Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

A cooling feather of air touched Gemma’s cheek. The wind was shifting, a milky scum of cloud creeping over the sun. She glanced at her watch-it had gone six, and she was suddenly anxious to be home, although she had spoken to Kit and Toby on her way to Islington. She felt an irrational need to have everyone she loved corralled, like errant ducklings, and she wanted to talk to Duncan. He hadn’t rung her since they’d parted at Alia’s.

“I wouldn’t worry,” she told Tim. “But I’ll ring her, and I’ll tell her to ring you.” Although their friendship had never been physically demonstrative, she leaned over and kissed Tim’s bearded cheek, then stood. “Or else.”

She’d meant to wait to ring Hazel until she reached the house, but the image of Hazel as she’d been on Sunday, gaunt, unwashed, brittle with rage, unnerved her and she couldn’t focus on her driving. Pulling off the Caledonian Road, she stopped the car in a quiet street near the canal.

Although she’d told Tim not to worry, she hadn’t reassured herself. Why hadn’t she called to make sure Hazel was all right? What sort of friend was she?

The thought of Sandra Gilles and Naz Malik leapt unbidden into her mind-the specter of meetings not kept and phones not answered, of things gone terribly wrong.

Switching off the Escort’s engine, she took her phone from her bag and punched in Hazel’s number. A gull cried out over the canal, and as the signal connected, she felt the rumble of trains from nearby Kings Cross, a bone-deep counterpoint to the shrill and persistent ringing of Hazel’s phone.

By the early eighteenth century the City’s ancient walls had burst and the last of the fields had been built over to form London’s first suburbs. Another natural human desire-for more light, cleaner and fresher air-attracted the City merchants out in the direction of a rural life suggested by other street names around us now, Blossom, Elder and Primrose.

– Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street: The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

It was an anomaly among the terraced Georgian houses-a high wall, covered with creeping vines and flowers, secured by a heavy wooden gate. Beyond the terrace, the spire of Christ Church seemed to brood over the street, as if reminding its mortal inhabitants not to take life too lightly. A man in skullcap and salwar kameez hurried past, not raising his eyes to theirs.

Weller pushed the ornate brass bell set into the wall, and from within the compound they heard an answering chime. “Welcome to the seraglio,” Kincaid murmured.

“Closer than you might think,” Weller replied.

The gate opened a crack and a young Asian woman peered out. She took in their suits with a frightened glance, then started to close the gate again, whispering, “Not home. Not home,” but Weller wedged his shoulder in the gap.

“Oh, I think he is home. Tell Mr. Azad that Inspector Weller is here to see him.”

She flinched away from him, giving Weller the advantage, but didn’t loosen her grip on the gate. “No, Mr. Azad not home,” she insisted, but she looked more terrified than stubborn.

Kincaid saw that the gate opened onto a courtyard filled with tubs of plants anchored by an ornate three-tiered fountain. Water burbled over the lips of the fountain bowls, and he caught the scent of hot cooking oil and spices. It seemed Ahmed Azad had his bit of paradise, indeed.

Before the tableau at the gate turned into a shoving match, a man’s voice said, “Leave it, Maha.” The gate swung wide, revealing a short, plump man with a wide face and thinning dark hair, the long strands of which were carefully combed over his bald spot.

The young woman pulled her head scarf a little tighter and hurried back towards the house, but her steps were hampered by her sari.

“To what do we owe the honor, Inspector Weller,” said their host. Azad’s English was formal and only faintly accented, and he wore Western dress, a crisp white short-sleeved shirt loose over tan trousers.

“We’d just like a word, Mr. Azad, if we could come in. It’s about Naz Malik.”

“Ah. I have heard the sad news about Nasir Malik. Tragic.” Azad’s eyes narrowed, as if he were considering. “Come into the courtyard, then, where we will not disturb my family.”

As they passed through the gate, Kincaid saw that wooden benches were set among the potted plants. Beyond the garden stood the house, a square, stucco structure painted a soft pink and sporting several arched doorways. Kincaid caught a glimpse of movement inside, a flash of color, and heard the murmur of voices not quite masked by the splash of the fountain.

Near the fountain, a pair of benches faced each other. Azad took one, Weller and Kincaid the other, leaving Cullen in the awkward position of having to choose between sitting next to Azad, or standing. He chose the latter, stepping back a little way and looking usefully idle.

Azad studied Kincaid with dark, intelligent eyes. “And your friends, Inspector Weller?”

“Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen.” Weller made no mention of Scotland Yard, but Kincaid thought he saw a flicker of calculation in Azad’s gaze at the mention of his rank.

“A superintendent,” said Azad with evident approval. “It is very fitting that Nasir Malik should have a superintendent to investigate this crime, you know. This is a lawless country, Mr. Kincaid. Such a thing would never have happened in Bangladesh.”

“What exactly do you think happened to Naz Malik, Mr. Azad?” Kincaid asked, knowing that the cause of death was still speculative even within the investigating team.

But Azad said smoothly, “He was found dead in the park. I assumed he was set on by youths. These young people have no respect, and some of them, I am sorry to say, are Bangladeshi.” He shook his head with the regretful exasperation suited to a fond uncle. “Nasir was a good man, in spite of the questionable wisdom of some of his choices.”

Weller cocked his head like a large, rumpled bird. “Choices?”

Azad shrugged. “I mean no offense, Inspector, but Nasir married a white woman. Marriage is difficult enough without racial and cultural differences.”

“Malik spent most of his life here,” said Weller. “He seemed very English to me.”

“Did you know Sandra Gilles, Mr. Azad?” asked Kincaid.

“Of course I knew Sandra. Everyone in and around Brick Lane knew Sandra. She often stopped into my restaurant.”

“You didn’t like her?”

Azad looked irritated. “I said nothing about liking, Mr. Kincaid. It was simply a matter of what is appropriate. And she brought shame on Nasir.”

“Shame? How?”

“A man must be able to keep a wife, Mr. Kincaid.”

“So you think Sandra Gilles left Naz voluntarily, Mr. Azad?”

Azad shrugged again, less patiently. “It seems that is the most likely thing to have happened.”

“Why is that, when you immediately assumed that Naz had been killed by a gang?”

“Because you have found poor Nasir, but not Sandra,” Azad said, as if his logic were irrefutable.

“Perhaps she went to the same place as your nephew-or was it great-nephew?” suggested Weller, lazily.

The pouches of flesh under Azad’s eyes tightened, and although he didn’t move, there was a sudden tension in his posture. “This has been very pleasant, Mr. Weller, but if you are going to discuss my personal business, I’d think I’d prefer that my lawyer be present.”

“That would be Miss Phillips, then?” said Weller. “It must be rather inconvenient for you, losing one of your lawyers just as your case is coming to trial. And I can’t help but wonder,” he added, “how comfortable you feel with a woman as your sole representative.”