Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“I need to make phone calls, and I don’t know how long that will take.” She checked her watch. The first call was personal and urgent-she needed to tell Duncan where she was and what she was doing. “You go on,” she added to Hazel. “I’ll get the tube from Liverpool Street when I’ve finished. I’m trespassing, really, without Tim or Alia here, and I’d rather you not be guilty by association.” She didn’t say that the house might be a potential crime scene, and the less disturbed, the better.

“But I-” Hazel left the sentence unfinished, but the silence spoke clearly-she didn’t want to go home.

Impulsively, Gemma hugged her and kissed her cheek. “I’ll ring you in just a bit. I promise.”

When Hazel reached the Golf, she turned back. “I’ve been a bitch, haven’t I? It’s just-” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I hope Tim’s friend is all right.”

“So do I,” said Gemma.

Duncan Kincaid was stretched out on the sitting room sofa, the Saturday Times scattered across the coffee table and the floor, a dog across his chest, a cat on his feet. The garden doors stood open to let in the slightest breath of early evening, but the air was muggy and Geordie, the cocker spaniel, was making him sweat.

“You’re taking up too much real estate, buddy,” he said, but he felt too lazy to make the dog move and merely stroked his dark gray ears. Geordie gave a huge doggy sigh of contentment and settled himself more firmly against Kincaid’s rib cage.

That afternoon, Kincaid had paid a call on the tenant in his flat in Carlingford Road, and had taken advantage of the visit to Hampstead to take both boys and both dogs to Hampstead Heath.

There had been method in his madness-a couple of hours of Frisbee throwing, ball chasing, and hunting for imaginary buried treasure had worn everyone out sufficiently to give him a rare bit of Saturday-afternoon peace. The boys were upstairs in their rooms, and the faint thump of bass from Kit’s iPod speakers provided an oddly comforting counterpoint to doggy snores.

When his mobile rang, he stretched towards the coffee table, fumbling for the phone, and dislodged Geordie in the process. “Sorry, mates,” he said as Sid, their black cat, raised his head and gave a hiss of displeasure at the disturbance.

Expecting Gemma, he was surprised by the name on the caller ID. Why ring him and not Gemma? A little jolt of dread made him sit up as he answered.

He listened, made the appropriate responses, and by the time he’d hung up, the dread had settled in the center of his chest like a fist.

When the mobile rang again, he was still sitting with the phone in his hand, staring blankly at the oil painting of a hunting spaniel over the fireplace, a gift to Gemma from his cousin Jack.

This time it was Gemma, and he took a moment to compose himself before he clicked on, saying brightly, “Hullo, love.”

Before he could go any further, she launched into a complicated story involving a missing friend of Tim Cavendish’s, and when he could get a word in edgewise, he said, “Wait. Where did you say you are?”

“Spitalfields,” she answered. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I need to talk to someone on the local force. Do you know anyone at Tower Hamlets?”

“Um, not below senior command. I’d try CID at Bethnal Green. Gemma-” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if this was something that really merited her involvement, but he knew as soon as the thought crossed his mind that he would be wasting his breath. She would do what she thought was right, and it was not his place to caution her.

“I’m sorry about dinner,” she said, misinterpreting his silence.

“The boys want pizza. We’ll save you some.”

“I’ll ring you as soon as I’m on my way home. Duncan-” She hesitated, then said, “This will probably come to nothing, but-”

“But you don’t think so.”

“Even if the husband strolls in claiming he had a bit of temporary amnesia, what happened to the wife? She’s been missing for three months.”

He recognized the tone-Gemma with the investigative bit between her teeth-and hoped that either there was a simple explanation or that the Tower Hamlets CID were not territorially prickly. On the other hand, a distraction might prove helpful at the moment. He was still debating whether or not to mention the phone call when Toby came in. He was carrying an umbrella from the stand in the hall, swinging it in arcs across the floor the way he had seen a man using a metal detector on Hampstead Heath, and adding buzzing and clicking noises as sound effects.

That definitely flipped the disclosure needle over to negative. “You’d better go now,” he told her, “or you’ll be treated to a dissertation on buried treasure, Cap’n Jack and talking parrots included.”

“Oh, dear.” Gemma laughed. “I won’t ask. Okay, then. I’ll ring you soon.” The connection went dead.

Toby stopped buzzing. “Was that Mummy?”

“Yes, sport.”

“Why didn’t I get to talk to her?”

“Because she was busy. She’ll be home later.”

“Why was she busy?”

Kincaid took a breath. “Because she’s out with Auntie Hazel.”

“What is she doing with Auntie Hazel?” Toby swung the umbrella tip dangerously near a vase of lilies on the coffee table, and Sid vanished beneath the sofa.

“Girl stuff.”

“What’s girl stuff?”

“I don’t know. Do I look like a girl?” Kincaid made a monster face that prompted a giggle. “Promise me you won’t say ‘why’ or ‘what’ for one minute.”

“Why?” Toby asked, still giggling.

“Because-” Kincaid lunged and caught him deftly, removing the umbrella. “Because I want to know if there’s room in here for pizza.” He squeezed Toby round the middle, then tickled him until he shrieked.

“I want pizza, I do,” Toby gasped between wriggles.

“Pirate pizza?”

“No. Buggy pizza.”

“He means the place on Pembridge Road,” said Kit, coming into the sitting room. Kincaid realized the music had stopped upstairs. “The one with the car in the window,” Kit went on. “He’s convinced it’s a Volkswagen bug, even though I’ve told him it’s not.” This comment was delivered with all the world weariness of a fourteen-year-old contemplating a five-year-old’s silliness.

Looking up at his son, Kincaid thought he’d got taller and thinner overnight. Kit’s iPod earbuds dangled from his jeans pocket, and his blond hair was going darker. It needed cutting. No spots yet, Kincaid thought gratefully. Maybe Kit would be spared that teenage trauma.

“Bugs it is, then,” Kincaid said, standing. “We’re not waiting for Gemma.”

“Who was that on the phone?” asked Kit.

“Gemma. She’s still tied up with Hazel.”

“No. Before that.”

Kincaid cocked an eyebrow at his son. “What? Are you spying on me?”

“No.” Kit’s fair skin still showed color too easily. “It’s just-I was sitting on the stairs. I like doing that, sometimes.”

Keeping order in the universe, Kincaid thought with an inward sigh. Although this summer had been easier, Kit still tended to take personal responsibility for the well-being of everyone in his orbit. “It was Aunt Cyn,” he answered, all trace of teasing gone.

Kit frowned. “Why was she calling you? ”

Glancing at Toby, who was once more preoccupied with his umbrella, Kincaid gave a small, negative shake of his head. The news would be no more welcome to Kit than to Gemma, but he would have to tell Gemma first.

Her sister, Cyn, hadn’t wanted to do it, had instead asked him to be the bearer of bad tidings. Perhaps, to give Cyn credit, she just hadn’t felt able to talk about it.