Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“Detective Inspector Weller, who investigated Sandra Gilles’s disappearance, identified the body.”

“Weller.” Phillips grimaced. “Yes, he would know Naz. But why are you asking about Haggerston? Is that where he was…found? What happened to him? You still haven’t told me.”

Patiently, Kincaid said, “Mr. Malik left his daughter with her nanny on Saturday afternoon, saying he would be back shortly. His friend Tim Cavendish reported him missing when both he and the daughter’s nanny began to worry. Mr. Malik’s body was found by a passerby in Haggerston Park yesterday morning. The pathologist has not made a ruling on the cause of death.”

“Yesterday?” Louise Phillips whispered. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“I believe you’re ex-directory, Ms. Phillips? Unless DI Weller had your home number?” Kincaid remembered Gemma telling him she’d tried without success to find Phillips’s home number.

“Oh, no. Weller never asked. It never occurred to me that he’d need it. And I-I never imagined…I never imagined anything happening to Naz…”

“Did your partner seem particularly upset about anything the last time you spoke?”

She hesitated. “I wouldn’t say upset . We’d been…It’s this case.” Phillips sat down again and lit another Silk Cut. With an apologetic glance at Kincaid, Cullen set his notebook on a file case and went to the window.

“Do you mind?” he asked Phillips.

“Stuck shut,” she answered. “Naz was…Naz nagged at me to get it fixed, but I-I didn’t want-I don’t know why I was so bloody-minded about it.” She stubbed out the cigarette, and Cullen retreated to his chair, having scored at least a minor victory.

“The case?” Kincaid prompted.

“We’re representing a Bangladeshi restaurant owner named Ahmed Azad. He owns a curry house just off Brick Lane. He’s accused of importing young people and forcing them to work without pay in his home and restaurant.”

“House slaves?” Cullen looked surprised.

“Well, the home charge will be harder for the prosecution to prove. He’s sponsored these young men and women-they would have to testify that he’s forcing them to work without pay, and not allowing them to seek employment elsewhere.”

“But they won’t?” guessed Kincaid.

Phillips rolled her eyes. “It’s alleged that he threatened to rescind his sponsorship, which would result in their deportation. And it’s alleged that if they seek other employment, he threatens to harm their relatives back in Sylhet. Of course, they’re not going to talk.”

“But somebody did.”

“A couple of ex-employees from the restaurant. They seem to have a grudge against him over some back wages. And there was a young man, a second cousin, I think, who was working as a dishwasher. He agreed to testify that Azad refused to pay him, and had threatened them. But he seems to have, um, disappeared, so the prosecution’s case is looking a bit weak.”

“The man sounds an obvious crook,” said Cullen.

“He’s our client ,” corrected Phillips wearily. “If we only represented model citizens, we’d soon be out of business.”

“A witness disappeared, Ms. Phillips?” Kincaid asked sharply. “When?”

“Two weeks ago. We only learned about it when Customs and Immigration questioned Azad. They’d been keeping this boy, the cousin or nephew or whatever he was, under wraps.”

“Apparently with good reason.”

Phillips shrugged. “He probably just decided that getting his own back against Azad wasn’t worth deportation.”

“And you don’t think that Customs and Immigration will have offered him a deal?”

“We’re not privy to that information,” Phillips said rather primly. “But…Naz wasn’t happy. It was too close to home, the disappearance. We’d had-Things had been a bit tense in the office lately. Friday…”

Leaning forwards, Kincaid schooled his face into a sympathetic expression, concealing his interest. “You had a row?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a row.” She reached for the cigarettes, then stopped, as if making an effort to control the urge. Kincaid wondered how much of her smoking was due to nicotine addiction and how much was nervous habit, merely something to do with her hands. Without the easy prop, she resorted to twisting the ring she wore on her right hand. Her nails were short, the cuticles ragged, as if she bit them. “A disagreement, if that. It was just-Naz wasn’t sure he wanted to go on representing Azad. I told him that was bollocks. We were committed, and we needed the money. We couldn’t afford his scruples. He-” She clamped her lips tight, hands suddenly still.

“He what, Ms. Phillips?” Kincaid tone was firm.

“It’s just that, since Sandra disappeared, Naz has been…different. Well, naturally you’d expect that, but…We’ve known each other since law school. We’ve been partners for ten years. We were good together. But lately…Naz had been something of a liability. He couldn’t concentrate. Anything would send him off on a tangent, get his hopes up about Sandra. Or make him unreasonable, like this business with Azad. But I thought he’d adjust, somehow…”

“You thought he’d adjust to the loss of his wife? You didn’t think she’d come back?”

“No.” Phillips’s answer was flat. “Sandra Gilles wasn’t the type to walk away from everything she’d worked for. We had that in common, Sandra and I.”

“Not even if she’d had an affair?” Kincaid asked.

“An affair? No.” Phillips shook her head. “There was speculation, of course, when she disappeared, that she’d run off with a man, but I never believed it. Sandra was no saint, and I’m sure she and Naz had their differences over the years, but she’d never have left-Oh, God.” She stared at Kincaid, wide-eyed. “Charlotte. What’s happened to Charlotte?”

Gemma popped a CD of Handel anthems in the little player she kept in her office, hoping the music would propel her through the Monday-morning deluge of reports on her screen. But as the voices soared, she closed her eyes, mouse in hand, and let the music wash over her.

It made her think of Winnie, and of the small and perfect wedding she’d imagined, with Winnie officiating, and for a moment she indulged in the daydream. Then she opened her eyes and turned down the volume, chastising herself for her selfishness in putting her wishes over concern for Winnie’s health. She would ring Glastonbury this evening and check up on her, and that, she realized reluctantly, meant she’d have to tell Winnie and Jack about her mum as well.

She’d rung her mum at the hospital last night and first thing that morning, getting the chipper I’m just fine, dearie speech both times. She’d just made up her mind that as soon as she could decently duck out of the office, she was going to see for herself, when there was a tap on her door and Melody Talbot came in. They’d spoken only in passing at the department briefing that morning, a busy one, as intense heat always seemed to increase their caseload, and the buzz of excitement over the approaching carnival had added to the ferment.

“Boss,” said Melody, closing the door, “got a minute?”

Gemma glanced down at the report she’d been reading. A boy had been knifed near the Ladbroke Grove tube station on Saturday night, and although he’d survived, he was refusing to name his attackers. She sighed, sympathizing with the investigating officers’ frustration, and with a click reassigned the case to a team who were working two similar incidents. They might very well be connected.

Then she smiled at Melody, blanked the computer screen, and switched off the CD. “I’m all yours. What’s up?”