Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“I don’t know,” Gemma snapped, her patience fraying. Her head was splitting, and there were times she thought her son was a terrier disguised as a little boy.

She had meant to stop at Betty’s on the way home, but at the last minute she had put it off. She didn’t think she could face seeing Charlotte, not with the image of the girl’s uncles still so freshly imprinted in her mind.

“Kit, will you light the grill? I’ve got some chicken for dinner, and a salad.” Gemma had discovered that the oil-fired cooker she had so fancied was a monster to cook on in the summer heat, so most evenings they resorted to cold salads or pasta, or used the charcoal grill on the patio.

Fortunately, Kit was a nascent pyromaniac, and having applied himself to the project with scientific intensity, had become an expert at lighting and tending charcoal.

“Roger that,” he said, and got up, but instead of heading for the patio, he came over to her and looked at her head more closely. “You should have that looked at.”

“I’m fine, really.” She summoned a smile. “Go on. Everyone’s starving, and I’m sure your dad will be home soon.”

She was thinking that the “bumping her head in the loft” explanation would have to do for Duncan as well until the children went to bed, when her mobile rang.

“I’m going to be late,” Kincaid said without preamble when she answered. “It turns out that Kevin’s boss owns a white transit van. I’m trying to get Narcotics to let me pull it over on a traffic stop, or at least to tell me if they think this guy, Roby, is involved in the drugs thing. If they’ve been watching him, too, they may know where the van was last Saturday.”

Gemma spilled a bagged salad into a bowl and fetched dressing from the fridge. “I don’t fancy your chances.”

“No. But nothing else is panning out. Lucas Ritchie has as much of an alibi for Saturday as we’re likely to get, by the way. He was at his niece’s birthday party in St. John’s Wood. His mum showed Cullen photos. And he didn’t drive there, so it’s not likely he ducked out of the party long enough to have met Naz and dumped him in the park. Cullen got the names of some other guests to follow up, but…”

“Not likely,” Gemma agreed. “What about the missing girl from the club? What was her name? Kylie?”

“Nothing definite, but her parents think she’s living in a squat in Plumstead. Or was it Wanstead? Undoubtedly the dodgy end. Cullen’s checking on it.” He sounded tired.

“Drugs involved?” Gemma thought about Rashid’s speculation that Terry Gilles was a user, and the implications of that for the Narcotics investigation.

And for Charlotte.

But she couldn’t pass those suspicions on to Janice Silverman without an explanation of how she had come by them. And she couldn’t talk to Kincaid about it now, not with Toby and Kit coming in and out of the kitchen.

“Maybe,” Kincaid said, then he added, “You okay? You sound a bit wobbly.”

“Oh, fine. I’m fine. It’s just been-a long day. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

But when Kincaid got home a few hours later, having finally had a very unrewarding conversation with his opposite number in Narcotics, he found Gemma in bed, fast asleep.

And when he woke the next morning, a bit late, he came downstairs to find Kit and Toby finishing breakfast, and Gemma already gone.

“She got a call,” Kit told him. “Another burglary in the middle of the night. Golborne Road, this time.” He sounded pleased with himself for passing on the information. “Here. I’ve made you toast.”

“Thanks, sport.” Kincaid glanced at the kitchen clock. “But I’d better eat it on the run if I’m going to get Toby to child care on time.”

He’d sent Toby to get his backpack, and had washed a mouthful of toast and jam down with coffee, when his mobile rang. When he saw that it was Cullen, he took another bite of toast as he answered. “I’m on my way,” he said. “Just as soon as-”

Cullen broke in, his voice a register higher than normal. “Guv, you’re not going to believe what made the bloody tabloids this morning.”

“Boss.” Melody ducked her head in the door of Gemma’s office. “The super’s here to see you.”

Gemma looked up from the report she was scrolling through on her computer. It hadn’t been burglary this time, but a robbery. The owner of a small grocery had been assaulted as he unlocked the shop at daybreak. “Mark?” she said, assuming Melody meant Superintendent Lamb, her guv’nor, and wondering why Melody felt the need to announce him.

“No.” Melody’s voice dropped to an emphatic whisper. “ Your super. Duncan.”

She disappeared from view and Kincaid walked into Gemma’s office, his face set in a thunderous scowl. He closed the door behind him as he tossed a newspaper on Gemma’s desk. “Have you seen this?”

Gemma turned the paper round. It was that morning’s Chronicle , and the headline read: Slave Trade Linked to Rumored Whitechapel Sex Club.

“What?” She pulled the paper closer and skimmed the lead. In the Chronicle’s usual lurid style, the article said it had learned that police were conducting an ongoing investigation into an exclusive private club in Whitechapel, which a well-known Bangladeshi businessman, soon to stand trial for modern-day slavery, was known to frequent. It gave Azad’s name, the details of the prosecution’s human-trafficking charges against him, and a summary of the various businesses in which he was allegedly involved.

It then, without actually giving an address, described in fulsome terms the club near historic Artillery Lane in Whitechapel, including the beautiful young hostesses whom it suggested were little better than high-class prostitutes. It ended by insinuating that the club harbored members whose ill-gotten wealth allowed them to scoff at British law and human rights.

“What the-” Gemma stared blankly at the page, then looked up at Kincaid. “That’s Ritchie’s club. They’re talking about Ritchie’s club. Where the hell did they get this?”

“I’ve no clue.” He sat down on the other side of her desk. “But I’ve already had the chief superintendent on the phone, who’s had the assistant commissioner on the phone, who’s had God knows who on the phone, all wanting to know what ongoing police investigation. I’ve said I merely made some routine inquiries in the course of a homicide investigation, and that there is no direct involvement on the part of the club. The question is, did anyone see you? ”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I only spoke to Ritchie.” Gemma lowered her voice. “And my visit had nothing to do with Narcotics.”

“Neither of us wants to explain that you were there pursuing a personal line of inquiry. Interfering in a murder investigation would not go down well with your boss or mine. And we’ll not be getting any further cooperation from Lucas Ritchie, or from Azad, on this case.”

With a sinking feeling, Gemma realized it was not likely she would get any help from Lucas Ritchie in Charlotte’s custody case either, nor would she be able to talk to him again.

“It’s not surprising that some of Ritchie’s club members have friends in high places,” Kincaid went on. “But as long as you’re not pulled into it, the funny-handshake brigade can complain all they like.”

“But the club wasn’t named,” Gemma protested.

“Didn’t need to be, for those who move on that level. I don’t know who’s going to be the most pissed off, Ritchie and his board of directors, or Azad.” He tapped the paper. “And the club may be perfectly respectable, but I guarantee there will be members who won’t want any association with the least rumor of high-class prostitution. Not to mention the fact that Azad will be a bit of an embarrassment.”