Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

She listened, idly picking out one note, then another, on the keyboard, a frown beginning to crease her forehead. “Ahmed Azad? You’re certain?”

Duncan came in, a bottled beer in hand, an eyebrow raised in query. He’d been in the study, rereading the reports on Naz Malik. His mood, touchy since the warning-off passed down from Narcotics, had improved since Gemma had told him that the Gilles brothers had borrowed a van on the afternoon and evening of Naz’s death, and he’d been looking for any mention or sighting of a van.

“Yeah, I’ll tell him,” Gemma said, glancing at Duncan. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As she ended the call, Duncan pulled a chair up beside the piano bench. “It’s too hot for wine.” He waved the beer bottle, displaying the already-forming condensation. “Want one?” When she shook her head, he asked, “Who was that? And what’s this about Azad?”

The office door opened just as Melody clicked her phone closed and her father came in, his tan face split in a grin.

“Melody, darling. George said you were here. Why didn’t you ring me? I’d have stayed and taken you to dinner.”

“Just doing a bit of research, Dad. No fuss.”

“Is it a case?” He came round to stand behind her before she had a chance to blank the computer screen. She couldn’t fault his reporter’s instincts. “‘Bangladeshi businessman protests vandalism by white toughs; criticizes the Met’s failure to take action,’” he read. “Don’t tell me you’re looking into your own organizational failures.”

Melody ignored the barb. “No, Dad. I was just curious about this guy. I saw him today at a club in Spitalfields. A very posh club with no name, managed by a man named Lucas Ritchie.”

Ivan looked thoughtful. “I know a place like that in Notting Hill. Four-hundred-pound bottles of wine, and beautiful, but unattainable, hostesses.”

Melody swiveled to look up at her dad. “So what does Mum think about you going to these places?”

He gave her the shark grin. “Oh, I’ve taken her with me once or twice. These sorts of clubs are the evolution of places like Annabel’s and Mark’s Club-at Annabel’s and Mark’s, only the elite can get in, but at these new places, only the elite even know about them. The anonymity is part of the pull.”

“The Secret Seven factor?” Melody had loved the Enid Blyton stories as a child.

“Every grown-up’s fantasy,” Ivan agreed. “Their own secret society. So, do you think this club is involved in something dodgy?”

“No reason to think so.” Melody had begun to wish she hadn’t offered even a minimal explanation. Her father was like a ferret once he got on a scent.

She exited the online archives, wishing she’d had a chance to print the story she’d found, but unwilling to arouse her father’s interest any further.

“Thanks, Dad,” she said as she stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

“Why don’t you stay? I just came in to check on tomorrow’s leader. I could take you to that café you like down Abingdon Street for a glass of wine.”

Melody gathered up her shopping bag from Whole Foods. “Sorry, Dad. I’ve already bought something, and it won’t keep.” She kissed his cheek, still smooth even at this time of evening. She’d discovered years ago that he kept an electric razor in his desk drawer. Not for Ivan Talbot the stubbled look. Where he had grown up, in working-class Newcastle, that had meant you were poor or a drunk.

“Your mother’s expecting you on Sunday,” he said as she reached the door.

“I know. I’ll be there.” She turned back, giving him a quelling look. “But this time, Dad, no blind dates.”

“That was Melody.” Gemma hesitated. “I think I might like a glass of wine, if you wouldn’t mind? It’s been chilling since I got home.” On her way back from Spitalfields, she’d stopped at Mr Christian’s for cold meats and salads, and popped into Oddbins for a bottle of wine. At home, she’d shucked off her work clothes and put on shorts and a tank top.

While Kincaid went into the kitchen, Gemma picked out a few more notes, and found she was playing “Kip’s Lights,” from Gabriel Yared’s score for The English Patient . It was one of her favorite pieces when she wanted to think, and good practice for her rusty fingers.

Although she’d told Kincaid about her visit to Gail Gilles, they’d got caught up in the melee-dinner and time with the kids, and she hadn’t mentioned the unplanned call on Lucas Ritchie. But now that the boys were upstairs she had no excuse for not coming clean.

“I like that bit,” Duncan said when he came back with her glass. He touched her bare arm with his fingertips, cold from the wine bottle. “Can you play and talk at the same time?”

No avoiding it now. Gemma took a fortifying sip of a Pouilly-Fumé she’d found in the sale bin and slid halfway round on the bench so that she could face him. “Melody met me in Spitalfields today. We had lunch at the market, and afterwards, we walked round to Lucas Ritchie’s club. I thought he might know more about Sandra than he told you. And I was curious.” Before he could interrupt, she added, “I identified myself, but told him it wasn’t official. I more or less implied I didn’t know you from Adam.”

“Thanks. I think.” His gaze grew a little more intent. “So how did you say you tracked him down?”

“Through Pippa Nightingale. She said it was Lucas who told her about Naz.”

“Okay.” He considered that for a moment while he drank some of his beer. “And were your charms any more effective than mine on Mr. Ritchie?”

“He’s a bit slippery,” Gemma admitted, “but he seemed to want to talk. I got the impression that he and Sandra were lovers before she met Naz, although he never quite came out and said so. He did say that when she first started going out with Naz, he thought Naz had beat her up. But when he confronted her, she was furious with him for suggesting it. She was still living at home.”

Duncan frowned. “Kevin and Terry, then?”

“Could be. Although Melody suggested it might have been one of Gail’s boyfriends, or even Gail.”

“Gail? Do you think that’s possible?”

Gemma thought of the undercurrent of viciousness she’d heard in Gail’s voice when she talked about Sandra, and of Charlotte, defenseless, and couldn’t repress a shudder. “Yes.”

“But Ritchie couldn’t confirm what had happened.”

“No. And he wouldn’t make a commitment to speak up for Charlotte either.” Gemma brought her hand down on the keys, sounding a dissonant note.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. And I doubt it would do much good. So where does Ahmed Azad come into this?” Duncan asked.

Suspicious-sounding thumps were coming from upstairs and Gemma cast a worried glance at the ceiling. “Melody saw him going into the club,” she said a little hurriedly. “She didn’t know it was him, just that he looked familiar-she thought she’d seen him in a news story. Then when she tracked it down-he’d complained publicly that he’d been vandalized by white gangs and that the Met had failed to investigate properly-she recognized his name from what I’d told her about the case. Azad didn’t mention to you that he knew Lucas Ritchie?”

“No.” Duncan ran a hand through his hair, pushing damp locks back from his forehead. “But then I didn’t ask. And I certainly didn’t think to ask Lucas Ritchie if he knew Azad. This puts rather a different slant on things. We knew that Sandra and Naz knew Azad, and that Sandra and Naz knew Ritchie, but not that those two had a connection.”

“There was something else-” A loud crash from upstairs interrupted what Gemma was going to say about Ritchie and Pippa Nightingale.