Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“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-”