Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

Lucas Ritchie was obviously accustomed to being in charge. Kincaid wondered what would shake him. “Our evidence suggests that Naz Malik was murdered. We don’t know whether his death is connected with his wife’s disappearance. We were hoping you might be able to tell us.”

“Me?” Ritchie raised his sandy eyebrows, but his tone seemed more exasperated than surprised. “Don’t tell me someone’s dug up that old chestnut about Sandra and me again. I thought that was well put to rest.”

“Apparently not,” Kincaid answered, “since Naz mentioned it to a close friend not long before he died.”

Ritchie rocked back in his chair, but kept his hands folded in his lap. So far the shift in position was his only display of ruffled composure, as his desk provided none of the usual outlets for fiddling. “Naz knew there was nothing to that rumor. Sandra and I had known each other for years. We were at art college together, and I’d supported her career whenever possible. We were good friends.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to her?” Kincaid asked.

“God, no.” Ritchie rocked the chair forward again with such force it squeaked. “Do you think I wouldn’t have said at the time if I had? I’d given her lunch here the week before. We’d talked about an idea for another collage for the club, and just, you know, the ordinary things, gossip about people we both knew. We planned to talk again soon-she was going to bring me some preliminary sketches. There was nothing-absolutely nothing-to indicate that she would walk into Columbia Market and bloody disappear.”

“You went to art college?” said Cullen. “Seems a far cry from all this.” His gesture took in the club.

Ritchie seemed unoffended. “I acted for a bit, and I was a passable painter. But I was always better at putting things together, managing things. I had an idea, and I met some people in the City who were on the lookout for an investment.” He shrugged. “I must say it’s been quite successful.”

“So you’re the manager rather than the owner?” Kincaid said.

“A mere employee of the board of directors. A minion. And it suits me perfectly well. No strings.”

“Why is there no name or public listing for the club?”

“A gimmick. There’s not even an Internet listing. Strictly word of mouth. It’s the ultimate exclusivity for the businessman-or woman-who has everything. And believe me, even in a recession, there are still people with money to spend.”

“The anonymity has nothing to do with the kind of services you provide?”

“Services?” Ritchie laughed. “Very tactful of you, Superintendent. We provide the same services as any other reputable private club. And if you are referring to our delightful female members of staff, they are very good at selling very expensive bottles of wine to the clientele, but that’s all they do. And they would be quite insulted if you suggested otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Kincaid with an answering smile. “You said you gave Sandra lunch. That implies that she was not a member?”

“You didn’t know Sandra.” Ritchie chuckled again. “No, she was not a member. This was not her cup of tea, to put it mildly. In her fonder moments, she would tell me I was a shallow, capitalist pig.” His smile faded. “I miss her. Everyone needs a friend who tells them what they don’t want to hear.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Although for all her philosophically elevated position, she was very practical, and not above poaching my clients.”

“Poaching?”

“It was a joke between us. She called me her ‘one-man PR band.’ If I hung her work in the club, the members would want their own. She got quite a few commissions out of it.”

“Are you saying you didn’t pay for the collages?” asked Kincaid.

“Of course I paid for them. Or I should say, the board of directors paid very nicely for them, as they have for the other artworks I’ve suggested. All lovely, aboveboard, and tax deductible.”

“I can’t help but notice that you refer to Sandra in the past tense, Mr. Ritchie,” Kincaid said levelly, holding Ritchie’s gaze.

Ritchie looked irritated for the first time. “I’m not an idiot, Superintendent. Sandra was happily married, at least as far as she confided in me. She loved her child. Her career was successful. She didn’t drink, other than the occasional glass of wine, and she didn’t do drugs. In all the time I knew her, she never showed the least sign of mental instability.”

“You think she’s dead?”

“I hope not. But I think it’s the most logical explanation. What I don’t understand is why the police haven’t come up with a single clue as to what happened to her. And now Naz-” Ritchie shook his head. “What the hell happened to Naz? Why would someone kill him? He was a nice bloke who’d been through hell.”

“Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against him?”

“I didn’t know him well enough to be privy to something like that. And Sandra never mentioned anything to me.”

“Did Sandra ever talk to you about her family?”

“No. Closed subject.” Ritchie thought for a moment. “I suppose I got the impression that her family didn’t approve of her work, but we just didn’t go there. Neither of us was comfortable with it.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, the dining room is still busy, and I need to keep an eye on things. If there’s nothing else-”

“Mr. Ritchie, have you any idea who started the rumor about you and Sandra?” Kincaid asked as he stood.

Ritchie sighed. “It could have been one of the staff here. I don’t go out with the girls, Superintendent. The complications are bad for business. But occasionally one of them gets a bit too attached and it gets…difficult. There was one I had to let go-Kylie. I don’t know where she is now.”

“Another missing woman?” Cullen asked.

“She’s not missing , Sergeant,” Ritchie said with exaggerated patience. “She just doesn’t work here anymore. Ask Melanie about her if you like. They were flatmates for a bit. Now-” He stood and ushered them back into the corridor. As they passed the private bar, a man came out of the lift, glanced at Kincaid, then frowned and came towards them.

“Don’t I know you?” he said, holding out a hand. “Miles Alexander.”

The man’s face looked familiar, and there was something sleek and a little padded about him that made Kincaid think of a seal. The comparison triggered recollection. “I saw you at the London,” Kincaid said. This was the man who had passed them in the corridor as they were going to Dr. Kaleem’s office, and had responded rather irritably to Kincaid’s request for directions.

“Ah, that was it. I’m a consultant there.” Alexander seemed sociable enough now.

“Miles is also one of Sandra’s patrons,” said Ritchie. “Miles, these gentlemen are from Scotland Yard.”

“Is there news about Sandra?” Alexander asked. He looked more interested than distressed.

“No. We’re here about her husband, Naz Malik,” Kincaid said. When Alexander looked at him blankly, he added, “Mr. Malik was killed this past weekend.”

“I hadn’t heard.” Alexander frowned. “That’s too bad. You’d think Sandra going missing was enough tragedy for one family.” He shook his head. “Not only do I miss her work, but she was a great benefactor of the clinic.”

“The clinic?”

“Miles is one of the directors of a sexual-health clinic in Shoreditch,” explained Ritchie. “It provides free screening and services for local women. Sandra felt really strongly about it, and contributed her time as well as her artwork. Many of the Asian women don’t want their husbands or families to know they’re seeing a doctor, so the clinic allows them confidentiality.”