Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“Journals?”

“Sandra kept scads of them. Black, artists’ sketchbooks, filled with notes and drawings. That was where she worked out her ideas. They may be worth a good bit of money if she-” There was a pause, then Pippa said, “Look. I’ve got to go. But if you find those books, you’d better make a note of it for the estate. And have whoever’s in charge contact me.”

Clicking off the phone, Gemma looked round the room, thinking that Pippa Nightingale might be grieving for Naz and Sandra, but she was not about to let it interfere with business.

Gemma moved away from the desk and worktable. Hadn’t she seen black notebooks somewhere, when she was here before? Yes, there, on the shelf with the boxes of buttons and ribbons and the other objects Sandra used in the collages-at least a dozen identical black books.

Lifting the top one from the stack, she opened it and thumbed carefully through it. Notes, in many colors, the tiny script crammed into margins and any vertical and horizontal space not filled with drawings. And the drawings…Gemma looked more closely, fascinated. There were designs; some looked like bits of fabric, others seemed to be architectural details-Gemma thought she recognized the ornate curved lintel from a house opposite, and the Arabian curves of the decorative arches in Brick Lane. There were even tiny reproductions of some of the street art Gemma had seen sprayed along Brick Lane. And there were portraits. Asian women, young and old. A grizzled, shabby man under a striped market awning. A drawing that suggested, in just a few deft lines, the sweet face of a young Asian girl.

Gemma closed the book and held it, thinking. This was Sandra Gilles-here, in these pages-or at least all that Gemma, or Sandra’s daughter, might ever know of her. Pippa had suggested that the notebooks would be valuable, objects of desire for collectors, but what about their value to Charlotte? Surely, that was more important.

Setting aside the notebook, Gemma rummaged in her bag until she found her own little spiral notebook, and the list she had been making for Louise. She stared at the page for a long moment, then put the notebook back.

Carefully, she gathered all the black sketchbooks from the shelf, added the bundle of pencils from her bag, and left the studio.

On the way down the stairs, she retrieved Charlotte’s flowered holdall and tucked her acquisitions inside.

Reaching the ground floor, she turned out the lights and locked the garden door, then let herself out of the house and locked the front door as well.

She glanced up and down, as was her habit, but the street was empty. Walking quickly to her car, she opened the rear door and leaned in, meaning to place the bag securely on the floorboard.

Then, a hard shove slammed her forwards, cracking her head against the Escort’s roof.

Staggering, shaking her head, she instinctively dropped the bag, clenched her keys in her fist, and spun round.

There were two of them, crowding her, so close she could smell the mingled odors of sweat and beer.

They must have been waiting round the corner in Wilkes Street, to have come on her so fast. One man was bigger, heavier, with pouches under his hard blue eyes; the other was thinner, acne scarred, jittery.

And she knew them.

The streets of the East End were awash with heroin, or smack, which was no longer the exclusive junk of emaciated squatters with puncture marks running the length of their arms. Although as addictive as ever, the new improved heroin came in an easy-to-smoke brown resin at a vastly reduced price…In the East End, smack was now easier to obtain than marijuana.

– Tarquin Hall, Salaam Brick Lane

Sandra Gilles’s brothers. Kevin and Terry.

“Get the hell away from me,” Gemma spat, but they were too close-her back was against the car. She clutched her keys tighter, thinking she could hit only one, and that she’d have no time to react against the other.

“We saw you,” said the bigger one. “Didn’t we, Ter?”

Acne scar nodded.

“Snooping at our mum’s,” continued the big one. Kevin. “And now you’re at our sister’s ’ouse. You some sort of spy for them social workers?” He jabbed a finger at her collarbone and Gemma smacked it away, her reaction automatic.

“Keep your hands off me. Back off,” she said, cold with fury. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just told you,” said Kevin, but he moved back a few inches. “This ’ouse”-this time he jabbed the sausagelike finger towards the house across the street-“belongs to our sister”-jab-“and our niece”-jab-“and you got no business ’ere.”

“Neither”-Gemma jabbed a finger back at him-“do”-she jabbed again-“you. Now bugger off before I call the police.” It was pure bravado-her mobile was in her bag, on the floor of the car.

Kevin ignored the threat. “Who gave you our mum’s address?” Gemma glanced at Terry, wondering if he could talk. Kevin pulled her attention back. “You after our sister’s money or what?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She glared at him. “And I’m leaving now. Bugger off.” She tensed, wondering what she was going to do next.

Then a voice, male, vaguely familiar, came from behind her. “You heard her. Move it.” She turned her head a fraction, saw a man in a T-shirt and jeans. Dark, spiky hair, olive skin, green eyes. Rashid Kaleem, the pathologist. He had his mobile in his hand. “I’ve called the cops,” he said. “They’ll be here any second.”

Kevin’s eyes darted one way, then the other. A couple turned the corner from Brick Lane into Fournier Street, walking towards them. Somewhere in the distance a siren sounded. He stepped back, grabbing Terry by the shoulder. “Come on,” he said to his brother. Then he fixed Gemma with a hard stare. “You remember what we said.” He glanced at Rashid and spat. “Paki scum.”

With his brother in tow, he turned and moved quickly away. The two men passed the shadow of Christ Church and disappeared into the bustle of Commercial Street.

Gemma turned to Rashid. She realized her legs were shaking. “Did you really call the police? Where did you come from?”

“I was coming from the mosque, and I saw you. I live near here. What are you doing here? Who were those guys?”

“The police?” she said again, urgently. “Did you call the police?”

“No. No, I didn’t take the time. I was afraid they were going to hurt you.” He lifted the phone. “I’ll ring now. We’ve got a good description-”

“No. Wait.” Gemma leaned against the car, pushing her hair back from her face. She was suddenly aware that she was drenched with sweat, and her head was pounding.

With a look of concern, Rashid Kaleem reached out with gentle fingers and moved her hair just enough to examine the bump at her hairline. “You’re going to have a goose egg. Did they do that to you?” At her nod, he dropped his hand and began to key the phone.

“No, wait,” said Gemma. “It’s complicated.”

Rashid looked up, his fingers still, his face closing.

“I’m not protecting them,” Gemma hastened to explain. “It’s something else. It has to do with Naz Malik, the man you examined in the park.”

“Malik?” Slowly, Rashid’s distant expression relaxed into curiosity. He studied her more closely. “You need to sit down. Let me take you for a coffee.”

He led her round the corner into Brick Lane and up to the Old Truman Brewery. There was a coffeehouse in the back, behind the trendy shops and artists’ studios. Rashid ushered her inside and sat her down on one of the hard wooden benches, saying, “Wait here.” He disappeared towards the back.