Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

Then, when Gemma made the first cut into her golden, cheese-oozing omelet, Charlotte reached out and said clearly, precisely, “I want ’shrooms.”

Gemma fed Charlotte bites of her omelet, talking softly to her as the boys chattered. When they’d finished-Toby having eaten his mushrooms with a great show of fortitude-Duncan cleared the plates. “Let’s leave the washing up for later, when it’s cooler, and take Charlotte into the garden while there’s still light,” he suggested. “Maybe she’d like to swing.”

The house had its own garden, separated from the communal garden behind it by only an iron fence and gate. The communal garden, a long park with a terrace of houses on either side and high fences at the ends, was one of the great blessings of the house, and it had afforded both children and dogs many happy hours. A weathered wooden swing, courtesy of some previous neighbor, hung from one of the large trees near their patio garden.

Toby banged out through the gate, followed by the dogs, who were riotous with freedom. While Toby climbed into the swing, the dogs chased madly round in a circle. The sun had dropped behind the houses on the far side of the garden and the light filtering through the trees was a soft, hazy gold. The air had cooled, and a breeze carried the scent of the night-blooming jasmine Gemma had planted in a pot on the patio.

Duncan came out through the dining room doors, carrying two glasses of chilled white wine. “You left your phone in the kitchen. Betty just rang. She said she’d be a bit later than she thought. I told her not to worry.”

Gingerly, Gemma lowered Charlotte to the patio, and when she sat down, Charlotte didn’t climb back into her lap. Bob, her green plush elephant, had been left behind in the kitchen.

Watching Toby and the dogs intently, Charlotte whispered, “Georgy. Teth.”

Kit came out, tucking his phone in his jeans pocket with one hand. In the other, he held a plastic tube filled with the dogs’ favorite squeaky tennis balls. Squatting by Charlotte, he took a ball out and squeaked it for her in demonstration. She giggled. “Would you like to throw the ball for the dogs?” he asked.

Charlotte looked up at Gemma, who nodded encouragement. “You go on, lovey.”

When Kit held out a hand, Charlotte took it, and together they went through the gate. She was hesitant at first, but Kit helped her toss the ball, and soon she was running with the boys and the dogs, squealing with glee. Her brown legs were still toddler chubby beneath her pink shorts.

Lights began to come on in the houses across the garden as Duncan sank down in the chair beside Gemma’s and picked up his wine. “My God,” he said, watching the children. “She is lovely, isn’t she?” There was a hint of apology in his tone. “You were right, you know,” he added softly. “I’d hate to see her go to someone who didn’t care for her properly.”

“I went to see Roy Blakely today,” said Gemma, seeing her opening.

“Blakely?”

“Sandra’s friend on Columbia Road. The one she left Charlotte with that day.” She glanced at him. “You didn’t tell me I couldn’t.”

“Cheeky.” He gave her knee a gentle pinch. “So what did you find out?”

“Gail Gilles was a lousy mother.”

“And you’re surprised?”

Gemma shrugged. “Roy Blakely has known her since they were children. He wouldn’t be very comfortable testifying against her in family court, but he’s not happy with the idea of her taking Charlotte, either.”

“Did he give you anything specific about the brothers?”

“No,” Gemma said, not disguising her disappointment. “But he told me that Sandra hadn’t been getting on with her former dealer”-seeing Duncan’s startled glance, she clarified-“art dealer, I mean. And so I, um, went to see her, too.”

“Unofficially?” Kincaid asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gemma sipped her wine. “Unofficially.”

“And?”

“Her name is Pippa Nightingale, and she’s…interesting. She seemed genuinely distressed by Naz’s death, because she seems to think it means Sandra really isn’t coming back. Guilty conscience over her falling-out with Sandra, it sounds like, although she still couldn’t help sounding bitter over their disagreement. She felt Sandra didn’t take her art seriously enough-more or less accused her of being an interior designer rather than an artist. And she heard the news about Naz from Lucas Ritchie. It seems they were all three mates from art college days, although I think Pippa is a bit older.”

“Ah, Lucas Ritchie,” Duncan said meditatively. “Interesting bloke.”

Gemma turned towards him. “What? You met him? What’s he like?”

“Very polished. Very credible. Sandra’s art prominently displayed in his very posh club that seems, on the surface, to be aboveboard. And he seems, at least on first pass, to have an alibi for the day of Naz’s death. As does Ahmed Azad, by the way.”

“Azad could have hired goons,” Gemma suggested.

“So could Ritchie, I think. But I haven’t come up with a really good reason why either of them would have done so. Lucas Ritchie says he and Sandra were longtime friends, and even if they had been having an affair, I can’t see why he would have harmed her. It still looks like Sandra’s brothers are topping the charts.”

“You talked to them?” The children looked up from their play, and Gemma made an effort to lower her voice. “What did they say?”

Duncan swirled the dregs of his wine. “Ah, well. That’s problematical. I didn’t talk to them. And I’m not going to, at least any time soon,” he added, tipping up his glass to empty it. “I had a visit this afternoon from the guv’nor, who’d had a visit from a high-up muckety-muck in Narcotics. Apparently, Narcotics have been running an undercover op in the area for a couple of years.

“Major drug smuggling from Europe, a couple of homicides involved. And while the Gilles brothers may be very small fry, things are at a critical enough stage that they don’t want anything to rock the boat.”

“So they are into drugs.” Gemma didn’t know whether to feel vindicated or horrified.

“Minor players, but yes. And Narcotics think if we talk to them, it might put the wind up bigger fish. And that means I can’t talk to Gail Gilles either.”

The children had interrupted them, trailing back up to the patio and demanding drinks. Toby had taken Charlotte by the hand and was bossing her about quite insufferably, but as Charlotte seemed happy, Gemma didn’t correct him.

After fetching them chilled, bottled water from the kitchen fridge, she’d gone back inside to do the washing up. Duncan had offered, but she’d needed some time to think over the events of the day, and she’d wanted to give him the opportunity to be on his own with Charlotte and the boys.

What sense could it possibly make to a child, she wondered, to have mummy gone, then daddy, then to be taken from home and nanny and all things familiar to a strange house with a new family, then left again in a different house with a different family. Although Betty had, of course, told Charlotte she would be coming back for her, Gemma wasn’t sure Charlotte was old enough to understand that. Or whether she would believe it, given the capriciousness of the blows life had recently dealt her.

It was she, Gemma realized as she turned off the tap and began to dry the plates, who had been the only constant in Charlotte’s life since the afternoon of her father’s disappearance. The thought made her feel both frightened and possessive.

Voices drifted in through the open doors in the dining and sitting room; Duncan’s low chuckle, the high-pitched tones of the little ones, and Kit’s still unreliable shift between tenor and baritone, with an occasional canine yip as counterpoint.