Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“A little princess,” said Betty. “Going right for the gold.”

“Oh, I should have realized,” whispered Gemma, her chest tightening. “It looks like home to her. Her mother’s an artist who works with textiles. She had her studio in the house.”

“An artist? Mrs. Silverman said the mother went missing?”

“Yes. In May. And now this. Her dad…” Gemma pushed away the image of Naz Malik’s body, with the flies buzzing round it in the heat. It would be cold now, on a trolley in the mortuary.

“She’s an odd mix, this little one,” said Betty. “Striking. Her mother white, her father Pakistani, Mrs. Silverman told me, but with that hair, I’d swear she’s got more than a drop of West Indian in her. Wesley will have his camera out, soon as her tears have dried, mark my words.”

“Where is Wes?” asked Gemma.

“Bread-and-butter shoot. Molly Janes, the fishmonger’s daughter, it was her birthday party this afternoon. I don’t envy Wesley having to deal with a pack of sweets-fueled children in this heat.”

Although Wesley was taking evening classes at university towards a business degree, he earned his keep working at Otto’s café and helping out with Toby and Kit. But his true love was photography, and he was getting more and more of what he called bread-and-butter jobs-weddings, birthdays, family portraits-through word of mouth in the neighborhood. He had a particular gift for capturing children, and had given Gemma a beautiful candid portrait of Toby for her birthday.

Charlotte stirred, disturbed perhaps by the sound of their voices, although they had kept them close to a whisper. Pushing the cloth from her face, she blinked and rubbed her eyes, starting to whimper. Then she caught sight of Gemma and held out her arms.

Gemma knelt, gathering Charlotte’s small, warm body into her arms, and it felt to her as if she had always held this child. “Hello, pet,” she whispered. “Did you have a good sleep?”

Charlotte rubbed her nose against Gemma’s shoulder, an indeterminate answer, but at least a response. Gemma eased herself into a sitting position with her back against the sofa, cradling Charlotte in her lap. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.” Tim had told her that Charlotte had barely touched her food last night or that morning. Looking up at Betty, Gemma said, “Something smells fabulous. What are you cooking?”

“Pork roast with achiote rub, black beans and rice. Not anything special.”

“It would be at my house.” Gemma chuckled and ran a soothing hand through Charlotte’s curls, saying meditatively, “I wonder if Charlotte likes beans and rice?” Again the nose rub, but this time more of a nod than a shake. “I’ll take that as a yes. Betty’s the best cook in the whole world,” she stage-whispered in Charlotte’s ear, “but don’t tell her I said so.”

Charlotte turned her head just enough to peek at Betty.

“The roast is about done,” Betty said. “And I might just have some mango rice pudding. Why don’t I go and see?”

Gemma nodded and Betty left the room. After a moment there came the comforting sound of Betty moving about in the kitchen, and her soft voice singing. Shifting her position a bit, so that Charlotte could see more of the room, she said, “Betty has some pretty things, don’t you think?” She pulled a box of thread spools closer with her free hand.

Lifting the top, she began to rummage through them, pulling spools out for inspection. “There’s blue, and red, and lime green, and a very pretty yellow. What about this one?” She held up a deep pink spool. “What color is this?”

“Magenta,” whispered Charlotte, reaching for it with fingers that were still toddler chubby.

“Magenta? What a clever girl you are.”

Charlotte slid from Gemma’s lap and knelt by the box. “My mummy has threads.” She began to take spools out and stack them, sorting by color. “Reds together, blues together, greens together.”

“Where does the pink go, then?”

“Between the reds and the blues.” Charlotte looked up at her, frowning, as if the answer were obvious. “They’re families. Reds are mummies, blues are daddies, and the pinks can be the little children.” She had the slightest lisp, but her diction was remarkably clear for not quite three. This was a child who had spent much time in the company of adults.

“Yes, that sounds a good idea.” Impeccable color-wheel logic, thought Gemma. “Does your mummy let you play with her thread?” she asked, having noted Charlotte’s usage of the present tense.

“I help. I’m her best helper.” The red spools toppled, and Charlotte gathered them up with studied patience. “They shouldn’t run away. That’s naughty. My daddy says families belong together.”

Present tense for Daddy, too. Treading very carefully, but wanting to get an idea of just how much Charlotte understood, Gemma said, “But your daddy’s not here now, is he?”

Charlotte pushed her stacks of spools a bit closer together and shook her head. “No,” she said, as matter-of-factly as if Gemma had asked about the weather. “Daddy’s gone to look for Mummy.”

Weller always felt there was a persistent hum to a hospital. Even in nether regions like the basement, you could sense the unseen activity, a working hive.

Unfair to compare Rashid to a bee, however-there was no mindless industry here, in this room of tile and steel and precision instruments. And there was definitely no smell of honey.

“You getting soft, old man?” said Rashid, glancing up from the table. “You’re looking a bit green.” He’d finished the postmortem on Naz Malik and had sent his assistant off, preferring to do the close himself. He liked, as he had told Weller often enough, the sense of closure. And then he’d flashed his wicked pathologist’s grin at the bad pun.

“Still suffering from the ravages of too much wedding champagne,” Weller said, rubbing his temples. “Cheap stuff, too, although I can’t say I blame the bride’s family, considering everything else they had to shell out.”

“Sorry I couldn’t make it. One of the pathologists on the rota, Dr. Ling, had a family emergency. So duty called and all that. Give Sean my regrets.”

Weller’s son and Rashid were the same age, and had become friends over the years. “You were well out of it, although you might have had a good laugh,” Weller told him. Rashid didn’t drink, and Weller imagined that a hotel ballroom full of thoroughly pissed guests would get a bit wearing after a while if you didn’t share their rather skewed perspective.

His tie felt too tight, even in the cold room. Pulling at the knot, Weller repositioned himself against the tile wall so that Kaleem’s body half blocked his view of the table. “Look, Rashid, I appreciate you moving this one up.” Weller didn’t like to call in favors, but he was feeling less and less comfortable about this case. He’d gone back to Bethnal Green, gone over the notes on the Sandra Gilles case, wondering what he might have missed besides this man Ritchie. Tim Cavendish had had no further information on Ritchie or his club, so Weller had put Sergeant Singh on to a search.

Nothing had come in on Naz Malik. It was too soon to expect any results from the techies, and so far no good citizen had reported seeing Malik in the park last night or yesterday afternoon. Where had Malik been in those hours between the time he left his house in Fournier Street and the time Rashid estimated he had died in the park?

“Interesting, the DI from Notting Hill getting herself involved,” commented Rashid, as if guilty of mind reading.

“Interesting, or interested?” teased Weller. “She’s a looker.”

“She looks attached . I can spot it from a mile away. I’ve got radar about these things. And you’re prevaricating.”