Necessary as Blood

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

…for home to me was certainly never anything remotely material. It consisted, I have decided, in something I sensed as refuge: an atmosphere of safety in the love between my parents. It came in a tone of voice, in the preparation and eating of meals, in conversations during washing up and being busy in the garden.

– Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street: The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

It was rough going at first. Charlotte had come willingly into Gemma’s arms when Betty had dropped her off, but once in the house, the dogs barking and jumping up had frightened her and she had buried her head against Gemma’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, lovey,” Gemma had soothed. “The doggies just want to be friends with you.” But Charlotte had clung even more tightly to Bob, her plush elephant, and watched the dogs with wide, frightened eyes. Naz and Sandra hadn’t had a dog, Gemma thought, so perhaps she wasn’t accustomed to them.

Duncan had changed into T-shirt and jeans and gone out to fetch the boys from the garden. Now, having seen Betty’s little van drive past, they all came trooping in to examine their guest.

“Say hello to Charlotte, boys,” said Gemma.

Toby, already wound up from playing outside and the excitement of Duncan’s homecoming, stomped through the hall shrieking, “I’m Captain Hook, and I’m going to feed you to the crocodile,” and holding up a clawlike hand.

In desperation, they had retired his Pirates of the Caribbean films and replaced them with every version they could find of Peter Pan. Now, Gemma wasn’t sure that had been an improvement.

“Toby, if you can’t behave nicely, you can go to your room,” Gemma told him as Charlotte buried her head still farther.

When Duncan gave him a warning look and said, “Calm down, sport,” Toby subsided a bit, but kept singing under his breath and making little flying motions.

Duncan touched Charlotte’s curls and said gently, “Well, you’re a pretty girl, aren’t you, love?”

Kit, who had been standing back, observing, took charge. “She’s afraid of the dogs,” he whispered, then he turned to Charlotte and said, “Hi, Charlotte. I’m Kit. That’s Tess and that’s Geordie.” He pointed at each dog in turn. “They can do tricks. Would you like to see?”

Charlotte peeped out from Gemma’s shoulder and gave a very small nod.

Kit put the dogs in a sit, then a down. He had Geordie lift a paw to shake hands, and Tess roll over. The little terrier looked so comical with all four legs straight up in the air and her shaggy face upside down that Gemma thought she felt Charlotte begin to giggle. But when Kit asked her if she’d like to shake Geordie’s paw, she shook her head and clutched Gemma more tightly.

“Oh, dear.” Gemma shifted Charlotte a little more securely onto her hip. “Maybe we should put the dogs up for a bit until she gets used to us, at least. And I don’t know what we’ll do for dinner-I never got to the shops. I thought I was going to visit Gran at the hospital, but they sent her home this afternoon.”

“Is she better, then?” asked Kit.

“Yes, she’s feeling much better.” Gemma didn’t mention that Vi had sounded exhausted at the prospect of going home. “We’ll go see her at the weekend.”

“Pizza, pizza for dinner,” Toby chanted, and Duncan groaned. “I’m going to turn into a pizza.”

“Are not,” said Toby.

“Oh, yes I am.” Duncan patted his middle. “Or at least I’ll be round as one.”

“I can make us omelets,” offered Kit. “We have eggs and cheese, and some mushrooms. And I think there’s a tomato. The last time I was at Otto’s, Wes taught me to flip omelets in the pan. I’ve been practicing with dried beans.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Gemma said, laughing, “but delicious. Can we watch?”

Kit grinned. “Only if you say ‘Yes, Chef.’”

“Mushrooms are disgusting.” Toby made a face and stuck out his tongue.

“Pirates eat mushrooms,” Duncan told him, with great seriousness.

“Do not.”

“Do, too. That’s what makes their teeth black.”

Toby’s eyes grew big. “Really? Will they make mine black, too?”

“Only if you eat enough of them.” Duncan tousled his hair. “Give the dogs biscuits and put them in the study for a bit, sport. We’ll see if Miss Charlotte likes cats.”

Gemma sat at the kitchen table with Charlotte in her lap while Kit, with Duncan acting as sous-chef, assembled the ingredients for omelets and salad. Toby, having put the dogs up, ran through the house looking for Sid, who had disappeared with typical feline alacrity when wanted.

After a few minutes, Gemma felt Charlotte begin to relax, then the little girl squirmed round so that she had a better view of Kit.

“You are an absolute rock star in the kitchen, Kit,” Gemma said admiringly as Kit deftly chopped mushrooms and tomato. “You’d better be careful or you’ll set a precedent. You’re a much better cook than I am.”

Kit grinned at her, coloring a little. His cheeks were already flushed from the heat. “I just watch Wes.”

“You could give your dad lessons,” she teased Duncan.

