Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

Checking the map against the case report, he directed Cullen into Audrey Street, where they parked and got out. The scene had been cleared. A strip of crime scene tape hung limply from the iron gate at the park entrance, and a placard to one side held the previous day’s date and asked that anyone having seen suspicious activity at that location report it to the police help line.

Kincaid followed the path, taking in the details, until he reached the section of broken fence still marked off-limits by tape-not that a strip of tape would keep kids and curiosity seekers at bay.

“A good spot for a rape or a mugging, at least after dark,” said Cullen, studying the terrain. “Or a drug deal gone wrong, a gang knifing. But odd for a suicide.”

“Or a murder.” Kincaid walked farther along, until the trees thinned and he could see the land curving away towards Hackney City Farm. He then went back and examined the taped area, thinking about the scene photos included in the file. “What was this guy doing here?” he mused. “Meeting someone?”

“And then he just dropped dead?” Cullen tested the fence a few feet outside the taped area. “I don’t think the weight of a body falling would have broken the fence.”

“Unless it was already damaged. We’ll have to check with the groundskeepers. And I want to talk to the pathologist myself. But first let’s have a word with Mr. Malik’s partner.”

“It’s not far,” said Cullen, having taken over navigation while Kincaid drove. “Just this side of Bethnal Green Road.”

“That might make a bit more sense of Malik being found in the park.” Following Cullen’s directions, Kincaid pulled up in front of an undistinguished building in a side street off Warner Place. It was the second house in a rather grimy terrace. Gray-brown brick, blue door and blue trim work. Lettering over the ground-floor windows read MALIK PHILLIPS, SOLICITORS, and to one side, a little more discreetly, there was a phone number.

Kincaid pulled into the curb and got out. Studying the shop front while waiting for Cullen to come round the car, he peered through a gap in the miniblinds, but saw nothing but shadows. He pressed the buzzer, and after a moment the door released. He pushed it open and entered a small hallway, Cullen close on his heels. To their left, an open door led into the reception area he’d glimpsed through the blinds.

The room was empty, but it looked more inviting from the inside than it had from the window. Comfortably worn brown leather chairs and sofa, a serviceable desk, an industrial-grade Berber carpet, but the room was clean, and the freshly painted cream walls held imaginatively hung canvas reproductions of Banksy street art. An interesting choice for a solicitor, Kincaid thought, the ultimate outlaw artist.

A female voice called from upstairs. “Naz, you forget your keys again? Why the hell didn’t you ring me-” A woman peered down at them from the first-floor landing. “Sorry. I thought you were my partner. He’s late, and the receptionist isn’t in today. Can I help you? We usually see clients by appointment.” The tone was slightly disapproving. She started down the stairs, and as she came into the light cast by the glass transom in the front door, Kincaid saw that she was dark skinned, and West Indian rather than Asian. She was a little too thin, and wore a navy business suit with a plain white blouse. Her dark hair looked as if it had been straightened, and was pulled back in an unflattering knot. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, he caught the reek of stale cigarette smoke.

“You’re Louise Phillips?” He held out his warrant card. “Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen. Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard?” She stared at him. “If this is about Azad, you know I can’t talk to you. Unless”-she took a sharp little breath and her eyes widened-“is it Sandra? Are you here about Sandra?”

So she didn’t yet know what had happened. Naz Malik’s death had made a paragraph that morning in one of the tabloids, but it was probably not the sort of paper Louise Phillips read, and Naz’s death hadn’t been violent enough to get more mention. “Mrs. Phillips, is there somewhere we could talk?” he asked.

“It’s Ms .,” she corrected. “I’m not married. Not that my marital status should be anyone’s business.” The little speech seemed rote, tossed off while she gathered her thoughts. She glanced into the reception area, then shook her head, rejecting it although it looked the obvious spot. “Come upstairs, then. I suppose we can talk in my office.”

Turning, she led them up the stairs. The cigarette smell intensified as they climbed, and as they entered the first-floor office, Kincaid saw why. A plastic pub ashtray held place of honor on the cluttered desk. It was filled with cigarette ends, and one lipstick-smeared specimen had burned to ash in the slotted edge. The room was not much more attractive. Scuffed and untidy, it lacked any of the reception area’s charm, and in spite of the heat, its two windows were shut.

Louise Phillips waved an ineffective hand at the fug in the air. “Naz is always getting on at me, but it’s my office and I don’t know why I should have to be politically correct.”

Kincaid managed a smile, wondering how much exposure to secondhand smoke it took to contract lung cancer, and sat in one of the metal and faux-leather chairs that fought to occupy space between boxes stuffed with files. Cullen freed another chair, and Phillips sank down behind her desk with the apparent relief of one returning to charted territory, or at least escaping from a smoke-free zone.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait and talk to Naz?” she said. “Whatever it is-I can’t imagine why he’s late. He’s never late-”

“Ms. Phillips,” Kincaid broke in. It was always better to get it over with quickly. “We can’t talk to your partner. I’m sorry, but Naz Malik is dead.”

“What?” Phillips stared at him, and her dark skin seemed to go slightly gray. “You’re joking.” She swallowed, pressing her fingers to her lips as she shook her head. “No. You said ‘police.’ You don’t joke. But I don’t understand. When? How? Was it an accident?”

“We think not.”

“But-” Reaching for a packet of Silk Cut on her desk, Phillips fumbled a cigarette free and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. Through an exhaled stream of smoke, she squinted at him. “No, it wouldn’t be, not if you’re Scotland Yard. And you said you were a superintendent. Major crimes unit, I should think.”

Kincaid fought the impulse to cough as the smoke reached him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cullen, who had got out his notebook, glance at the window. Giving Cullen an infinitesimal shake of the head, he said, “Ms. Phillips, when did you last talk to your partner?”

“Friday. Friday afternoon. We’ve been working on a case that goes to trial next week. We had a meeting with the barrister in his chambers. Naz was-” Her voice wavered. “I can’t believe it.” She ground out the barely smoked cigarette, then lit another. “I’d been trying to ring him since yesterday. Couldn’t figure out why his phone was turned off-it went straight to voice mail. I left him a message this morning. I couldn’t believe he was late.” She looked at them in appeal. “What’s happened to him?”

“We’re not sure, Ms. Phillips,” Kincaid answered. “Do you know of any reason why your partner would have been in Haggerston Park?”

“Haggerston? No. Except Naz and Sandra used to take Charlotte to the farm sometimes, or for walks…”

“Did the park have any special significance for them?”

“No, not that I know of. They often had family outings to places in the area. But Naz isn’t really the nature type on his own…” Louise Phillips stood and began to pace in the small space behind her desk. “Look, you’re absolutely sure it’s Naz? There could be a mistake-”