ve been trying to give it up. My doctor says my blood pressure is sky high. But with Naz gone, it seems a bit stupid to be worrying about things like caffeine and blood pressure.” Shrugging, she added, “What difference does it make, if you can walk out of your house and end up dead in a park? Or get blown up on a bus? Or get shot in the tube?” She shook her head, then drank half the cup as if she was fiercely thirsty.

“In that case, why don’t you tell me whether or not Naz believed Azad did away with his nephew-excuse me, great-nephew. That would explain why Naz suddenly decided he wanted to drop Azad’s case. And then you can tell me if you think Azad is capable of having got rid of Naz, if Naz had learned he was responsible for getting rid of said nephew. A bit convoluted, but you follow. And you notice I’m not asking if Azad is guilty as charged.”

“I thought you said we weren’t going to talk about Azad,” Phillips countered, but with the faintest suggestion of a smile. “Although I do appreciate the thread of your argument.”

“Merely following your lead. And we are talking about Naz.”

“Quite. But I’m afraid, Superintendent, that I can’t tell you what Naz thought, because I don’t know.” She drank more of her coffee. Already the caffeine seemed to have given her more energy. “If you want my opinion, however-completely off the record-I don’t believe Azad harmed his nephew. I do think the old sod’s quite capable of slipping the boy out of the country in the back of a truck and sending him back to his mum in Sylhet for a good bollocking.” She reached for her bag, an automatic gesture, then drew her hand back. “I do not think that Azad would have had any part in harming Naz. Azad has his own code of loyalty. I don’t know if I fit into it, but I think Naz did. And I think Sandra did, too.”

“So who does benefit from Naz’s death, then, if not Azad? Did Naz have a will?”

Phillips rolled her eyes. “Naz was a lawyer. Of course he had a will. I’m the executor. Naz and Sandra both left everything in trust for Charlotte.”

“But they didn’t name a guardian?”

“No. That was the thing, you see.” She rubbed at one of her ragged cuticles. “It was…awkward. They couldn’t make a decision. There was no one they trusted.”

“With Charlotte, or with their money?” Kincaid asked.

“Charlotte. I don’t think either of them cared that much about the money, except as it provided for their child.”

“Will there be much?” Kincaid thought of the house in Fournier Street, and of prices he’d seen in the area estate agents’ windows.

“Yes, a good bit, I think. The value of the house may have dropped a bit in this economy, but it will still be worth a small fortune. They didn’t owe much on it. And Naz was always careful. They didn’t spend much on themselves, other than what they put into fixing up the house, and he invested the rest.”

Kincaid thought for a moment. “All this is assuming, of course, that Sandra Gilles doesn’t walk back into the picture tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Lou Phillips. “And as long as Sandra is missing, things are going to be very complicated, indeed.”

“I’m going out for a bit. I’ve got to run an errand.” It was the mid-afternoon lull, and Gemma had caught Melody in the corridor outside the CID room. “All the case assignments are up-to-date. Ring me if anything urgent comes up.”

“What are you up to?” Melody said quietly. “You’re not going to see Charlotte’s grandmother, are you?”

Gemma wasn’t in the mood to confide in anyone. “I just need a bit of fresh air.” It was true enough, Gemma told herself. Although the weekend’s brutal heat had relented, it was still warm, and her office was miserably stuffy. Her head was splitting from staring at the computer screen, and she was beginning to wonder why she had ever wanted a promotion to a desk job.

“I won’t be long,” she added, and with that, she ran down the stairs and out the front door of the station. On the steps, she bumped into a uniformed male constable, who grinned and said, “Where’s the fire, guv?”

“Corner shop,” she said, smiling back.

“Coffee and ciggies for me, then,” he called after her, and she waved back.

She turned into Ladbroke Grove. Having decided not to take the car, as she didn’t want to get caught in rush-hour traffic coming back, she walked up to Holland Park and took the District and Circle to Kings Cross. There, she changed for Old Street, and as she stood on the platform, closing her eyes against the warm wind from a train going in the opposite direction, she mulled over what she was doing. It might be rash, but she felt compelled by the bond she had formed with Charlotte. Who would act if she did not?

