Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“Kevin and Terry Gilles are not the brightest clams in the pail,” Weller went on. “I can’t see them doing more than threatening kids for their lunch money. One of them, Kevin, I think it is, has been taken in a few times for disorderly conduct, had his driving license suspended. Apparently has a bit of a problem with his drink, but that’s a long way from drug kingpin.”

“Duncan Kincaid, by the way. Scotland Yard,” Kincaid said, ignoring Weller’s slightly mocking tone. The DI was doing a fairly good job of playground bully himself, but they were all going to have to get along nicely if they were to get anything accomplished. “And this is Sergeant Cullen,” he added, and Cullen gave Weller a wary nod. Kincaid glanced at his watch, smiled at the rest of the room. “Long day, everyone, and good job. Let’s reconvene first thing in the morning, shall we?” He turned back to Weller. “Inspector Weller, can we buy you a drink?”

They sat at one of the few tables squeezed onto the pavement outside a pub in Commercial Street. Kincaid had chosen the establishment because it was within spitting distance of Naz Malik’s Fournier Street house and he wanted to check on the forensics team afterwards. Weller had chosen the table on the pavement because he wanted to smoke.

“I quit for six months,” Weller admitted when Cullen had gone for their pints. “But my son got married this weekend, and then this case…” He shrugged and lit a Benson Hedges. Squinting past a stream of exhaled smoke, he held out a hand to Kincaid. “It’s Neal, by the way. Sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. Bad day.”

Cullen returned with three carefully balanced pint glasses and managed to set them down with only a slight slosh. Weller nodded his thanks and held out a hand to him as well. “Neal.”

“Doug.”

Proper introductions settled, Weller drank, then wiped the foam from his lip. “I was saying. Didn’t get a conviction today on a bastard we’re certain is a serial rapist. Jury considered the evidence circumstantial and the judge couldn’t convince them otherwise. Eighteen-year-old kid looks like a choirboy, and then there was me. Who’re they gonna believe?”

“Tough luck,” Kincaid agreed.

“For the next woman he lures into an alley.” Weller crushed out his cigarette with unnecessary force, then sighed. “But that’s neither here nor there, is it? You want to talk about Naz Malik.”

“First, I want to talk about Sandra Gilles,” Kincaid said. “What do you think happened to her?”

Weller shrugged. “What are the options? One-the most likely-domestic row turned ugly, husband got rid of the evidence. But within an hour of her leaving the kid at Columbia Road, Naz Malik was seen very publicly waiting for his family in a bus-turned-restaurant in Brick Lane. What could he have done with her in that hour? His office wasn’t far, but we went over every inch of the place and found nothing. And if she were meeting her husband, why leave the kid? And why not tell the friend at Columbia Road that she was meeting her husband?” Weller drank more of his pint and Cullen shifted in his chair, as if anticipating being sent to fetch the next round.

“So maybe she went home for something, caught her husband unexpectedly in the house with someone else,” Cullen suggested.

Weller shook his head. “Again, not enough time. Malik went straight from the restaurant to Columbia Road, took the kid home, and when his wife hadn’t turned up by dark, he called the police. When would he have disposed of a body? And there was no evidence in the house. Same as the office, it was clean as a whistle. So, option two.” He shook another cigarette from the pack and lit it.

“Sandra Gilles decided she was tired of being a wife and mum and simply disappeared from her life, either on her own or with someone else. It happens. Maybe she hitched a ride and is working as a fry cook at a Little Chef halfway to Scotland. I’d like to think so.”

“But you don’t,” Kincaid said, knowing the answer. “And option three?”

Weller’s eyes hardened. “Somebody snatched her off the street in broad daylight. Somebody like that psycho who got off today. Maybe he pulled over in a car, asked for directions, and dragged her in. Maybe everyone just happened to have their lace curtains closed at that very moment. And if that’s what happened, God help her. I hope it was quick.” He finished his drink in one long draft and Cullen stood up obligingly.

“Guv?” Cullen nodded at Kincaid’s glass, but Kincaid shook his head.

When Cullen had gone inside, Kincaid said. “What about her brothers? Apparently Naz thought their alibi was dodgy.”

“They were drinking in a pub near the Bethnal Green tube station. Not a nice place, to put it politely. Clientele mostly drunks and punters, and yes, some of them were mates of Kev and Terry. But the landlord didn’t care for the brothers, and he vouched for them regardless. And even if their alibi hadn’t checked out, what would they have done with her? Kev’s car, a clapped-out Ford, was up on blocks on the council estate, and they live with their mum, so it’s not likely they took her home.”

Cullen came back with a new pint for Weller and a glass of what looked suspiciously like tonic water for himself. “A scrum in there,” he said, edging his way past two standing drinkers to slip back into his chair.

The after-work crowd had now spilled out of the pub’s open doors. Most of the men and women wore suits, but Kincaid spied a patron or two in jeans and T-shirts, and one girl in full Goth regalia, black fingernails included.

“The City is moving in.” Weller eyed the suits with obvious distaste. “I suppose that’s a good thing-lowers the crime rate anyway, less work for us. But most of them are bloody wankers. They get jobs at some City bank, buy some overpriced tarted-up flat that’s barely been cleared of rats, and they think they belong here.”

“So who does belong here?” Kincaid asked, thinking about their earlier conversation with Alia Hakim. “The Bangladeshis? The Somalis? The artists?”

“There is that,” Weller agreed. “Not very many true Cockneys left-but what were Cockneys but poor immigrants who shoved out the immigrants who came before them?”

“Must have been a bit glamorous in its day, though, the old East End,” said Cullen. “The Kray twins-”

“Vicious bastards. I worked with blokes who’d seen the Krays’ handiwork up close-they had stories would make your hair stand on end. No”-Weller glanced round at the crowd-“good riddance to the Krays and their ilk, but just because the villains are less visible doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

“What about this Ahmed Azad that Naz Malik and his partner were defending?” Kincaid asked.

“Ah, he’s a villain, all right, although certainly more civilized than the old-style gangsters. A first-generation immigrant as a teenager, he worked his way up in a relative’s restaurant while taking night classes in English and accountancy. Now he owns the restaurant and runs it well. He’s a wily old sod, with a foot in both communities.”

“Sounds like you know him well.”

“He’s been the complainant more often than not, when the white gangs have wreaked havoc in Brick Lane. And while it’s rumored he has a finger in a number of questionable operations, I haven’t heard him linked to murder.”

“Louise Phillips told us that the prosecution’s star witness in a trafficking charge against him has vanished. If Azad was responsible, and Naz Malik found out-”

Weller shrugged. “If Naz thought Azad had removed a witness, he might have declined the case, but I can’t imagine Azad taking out his own lawyer. Might damage his prospects for future representation just a bit.”