Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“It’s a small return to the community.” Alexander glanced at his watch, then gave them a perfunctory smile. “Sorry. A business appointment. If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded, then left them to join a cluster of men at the bar.

Ritchie turned towards the lift and handed Kincaid a business card. “If there’s anything else I can do, Superintendent, you know where to find me.”

“There is one more thing, Mr. Ritchie,” Kincaid said. “We’ll need to know your whereabouts last Saturday.”

“A bit full of himself, don’t you think?” said Cullen as they stepped out into Widegate Street. “Conceited git. Just assumes that every woman is gaga over him.”

“Maybe they are.” Kincaid grinned. “Seems like a good-looking bloke, but we might want to get a female opinion. What I think is more interesting is his address.” He touched the card in his breast pocket. With some reluctance, Ritchie had scribbled an address and phone number on the back.

“I was at my parents Saturday afternoon and evening. It’s a slow day for the club, and there was a birthday party for my niece,” he’d told them.

“St. John’s Wood,” Kincaid said thoughtfully as they walked back towards Liverpool Street. “If he comes from that sort of background, why the neutral accent?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to scare off working-class boys who made good. But you can still tell he’s public school.”

“How?” Kincaid asked, looking curiously at Cullen.

Cullen shrugged. “I don’t really know. You just can.”

“Makes you wonder about his ‘contacts in the City’ who were so willing to funnel money into the club, doesn’t it?” Kincaid mused. “Old schoolmates? Friends of his parents?”

“He will be connected,” agreed Cullen. “Whether he likes it or not. And he has a bloody suntan,” he added darkly, as if that were the worst imaginable offense.

“Maybe he jogs, or rows, or plays tennis. It is August, after all,” Kincaid said with a grin. “ You might even have a suntan if you ever got out of your flat. How’s the flat hunting going, by the way?”

“Not.” Cullen sounded discouraged.

“Well, if nothing major breaks, maybe you could take off a bit early this afternoon. But first, check out Ritchie’s alibi, and see if you can track down the not-missing girl. Kylie Watters.”

Melanie’s pretty mouth had turned down in distaste when they’d asked her about her former flatmate. “I don’t know where she is,” she’d told them. “And her mobile’s disconnected. I tried to ring her last week because she still owes me money on the rent. She was always late and coming up with excuses for it.”

“You don’t have another address or number for her?” Kincaid had asked.

“No. We weren’t really friends. It was just a convenient arrangement. And then she made a fool of herself with Lucas and made us all look bad. Silly cow.”

With a little more coaxing, she’d given them the defunct mobile number, said that she thought Kylie came from Essex, and had offered a description. “Mousy. And a bit chubby. I can’t imagine why Lucas hired her” had been her final, damning pronouncement.

They crossed Bishopsgate and Kincaid paused as they reached the escalators that led down into Liverpool Street Station, turning to Cullen. “Oh, and any luck with Azad’s missing nephew, by the way? We seem to be accumulating missing persons at an alarming rate.”

Gemma walked back towards Old Street, more slowly this time. She was beginning to wish she’d worn more sensible shoes. Given the continuing hot spell, strappy sandals had seemed the right choice that morning, but now she had a blister starting.

She slowed a little more, favoring her foot and thinking about her conversation with Roy Blakely as she walked. She’d given him Janice Silverman’s number and he’d said he would ring her. But when she’d asked if he would appear in family court, he’d hesitated, saying, “Of course I want what’s best for Charlotte…but I’ve known the family most of my life. And I’ve nothing specific to say, other than that Gail hasn’t done that great a job with her own kids, and that’s just my opinion.”

“Well, have a word with Janice. That’s a start,” Gemma had said, sensing she couldn’t push him further at the moment, and with that she’d had to be content.

But she had a clearer picture of what had happened the day Sandra disappeared, and she was more convinced than ever that Sandra had not gone voluntarily. And she was curious about this woman called Pippa Nightingale who Roy had mentioned.

She stopped and checked her A to Zed. Rivington Street ran parallel to Old Street, and she was almost within a stone’s throw. She would check in with work, and then she could just pop in Pippa Nightingale’s gallery for a quick word.

Not knowing the exact address, she started at the bottom end of the street and walked up, searching for the name. Rivington Street had that air of slightly shabby trendiness she was coming to associate with the East End. There were clubs and clothing boutiques, a health clinic, offices, and galleries. Too many galleries-she reached the top end of the street, anchored by the friendly looking Rivington Grill, without finding the gallery she wanted. Starting back the other way, she looked more closely. Halfway down the street, she was rewarded by the sight of very discreet lettering announcing the NIGHTINGALE GALLERY, beside a plain facade and an anonymous-looking door.

Gemma studied the building, then pushed the buzzer. When the door latch clicked, she went in. She found herself in a small vestibule with a staircase. There was nowhere to go but up.

As she climbed, she saw that tiny jewel-like paintings hung on the stairwell walls. The works were abstract, with layers of line and color that created such depth she had an odd sensation of vertigo. But it was the handwritten prices on the cards mounted beside the paintings that made her gasp. Lovely, but certainly beyond her reach.

When she reached the first floor, the space opened out into a long, narrow gallery. The walls were painted a stark white, the floor was unvarnished planks, and light poured in from a large window at the front. Only half a dozen works hung on the walls. Gemma wasn’t sure if she should call them paintings, for they were monochrome, except each picture had one splash of brilliant scarlet pigment.

She moved closer, fascinated. The meticulously rendered drawings made her think of the Hans Christian Andersen tales she’d been reading Toby. There was a magical, foreboding feeling to them, a sense of deep woods and snow. Female figures morphed into wolves, male figures into stags, and half-formed creatures peered from crags and branches. The red was visceral, shocking. As were the prices, again.

Gemma stepped back and looked round. The space seemed cavernously empty, but there was a door at the back of the room. She walked towards it, calling out, “Anyone here?”

A woman stepped out, and Gemma had the impression that one of the drawings on the wall had come to life. Waif slender, the woman was dressed in black, but her skin and hair were ice pale. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was on the phone. Can I help you?” Her voice was polished and surprisingly husky.

“Are you Pippa Nightingale?” asked Gemma. As she moved closer, she saw that the woman’s eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.

“Yes.” Now she sounded slightly wary. “Did someone send you?”

“Not exactly.” Gemma gave her a condensed version of her explanation to Roy Blakely, finishing with “Roy said you and Sandra had known each other for a long time, and that you represented Sandra’s work. So I wondered if you could tell me anything more about Sandra’s relationship with her family.”