Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“Mummy!” came Toby’s wail.

“Oh, lord.” Gemma handed Duncan her glass with a sigh. “He’s been practicing jumping ship from the bed again.”

On Thursday afternoon, not having found any mention of a van in either the statements or the witness reports relating to Naz Malik’s case, Kincaid had put Sergeant Singh and her team at Bethnal Green on to tracking down any known associates of the Gilles brothers with a vehicle fitting that description.

“Just a van?” Singh had asked, a bit dubiously. “Like a transit van?”

“All I know is it had to be big enough to transport a full-size sofa, a loveseat, and an armchair,” Kincaid told her.

Singh gave him a look through narrowed eyes. “And you know this how, exactly?”

“A completely reliable source.” He tried his best grin on her, but she looked unconvinced.

“And how do you suggest we do this without stepping on Narcotics’ toes?”

“Some discreet inquiries, to start with. Ask the officers who were watching the brothers’ purported places of work, and the sister’s flat, if they saw anything. You’re inventive, Sergeant. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“Maybe they really did move furniture,” she said.

“I think it’s likely they did,” he agreed. “But if that’s the case, they also had access, through the afternoon and evening, to a vehicle in which they could have held Naz Malik and then transported him to Haggerston Park. And I want it found. Now.”

Singh got the message. “Sir.” She had charged into the incident room, figurative guns blazing, and Kincaid had gone to look for Neal Weller, stopping off at the canteen to pick up a cup of execrable coffee.

Weller was in his office, suit jacket off, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He took them off, rubbing at his eyes, when Kincaid came in. “You’ve put a serious dent in my manpower, you know. And now what’s this about a van?”

“News travels fast.” Kincaid didn’t sit down.

“I have my means. Just what do you intend to do with this van if you find it? You can’t order a search based on unsubstantiated information from an unidentified source. And even if you could, Narcotics would have your bollocks.”

“There’s always a traffic stop,” Kincaid said. He’d had to take Weller into his confidence, but they weren’t broadcasting information about the drugs investigation to the rank and file. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” Now he perched on the arm of the spare chair, looking round for a place to set the undrinkable liquid in his polystyrene cup. He squeezed it into a bare spot on the edge of Weller’s desk. “Did you know that Ahmed Azad knew Lucas Ritchie?”

“Ritchie of the mysterious club?” Weller looked surprised.

“Azad seems to be a member of the club, as a matter of fact. And Ritchie had an employee who’s gone missing, like Azad’s nephew. I’ve got Cullen working on tracing her.”

“A woman?”

“A young woman named Kylie Watters.”

Weller shrugged. “Never heard of her. But you’re stretching a connection, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.” Kincaid straightened the crease in his trouser leg. “Or maybe Azad had the ability to help Ritchie get rid of an inconvenient employee. Or Ritchie had the means to help Azad with a more than inconvenient nephew.”

“What does any of this have to do with Naz Malik or Sandra Gilles?” asked Weller. He didn’t, to Kincaid’s relief, ask how Kincaid had come by the information.

“I don’t know, except that they all seem to be connected. But I think I’d like to have another word with Mr. Azad.”

“I’ll come with you.” Weller dropped the reading glasses on top of a stack of reports, looking like he was glad of an excuse to escape.

But Kincaid stood quickly, retrieving his cup. “I think I’ll go on my own, if you don’t mind. Just for a friendly chat, this time without the lawyer. I thought I might catch him at the restaurant. I might even have a curry.”

“Good luck with that.” Weller sat back in his chair, his expression making it quite clear he knew Kincaid had just pulled rank, and that he was not pleased. “And you can drop that swill in the bin on your way out.”

Gemma tucked in on Thursday, determined to set things right on her own manor. Not only was she behind in her work, but she felt guilty for having taken advantage of her guv’nor’s goodwill the day before. Still, she thought what she’d learned about Gail Gilles had made her dereliction worthwhile, if only she could figure out what to do with the information. And if nothing else, the tip about Gail’s furniture-shopping expedition might move Kincaid’s investigation forward.

By late afternoon, she had made a dent in things. She was opening up the last case report in her inbox when Betty Howard rang her mobile.

Picking up the phone, she said, “Hi, Betty. Is everything okay?” Her instant fear was that Betty had had another call from the caseworker.

“Oh, everything is all right, Gemma,” Betty said softly. Gemma could hear the music from an afternoon children’s program on the telly in the background. “It’s just that little Charlotte keeps asking me for her ducky pencils, and I’m not rightly sure I know what she means. I’ve given her every pencil in the house, and none of them will do. I can’t console the poor thing, and I’m that worried.”

Casting her mind back over the things she’d seen in Sandra’s studio, Gemma thought she remembered a cup of colored art pencils in a mug on Sandra’s worktable. “I might know the ones she means. They were her mum’s. Maybe Charlotte was allowed to play with them.”

“Is there any way you could get them for her? And she’s needing some more clothes, too. I’d be glad to buy some things for her, and I’ve got the allowance from the social, but it might be better for her to have her own things. Something familiar, you know.”

“Let me see what I can do. I’ll ring you back.”

The Fournier Street house was no longer officially a crime scene-had the investigating team turned the keys over to Naz’s executor, Naz’s partner, Louise Phillips? And if so, would Phillips give Gemma permission to go in the house and get some things for Charlotte?

She pulled out the little notebook she kept in her handbag and flipped back through the pages until she found the number she had written down for Naz and Louise Phillips’s office that first night. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was not yet five-hopefully Phillips would not have left for the day.

She punched in the number. A woman answered on the first ring with a brusque, “Malik and Phillips.”

“Could I speak to Louise Phillips, please?” asked Gemma.

“Speaking.” The voice was no less brisk. “Receptionist’s gone home for the day. What can I do for you?”

Gemma explained who she was and what she wanted. “I wondered if you could meet me at the house? Of course, I’d need your approval for anything I took for Charlotte.”

There was such a long pause that Gemma thought Phillips meant to refuse her request altogether.

Then Louise Phillips said, so slowly that Gemma thought the brusqueness had been a cover for exhaustion or grief, “I haven’t been in the house. I just-I couldn’t-Why don’t you meet me at my flat, in an hour or so. I’ll give you the keys. You can pop them back through my letterbox when you’re done. And you can make a list of anything you remove, for protocol’s sake, but I’ll assume you’re trustworthy. You’d better be”-she gave a hoarse laugh-“because at this point I’d be none the wiser if you walked off with the entire contents.”

Phillips gave Gemma an address, then added, “You’ll find the place easily enough. It’s just off Columbia Road.”