“Hey,” Duncan protested, flicking a tea towel at her. “I’ve made an omelet. I can scramble eggs, and grill things, and, God forbid, order pizza.”

“Lame, very lame,” said Kit cheekily.

But when the first omelet was bubbling in the pan, Kit’s courage failed. “We only have just enough eggs,” he said, frowning. “Maybe I’ll just turn them with a spatula.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Gemma agreed, not wanting him to dent his pride or donate someone’s omelet to the dogs. “We’ll buy extra eggs next time so that you can practice.”

While Kit whisked eggs and swirled them in the omelet pan, Duncan laid the table, tossed the salad, and corralled and scrubbed Toby. As everyone sat down, Gemma still held Charlotte on her knee, but loosely. The child was sitting up, gazing from one boy to the other as if they were the most fascinating creatures she’d ever seen, but she still hadn’t spoken.

Then, when Gemma made the first cut into her golden, cheese-oozing omelet, Charlotte reached out and said clearly, precisely, “I want ’shrooms.”

Gemma fed Charlotte bites of her omelet, talking softly to her as the boys chattered. When they’d finished-Toby having eaten his mushrooms with a great show of fortitude-Duncan cleared the plates. “Let’s leave the washing up for later, when it’s cooler, and take Charlotte into the garden while there’s still light,” he suggested. “Maybe she’d like to swing.”

The house had its own garden, separated from the communal garden behind it by only an iron fence and gate. The communal garden, a long park with a terrace of houses on either side and high fences at the ends, was one of the great blessings of the house, and it had afforded both children and dogs many happy hours. A weathered wooden swing, courtesy of some previous neighbor, hung from one of the large trees near their patio garden.

Toby banged out through the gate, followed by the dogs, who were riotous with freedom. While Toby climbed into the swing, the dogs chased madly round in a circle. The sun had dropped behind the houses on the far side of the garden and the light filtering through the trees was a soft, hazy gold. The air had cooled, and a breeze carried the scent of the night-blooming jasmine Gemma had planted in a pot on the patio.

Duncan came out through the dining room doors, carrying two glasses of chilled white wine. “You left your phone in the kitchen. Betty just rang. She said she’d be a bit later than she thought. I told her not to worry.”

Gingerly, Gemma lowered Charlotte to the patio, and when she sat down, Charlotte didn’t climb back into her lap. Bob, her green plush elephant, had been left behind in the kitchen.

Watching Toby and the dogs intently, Charlotte whispered, “Georgy. Teth.”

Kit came out, tucking his phone in his jeans pocket with one hand. In the other, he held a plastic tube filled with the dogs’ favorite squeaky tennis balls. Squatting by Charlotte, he took a ball out and squeaked it for her in demonstration. She giggled. “Would you like to throw the ball for the dogs?” he asked.

Charlotte looked up at Gemma, who nodded encouragement. “You go on, lovey.”

When Kit held out a hand, Charlotte took it, and together they went through the gate. She was hesitant at first, but Kit helped her toss the ball, and soon she was running with the boys and the dogs, squealing with glee. Her brown legs were still toddler chubby beneath her pink shorts.

Lights began to come on in the houses across the garden as Duncan sank down in the chair beside Gemma’s and picked up his wine. “My God,” he said, watching the children. “She is lovely, isn’t she?” There was a hint of apology in his tone. “You were right, you know,” he added softly. “I’d hate to see her go to someone who didn’t care for her properly.”

“I went to see Roy Blakely today,” said Gemma, seeing her opening.

“Blakely?”

“Sandra’s friend on Columbia Road. The one she left Charlotte with that day.” She glanced at him. “You didn’t tell me I couldn’t.”

“Cheeky.” He gave her knee a gentle pinch. “So what did you find out?”

“Gail Gilles was a lousy mother.”

“And you’re surprised?”

Gemma shrugged. “Roy Blakely has known her since they were children. He wouldn’t be very comfortable testifying against her in family court, but he’s not happy with the idea of her taking Charlotte, either.”

“Did he give you anything specific about the brothers?”

“No,” Gemma said, not disguising her disappointment. “But he told me that Sandra hadn’t been getting on with her former dealer”-seeing Duncan’s startled glance, she clarified-“art dealer, I mean. And so I, um, went to see her, too.”

“Unofficially?” Kincaid asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gemma sipped her wine. “Unofficially.”

“And?”

“Her name is Pippa Nightingale, and she’s…interesting. She seemed genuinely distressed by Naz’s death, because she seems to think it means Sandra really isn’t coming back. Guilty conscience over her falling-out with Sandra, it sounds like, although she still couldn’t help sounding bitter over their disagreement. She felt Sandra didn’t take her art seriously enough-more or less accused her of being an interior designer rather than an artist. And she heard the news about Naz from Lucas Ritchie. It seems they were all three mates from art college days, although I think Pippa is a bit older.”