What she hadn’t told Melody was that she’d rung Doug Cullen and asked him to look up an address in Sandra Gilles’s file.

“Roy Blakely?” Cullen had asked. “Who’s he?”

“According to Tim, Blakely was the last person to see Sandra Gilles the day she disappeared. I just want to talk to him about Sandra. I don’t know that he has any direct connection with Naz Malik, so don’t worry, I’m not trespassing on your investigation.”

“That means you’ve told Duncan?” Cullen had said suspiciously.

“No, but I will.” Gemma had begun to feel irritated. “Just give me the address, Doug. I’ll sort it out with him later.”

But by the time she climbed the stairs at the Old Street tube station and emerged, hot and sweaty, into the street, she was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all. Then she looked up and saw the Ozone Angel, and felt again the odd sense of connection with Sandra she had experienced that first night. Yes, she needed to do this, and if it stepped on toes she would just have to deal with the consequences.

She walked on down Old Street, her stride relaxing into a long, easy swing. As she neared Columbia Road, she turned off into a side street and consulted the address she’d scribbled on a scrap of paper, then her A to Zed. A few more minutes brought her to a cul-de-sac filled with relatively new flats. They seemed more like town houses, Gemma thought as she looked at them more closely, houses with two stories and sloping red tile roofs, set in blocks surrounded by pleasant landscaping.

Roy Blakely’s flat was on a corner of one such block. It had a neatly tiled front entrance, and the front door stood open. Gemma peered in as she pushed the bell, but the interior was in shadow and her eyes hadn’t adjusted from the glare of the sun. She heard the faint sound of a television, then footsteps, and a man entered the hall.

“You from the gas board, darlin’?” he asked, looking at her approvingly. “Damn sight better than the last geezer they sent.” His accent was decidedly Cockney, and he was solidly built, perhaps in his fifties, with muscular shoulders shown off by his white T-shirt. His thick silver hair was cut short, and fine silver down glinted on his bare forearms.

“Mr. Blakely?” said Gemma.

“In the flesh. What can I do for you?”

“My name’s Gemma James, and I’d like to talk to you about Sandra Gilles.”

Roy Blakely’s friendly face was instantly shuttered. “Can’t help you, darlin’, and I’ve got work in me garden. So-”

“Mr. Blakely, wait. I’m a police officer, but I’m not here officially. I’m here because I’m concerned about Charlotte Malik, Sandra’s daughter. Did you know that Naz Malik was dead?”

“I heard from some mates who saw it in the paper, yeah. I’m sorry about that. But what’s it to do with me? Or Sandra? Look, I’ve told the police everything I know about that day a hundred times.” He started to swing the door shut.

Gemma made a last-ditch attempt at persuasion. “You knew Sandra well, didn’t you, Mr. Blakely? What would you say if I told you that Sandra’s mother was petitioning for custody of Charlotte?”

“Gail?” He paused, his hand still resting on the door, and scowled at her. “You said you weren’t here ‘officially.’ What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s a long story, Mr. Blakely, and it’s a hot day. If we could just talk somewhere cool…” She pushed the damp hair away from her face.

“You criticizing my Cockney hospitality, darlin’? That’s a right insult, that is,” he said, but the scowl was less fierce. “All right, then. Come and sit in the garden, and I’ll make you something to drink.”

He pushed the door open wide, and Gemma followed him into a sitting room that was dimmed by the light pouring in from the double glass doors in the back. The doors stood open to an oasis of green, splashed with bright colors. The voices she’d heard were louder, and she realized it was the radio rather than the telly, playing somewhere else in the house. She recognized a BBC 4 presenter, and caught something about gardening.

Then she stepped out onto a flagged patio shaded by the house, surrounded by raised beds so thick with plants that there was not an inch of bare soil. She recognized brilliant orange and yellow roses shaped into trees, a profusion of bee-swarmed lavender in one border, a drift of plumbago in another, and a lemon tree. As for the rest, she was hard-pressed to come up with names. The spicy scent of the lavender tickled her nose.

