Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“Bollocks!” He stood. “I don’t know who started it, but I heard those whispers when Sandra disappeared. It was crap then, and it’s crap now. No one who really knew Sandra would have believed it for a minute, and it made life a misery for Naz.”

“I’m sorry.” Gemma stood up as well. It was obvious she’d worn out her welcome. “Thank you, Mr. Blakely. But tell me one more thing. Would you be willing to see Charlotte raised by Gail Gilles?”

Blakely took a breath, then let it out slowly. “No. Not if I can bloody help it.”

Being outside and extreme is what Spitalfields is all about. In medieval times the area was occupied by two classic categories of outcasts: the lepers and the insane, and Spitalfields derives its name from the leper hospice, St Mary’s Spital and the fields on which it stood. The insane were taken out to the gates of St Mary’s of Bethlehem or “Bedlam”, which occupied the site of what is today Liverpool Street Station.

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

Kincaid and Cullen found the club in Widegate Street through the process of elimination. The short and very narrow street was anchored at one end by the Kings Stores pub, loomed over at the other by the glass-and-brick hulk of Broadgate. In between, there were offices and a few discreet shops.

When they hadn’t turned up either of the Gilles brothers by lunchtime, Kincaid had decided it was time to hunt down Lucas Ritchie and his mysterious club. He’d grabbed a quick sandwich, then asked Cullen to meet him at the Liverpool Street station. It was only one stop on the tube from Bethnal Green, and he hadn’t fancied trying to park in the narrow streets of old Spitalfields.

Now, it was the entrance without insignia that interested Kincaid. It was an elegant frontage, with brass detailing, a bell, and a pass-card slot. When Kincaid examined the building more closely, he saw that the brick was new, but fitted seamlessly into the facades of the older buildings on either side.

“Hmm,” he said to Cullen. “A bit Diagon Alley. Let’s see what happens if we ring the bell.”

A moment later, a pleasant female voice issued from the tiny speaker beside the bell. “Can I help you, sir?”

Looking up, Kincaid saw the discreet camera mounted below the sill of the first-floor window. “Duncan Kincaid to see Mr. Ritchie,” he ventured.

The response was a buzz, followed by a click as the door latch released. Kincaid grinned at Cullen, said, “Open, sesame,” and pushed. Cullen followed, looking as though he might be entering a dragon’s den.

They stepped into a reception area that hovered somewhere between warehouse and posh hotel. Brick walls, wooden floors, unornamented windows, industrial-style pendant lighting-but the leather upholstery on the contemporary furniture grouped before the plain fireplace looked butter soft, the curved reception desk was an exotic-looking wood polished to a mirror shine, and the floral arrangements on the desk and in the sitting area were exquisite-as was the young woman standing behind the curved desk.

Asian-perhaps Anglo-Chinese-flawlessly groomed and made up, she wore a crisp white blouse under a perfectly tailored charcoal pinstripe suit. She was breathtaking, but behind the desk hung the collage that Kincaid had seen in the photo in Sandra Gilles’s studio, and it was this that held him riveted.

The photo hadn’t prepared him for the size of the piece, or for the depth of the colors and the intricacy of the design. He thought if he stared long enough, he could fall into it, peeling back the beckoning layers of life and history.

“Sir,” said the girl at the desk, bringing him back with a jolt, “can I help you? You said you wanted to see Mr. Ritchie?”

Kincaid smiled and showed his warrant card. “Just a quick chat, if you don’t mind.”

Although the girl’s eyes widened, her smile stayed in place. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll see if he’s available. Please make yourselves comfortable.” She gestured at the sitting area. “Can I get you water, or a pot of tea?”

When Kincaid declined, she ducked through an unobtrusive door to one side of the desk.

“What is this place?” Cullen said when she’d gone.

“Not your old-fashioned St. James’s gentlemen’s club, I don’t think.” Kincaid looked round, now noticing other artwork: two wood sculptures, a contemporary and unidentifiable metal piece, a beautiful pottery vase on a lit display stand. Nothing, however, compared to Sandra Gilles’s collage. “The question is, what’s on offer?”

“Sir.” The girl was back. She pushed a button on the other side of the desk and a door slid open, revealing a mirrored lift. “Mr. Ritchie will meet you on the first floor. My name’s Melanie, if there’s anything else I can do to assist you.”

Kincaid and Cullen stepped into the lift. When the door closed, Cullen whispered, “Does she mean-”

“I doubt it.” Kincaid grinned. “And if she did, you couldn’t afford it.”

The doors opened again, soundlessly, and they faced an expansive space. The front of the room was another sitting area with a bar; the back, a dining room furnished with long oak refectory tables set with crisp white linen, silver, and crystal.

It was getting late for lunch, but the tables were still well filled, as was the bar. The clientele was mostly male, Kincaid saw, but there were a few women in business attire. Another of Sandra Gilles’s collages hung over the fireplace in the lounge area, this one depicting what Kincaid thought was Petticoat Lane Market.

Kincaid noticed several young women dressed in suits identical to Melanie’s, moving among the tables, so gathered that the charcoal pinstripe must be a uniform of sorts for the club staff. Very classy indeed.

A man came towards them from the direction of the dining room, hand outstretched. “Melanie said you wanted to see me? I’m Lucas Ritchie.” He was tall and fair, with the faintest hint of designer stubble, and was considerably younger than Kincaid had expected. When Kincaid shook the offered hand, he found it surprisingly hard and calloused. It was an interesting contrast to the man’s impeccable tailoring and carefully classless London accent. Kincaid thought he recognized Ritchie’s cologne as the spicy Jo Malone fragrance Gemma had given him the previous Christmas.

While Cullen shook Ritchie’s hand, Kincaid produced his warrant card. “I’d like to talk to you about Naz Malik and Sandra Gilles, Mr. Ritchie. Is there somewhere-”

“In my office.” As polished as his receptionist, Ritchie hadn’t blinked. Had he been expecting a visit from the police?

He led them back into the lift. “These are our public rooms,” he explained as the lift doors closed. “My office is on the next floor, where we have our private meeting and conference rooms.”

They stepped out into a lounge area much like the one below, but smaller and cozier. Ritchie led them down a corridor behind the lounge, passing a number of rooms with conference tables and wall-mounted flat-screen televisions, and several small sitting rooms and private dining rooms. His office was at the very end of the corridor, a small room flooded with light from the single window. It was furnished with a sofa, comfortable chairs, and a desk, its surface bare except for an open laptop. Behind the desk hung a painting of a red horse, and although slightly different in composition, it was obviously by the same artist as the painting in Sandra’s studio. Looking more closely, Kincaid thought the signature was a scrawled “LR.”

“I heard about Naz Malik,” said Ritchie as he sat down at the desk. “One of the girls who knew Sandra saw it in the paper. But the story said he was found dead in Haggerston Park. Why is Scotland Yard making inquiries? Does this have something to do with Sandra?”