“Ah, Lucas Ritchie,” Duncan said meditatively. “Interesting bloke.”

Gemma turned towards him. “What? You met him? What’s he like?”

“Very polished. Very credible. Sandra’s art prominently displayed in his very posh club that seems, on the surface, to be aboveboard. And he seems, at least on first pass, to have an alibi for the day of Naz’s death. As does Ahmed Azad, by the way.”

“Azad could have hired goons,” Gemma suggested.

“So could Ritchie, I think. But I haven’t come up with a really good reason why either of them would have done so. Lucas Ritchie says he and Sandra were longtime friends, and even if they had been having an affair, I can’t see why he would have harmed her. It still looks like Sandra’s brothers are topping the charts.”

“You talked to them?” The children looked up from their play, and Gemma made an effort to lower her voice. “What did they say?”

Duncan swirled the dregs of his wine. “Ah, well. That’s problematical. I didn’t talk to them. And I’m not going to, at least any time soon,” he added, tipping up his glass to empty it. “I had a visit this afternoon from the guv’nor, who’d had a visit from a high-up muckety-muck in Narcotics. Apparently, Narcotics have been running an undercover op in the area for a couple of years.

“Major drug smuggling from Europe, a couple of homicides involved. And while the Gilles brothers may be very small fry, things are at a critical enough stage that they don’t want anything to rock the boat.”

“So they are into drugs.” Gemma didn’t know whether to feel vindicated or horrified.

“Minor players, but yes. And Narcotics think if we talk to them, it might put the wind up bigger fish. And that means I can’t talk to Gail Gilles either.”

The children had interrupted them, trailing back up to the patio and demanding drinks. Toby had taken Charlotte by the hand and was bossing her about quite insufferably, but as Charlotte seemed happy, Gemma didn’t correct him.

After fetching them chilled, bottled water from the kitchen fridge, she’d gone back inside to do the washing up. Duncan had offered, but she’d needed some time to think over the events of the day, and she’d wanted to give him the opportunity to be on his own with Charlotte and the boys.

What sense could it possibly make to a child, she wondered, to have mummy gone, then daddy, then to be taken from home and nanny and all things familiar to a strange house with a new family, then left again in a different house with a different family. Although Betty had, of course, told Charlotte she would be coming back for her, Gemma wasn’t sure Charlotte was old enough to understand that. Or whether she would believe it, given the capriciousness of the blows life had recently dealt her.

It was she, Gemma realized as she turned off the tap and began to dry the plates, who had been the only constant in Charlotte’s life since the afternoon of her father’s disappearance. The thought made her feel both frightened and possessive.

Voices drifted in through the open doors in the dining and sitting room; Duncan’s low chuckle, the high-pitched tones of the little ones, and Kit’s still unreliable shift between tenor and baritone, with an occasional canine yip as counterpoint.

But by the time she’d finished up in the kitchen, it had grown quiet, and when she entered the sitting room she saw that they had all migrated inside. A pool of lamplight fell on Kit, who was draped sideways over the armchair, cocooned with his iPod and earbuds.

Toby sat cross-legged on the floor a few feet from the television, the sound off, watching mesmerized as Cathy Rigby swooped and swaggered across the screen. The dogs were stretched out, panting, beside him, and Sid had taken up a safe vantage point on the bookcase.

And Duncan…Duncan sat on the sofa with Charlotte cradled in his arms. She was fast asleep, her curly head tucked under his chin, and on his face was an expression of surprised and wondering tenderness.

When Betty had collected the still-sleeping Charlotte-and it seemed to Gemma that Duncan had lowered her into her car seat with some reluctance-and the boys were in bed, Gemma and Duncan lay side by side, the sheet thrown back to catch a breeze from the open window.

Drowsily, she shifted towards him until their thighs touched, wondering if the warm, humid air would stick their limbs together like glue. “So, what are you going to do about Gail Gilles and her sons?” she asked. He’d told her that the plainclothes officers he’d put on watch had seen Kevin and Terry Gilles moving some of their belongings from their mother’s council flat to their sister Donna’s flat nearby. “Have you let Janice Silverman know Kevin and Terry are under investigation?”

“I’m not to contact her. They don’t want any chance of a leak. But…” He trailed his fingers over her thigh, raising goose bumps. “I thought-since you’ve already established that you’re interested in Charlotte’s welfare-I thought you might have a word with Gail Gilles after all. To express your condolences, and your concern for Charlotte.”

“Unofficially?” Gemma shivered and moved closer. Although she certainly wanted to meet Gail Gilles, she wasn’t sure who was taking advantage of whom in this little arrangement.

He touched a finger to her lips. “You never heard it from me.”