Two carved wooden chairs stood to one side, and a long worktable against the rear of the house held pots and tools and seed trays.

Roy Blakely shifted a chair for her, then came back a moment later with a plastic tumbler of water, cold from the fridge.

“Thanks.” Gemma took it gratefully. “I walked from Old Street. Your garden is lovely. Did you design it yourself?”

As Blakely sat on the edge of the other chair, Gemma noticed the mud stains on the knees of his jeans.

“I’m a one-man Ground Force, darlin’,” he said. “Now, what’s this all about? Are you telling me that little Charlotte is with Gail?”

Gemma set her glass down on the flagstones and leaned forward. “Not yet. Charlotte’s in foster care for the moment. But Gail is her nearest living relative, so unless the court has good reason to decide against her petition, Charlotte will go to her.”

He grimaced, then said, “And what do you have to do with any of this?”

She explained about Tim and Naz, and how she had come to be involved in the investigation into Naz’s death, and how she had helped arrange a temporary placement for Charlotte.

“But my friend told me that Naz and Sandra didn’t want Charlotte to have anything to do with her grandmother,” she continued, “and I’ve since heard some other things that make me think…I’m afraid of what will happen to Charlotte.”

Blakely shook his head. “I never thought-when Sandra disappeared…I know it was tough for Naz, caring for a child on his own, but I thought he was the coping sort. I never imagined-what the hell happened to him? The rumors floating round could sink a ship.”

“We”-she caught herself-“they don’t know exactly, but it looks like he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Blakely stared at her. “Why would somebody want to kill Naz Malik? Nice bloke. Good father, good husband. Helped people out when they needed it.” He shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Although, since Sandra’s been gone, he’s been a bit of a walking ghost. Not quite all there. I have to admit I was beginning to wonder if he could go on without her, if you want the truth.” He hesitated, then said, “You’re sure he didn’t-”

“The pathologist and the local police believe it was murder. Scotland Yard’s been called in.”

Blakely’s hands twitched and flexed, as if he were uncomfortable in not having something to do with them. She thought he’d paled a little beneath his tan. “And Sandra?” he asked. “Have they found out something about Sandra?”

“No, though they can’t help but wonder if Naz’s murder and Sandra’s disappearance are somehow connected. Are you certain there’s noth-”

“Do you think I haven’t gone over every single word said that day a million times, trying to find something, make some sense of it?” He turned towards her, his knuckles now white where he gripped the chair arms. “I’ve memorized every word she said. I dream them. And there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that explains where she can have gone.”

“I’d like to hear, if you could manage to tell it one more time,” Gemma said softly.

He leaned back again, closed his eyes. When he spoke, it was carefully, as if every word mattered. “She came late, just as we were beginning to shut down the stall. I looked up, and she was standing there with Charlotte on her hip, watching me. I said something like, ‘Come for the best of the lot, have you?’ because we always joked about me saving the knockdowns for her at the end of the day. Charlotte piped up, wanting a cupcake, but Sandra told her to wait. And then she said, ‘Roy, can I ask a favor? I’ve an errand, but I won’t be long. We have to meet Naz at two.’

“Charlotte wanted to help with the flowers. Sandra set her down. Then she looked at her watch. And now, when I look back at it, I think she hesitated for a minute, a fraction of a minute. But then she kissed Charlotte, and waved at me, and walked away. The next time I looked up, she was gone. That’s it,” he finished roughly.

“Did she have anything with her?” asked Gemma, trying to imagine the scene.

“Just her handbag. But I used to tell her she could get the bloody London Eye in that thing.”

“Did she look different, or sound different-”

“No!” Blakely rubbed a hand over his mouth, as if he were making an effort to maintain his patience. “No. She had on jeans and a T-shirt. I don’t remember what color the shirt was. I’ve tried. Some days she tied her hair back, but that day it was loose. I don’t think she had on any makeup. There was only-there was only that bit of hesitation, like she almost changed her mind about what she was going to do. Or maybe I’m just making that up.” He shook his head. “But it wasn’t like Sandra to hesitate. Once she made up her mind to do something, God forbid you got in her way.”

