Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

Smiling, Azad stood. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your condolences on the loss of my friend. If you will ring Ms. Phillips in the morning, I’m sure we can agree on a mutually convenient time to continue our discussion. Now, let me show you out.”

Having decided that she would go home and check on the boys before deciding what to do next about Hazel, Gemma walked into a quiet house redolent of the smell of baking.

Neither boys nor dogs came to greet her. There was no blare of the telly, no murmur of voices. There was, however, she realized as she stood and listened, a soft clanking of dishes coming from the kitchen.

“Anybody home?” she called, setting her bag on the hall bench.

“In here,” replied a familiar voice. Wesley Howard came out of the kitchen, holding a blue pottery bowl in the crook of one arm and a spatula in his other hand. He had a streak of something white across his nose, and a broad smile on his face.

Wesley, Betty Howard’s youngest child and only son, acted as part-time nanny to the boys, and Gemma had felt a special connection with the young man since the day she’d met him.

“Wes,” said Gemma, delighted. “What are you doing here? I thought you had to work tonight. And where is everyone?”

“The boys are walking the dogs. Toby and the mutts were bouncing off the walls-it was like Arsenal versus Man United in here. And I’m borrowing your oven.” Wesley put the spatula in the bowl and wiped his fingers on the tea towel tucked into the waist of his jeans. He wore an orange T-shirt emblazoned with the words PEACE, LOVE, AND REGGAE, and had tied his dreadlocks back with a royal blue bandanna. Like his mother, he embraced color. “Tuesday is our slow night at the café,” he added. “I don’t have to be in for a while yet.”

“What are you making? It smells heavenly.” Gemma sniffed again, following him as he headed back into the kitchen. She had a sudden worried thought about Charlotte. “Tell me the cooker in your flat hasn’t gone out.”

“No, just didn’t want to heat the place up any more. You know how small the kitchen is, and it was already stifling.”

Gemma took in the empty layer pans scattered across the work top. On the kitchen table, a large plate held a beautiful cake, half iced.

“And I thought Kit and Toby might like to help with the cake,” Wes continued. “It be verra good strawberry,” he added for emphasis, making Gemma laugh. She’d learned early on that Wes was a chameleon-he turned the West Indian accent on to suit, and usually as camouflage when he didn’t feel comfortable with someone. “You’ve missed your calling, Wes. You should be an actor.”

“I think we’ll save the stage for Toby.” Wes danced a little fencing step, using the spatula as a rapier.

Gemma raised her hands in mock horror. “Oh, no, please don’t encourage him. He’s bad enough already.”

Wesley returned the spatula to the bowl, scooping out more icing and smoothing it carefully onto the top layer of the cake. “I’ll tell him pirates didn’t have cake. Especially not cake with cream cheese icing and pureed fresh strawberries in the batter.”

Sid, their black cat, jumped up on the table and eyed the cake, his whiskers quivering. “No, you don’t, you bad cat. You know you’re not supposed to be on the table,” scolded Gemma. She scooped him up gently, however, and set him on the floor, pausing to rub his head. “So what’s this all about?” she asked Wes, teasing. “Is there a new girlfriend?”

“You might say that.” Wesley dolloped more icing on the top of the cake. “Her name is Charlotte,” he added, grinning. “I brought home a slice of Otto’s best chocolate gâteau from the café last night, but she wouldn’t eat it. So I thought I’d try something different.”

“Oh, Wes.” Gemma sank down in one of the kitchen chairs, feeling a rush of gratitude. “I knew you’d spoil her.”

“You mean you were hoping I’d spoil her.”

“I was counting on it.” She smiled. “How’s she doing today? Will she talk to you?”

“Not much, yet, but I’ll keep trying. Maybe strawberry cake will do the trick. Mum got out some of the girls’ old toys this morning, but she doesn’t seem much interested in anything but Mum’s sewing. She’s a natural for the camera, though-not the least bit self-conscious.”

“I think her mother took a lot of photographs.”

“That would explain it, then.” Wesley finished smoothing on the last of the icing. Reaching for a bowl of carefully sliced strawberries, he began to make a border round the top of the cake.

“I’ll check on her,” said Gemma. “But first I have to go to Battersea to see Hazel.”

Wesley gave her a puzzled glance. “But isn’t Hazel coming for tea? I’ve got out the best teapot and mugs.” He gestured towards a tray on the work top, where he had placed Gemma’s treasured Clarice Cliff teapot and cups. “I thought I’d have the cake iced by the time she got here. The two of you can have some with the boys, then I can take the rest home for Mum and Charlotte.”

Gemma stared at him, equally perplexed. “Wes, why would you think Hazel was coming for tea? I’ve been ringing her for an hour with no answer, and Tim hasn’t been able to get her for two days. I’m worried about her.”

Frowning, Wesley said, “But she was at my mum’s when I left. I just assumed she was coming here afterwards.”

“Your mum’s?” Gemma felt even more confused. “Why was Hazel at your mum’s?”

Wesley looked at her as if she’d missed the nose on her face. “She came to see Charlotte, of course.”

“Well, that’s put the wind up him,” Cullen said as Azad’s gate clicked shut behind them. He cast a disapproving glance at Neal Weller.

“That’s simply marked your position on the board,” Weller shot back. “Don’t think you could have put anything over on Azad. The question is whether he knows more than he’s told us.”

“And do you think he does?” Kincaid asked as they moved away, heading back towards Commercial Street.

“Azad prefers to be cooperative as long as it doesn’t interfere with his interests, and he didn’t get prickly until I mentioned the missing nephew.” Weller stopped at the corner. “And that surprised me, to tell the truth. I wasn’t expecting a reaction to the dig-he’s usually too cool for that. Maybe Malik’s death has him worried about his prospects in court.”

“Will he stay with Louise Phillips?” Kincaid asked.

They had stopped by the ancient horse trough in front of Christ Church. The pedestrian traffic flowed around them as if they were three suited boulders in a stream, while Weller scratched at the stubble on his chin, considering his response. “He’s not the sort to appreciate women in their professional capacity,” he said after a moment. “But at this point, I don’t think he has much choice, and I suspect that’s making him unhappy.”

“According to Louise Phillips, Naz was getting cold feet about Azad’s case,” Kincaid said. “Maybe Azad was afraid Naz would complicate things. He was certainly ready to lay blame for Naz’s death.”

“Laying blame and being responsible are two entirely different things.”

“You almost sound as if you like him,” said Cullen.

“No law against it.” Weller shrugged and looked at his watch. “I’m off. I’ll see you two hearties bright and early at the station. Thanks for the drinks.” He raised a hand in salute and turned into the crowd.

“Cheeky bastard,” muttered Cullen. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“We’re on his patch, Doug,” Kincaid said. “He knows the currents and undertows-he can read things we’d miss altogether. We need him.” He gave a shrug as expressive as Weller’s. “At least for the moment. I suspect that Ahmed Azad isn’t the only one who knows more than he’s telling.”