“She worked for you a long time?” Gemma asked.

“All through high school and art college. Even after she and Naz married she liked to do her bit. But I’d known Sandra since she was a tot. Truth is, I’d known Gail since I was a kid. Grew up on the same council estate.”

“So why didn’t Sandra and Gail get on?”

Roy shrugged. “The wife always said Sandra must have been one of those babies substituted at birth-a changeling.”

“Your wife?”

“Billie. She’s on holiday in Spain. A girl’s jaunt-hen party for our niece.”

Gemma shied away from the mention of hen parties. “You have kids?” she asked.

“No. I suppose that’s one reason we were always so fond of Sandra, not that she wasn’t a mouthy little thing sometimes. Took after her mother there, but in a good way.”

“You haven’t told me why Naz and Sandra didn’t want Charlotte to have anything to do with Gail.”

Blakely was silent for a moment, then he said, “You know that Sandra never knew her dad, and that her sister, Donna, and the boys are her half siblings? And Donna and the boys have different fathers as well.”

“But the boys have the same father?”

“Yeah, he stayed around for a bit, that one, although I think he was gone by the time Terry was born. It was Donna’s dad stayed the longest, but he was a right tosser. Lived off Gail’s benefits.”

“Gail never married any of them?”

“No. Gail’s mum helped out with the kids, but she’s gone now. That was the old Bethnal Green, extended families, everyone helping each other out. Not that it did much for Gail, but it at least kept Sandra from going the same way as her mum. She’s got no judgment, Gail. She could never keep her knickers on, from the time she were twelve. Blokes have been taking advantage of her ever since, including those useless sons of hers. And she never cared a fig for either of the girls.”

“But Sandra managed to make something of herself in spite of her family,” said Gemma.

“And they didn’t thank her for it, believe me. Called her ‘hoity-toity’ and ‘jumped-up cow.’”

“Her brothers, too? I heard they didn’t get on. And that Naz thought they might have had something to do with her disappearance.”

Roy’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Kev and Terry are a couple of shiftless louts who’ve been nothing but trouble for Sandra since she was a kid. And yeah, Naz came to see me, wanted me to say I’d seen them that day, but I hadn’t. And why would they hurt her? She was the one person they could count on to bail them out of trouble, worst case.

“Not to mention that if they had done something to her, at least a hint of it would have leaked. Those two couldn’t keep their mouths shut if their lives depended on it, and word still travels in these parts.”

“Was there anyone else that Sandra didn’t get on with, besides her family?”

Blakely reached for Gemma’s empty water glass and rubbed his thumb round the rim. “Sandra was…connected. Interested in people. And she crossed the border into the Bangladeshi community, something not very many old East End families are willing to do. Only person I can think of that she had a falling-out with was Pippa, and then she didn’t talk about it.”

“Pippa?” asked Gemma, her interest piqued by the unfamiliar name.

“Pippa Nightingale. Owns a gallery on Rivington Street. She’d been Sandra’s mentor since art college, and she represented Sandra’s work for years.”

“She doesn’t anymore?”

“I don’t think so. Like I said, Sandra didn’t really talk about it. You could ask Pippa yourself. Her place is called the Nightingale Gallery.”

“Mr. Blakely-Roy.” Gemma hesitated, not wanting to break the rapport she felt she’d established with Sandra’s friend, but she knew she had to ask. “There were rumors when Sandra disappeared that she might have been-that there was another man-”

“Bollocks!” He stood. “I don’t know who started it, but I heard those whispers when Sandra disappeared. It was crap then, and it’s crap now. No one who really knew Sandra would have believed it for a minute, and it made life a misery for Naz.”

“I’m sorry.” Gemma stood up as well. It was obvious she’d worn out her welcome. “Thank you, Mr. Blakely. But tell me one more thing. Would you be willing to see Charlotte raised by Gail Gilles?”

Blakely took a breath, then let it out slowly. “No. Not if I can bloody help it.”