Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

Gemma realized she’d been hearing traffic sounds in the background. “Where are you?”

“City Road.” There was the faintest trace of amusement in Kincaid’s voice.

“You’re already going to interview the vet, Truman.”

“Spot on, Sherlock.”

“Give me the address,” said Gemma. “I’ll meet you there.”

The Georgian elegance of the terrace near Hoxton Square was rather marred by the shop at its end advertising “cheap booze.” Gemma had no need to search for the address, as Kincaid and Cullen were already there and waiting for her in their car.

They got out and came over to her as she parked. “That was good timing,” Kincaid said, opening her door. He brushed his fingers against her arm as he reached to help her out, a discreetly affectionate gesture. “A minute more and we’d have roasted.”

Cullen gave her a smile that just missed being a grimace, letting her know that he was tolerating her presence because he had no choice, and the three of them walked to the door. The only indication that the house was a veterinary surgery was a discreet brass plaque beside the bell, bearing Truman’s name and professional qualification.

Cullen rang, then held the door for them when the lock clicked open. They entered a hall, its style much grander than Naz and Sandra’s entry. But like the Fournier Street house, there was a central staircase, and a reception room on the right that faced the street.

The woman at the reception desk-which looked as if it had started life as a Georgian dining table-looked up as they came into the room. Her expression was more puzzled than welcoming. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but Mr. Truman sees clients only by appointment.” She was middle-aged and well, if not stylishly, groomed, and her accent was posh enough to make well-to-do urban pioneers in the East End feel at home. Gemma doubted Mr. Truman ministered to many puppies and kittens from council estates.

The chairs and settees were formal, and the walls were hung with gilt-framed, dark-hued oil paintings featuring dogs, with the occasional cat in the shadows. Gemma thought she much preferred the cheap and cheerful posters and cluttered atmosphere of their veterinary clinic in All Saints Road. There was no sign of a Sandra Gilles collage, and she began to wonder if Pippa had been wrong.

Kincaid had shown the receptionist his warrant card, and she said frostily, “I’m afraid that’s quite irregular. Mr. Truman can’t see you. He’s having his lunch, and his afternoon appointment will be here any moment.”

“His afternoon appointment may have to wait.” Kincaid’s smile conveyed more threat than charm. “I’m afraid we will have to insist.”

The staring match lasted a moment, then she got up, her mouth pinched with disapproval, and said, “I’ll just see if he’s finished his lunch.”

“These paintings look the kind of thing you’d pick up at a market stall,” Kincaid murmured in Gemma’s ear as the receptionist left the room. “If he has a collage, I doubt he displays it for the paying customers.”

They heard a door opening and closing nearby, and after a moment the receptionist returned. “Mr. Truman will see you in his office. Next door on the right.” She dismissed them with a nod and turned back to her computer.

It seemed to Gemma that the woman’s lack of curiosity at the advent of three police officers demanding to see her boss indicated a profound lack of imagination. Perhaps that was why Truman employed her.

Kincaid knocked on the door the receptionist had indicated, then opened it and went in, followed by Gemma and Cullen.

John Truman didn’t bother to get up from behind his desk. A pudgy man, perhaps in his forties, he boasted thinning hair combed artfully over his scalp. He was straightening a stack of files, and his hands seemed unnaturally pale, the fingers sausagelike. His small mouth was pursed in an expression that managed to combine indignation with self-satisfaction.

Gemma found him instantly repellent. She couldn’t imagine turning her dog or cat over to his care, and the thought of a child-

“This is very inconvenient,” Truman said in a high, slightly breathy voice. “I can’t imagine why you want to speak to me.”

Gemma saw Kincaid’s mouth twitch with annoyance. He wasn’t much for standing on rank, but the man’s behavior towards a senior police officer was appallingly rude. “It’s Detective Superintendent Kincaid, Mr. Truman, Scotland Yard. And this is Detective Inspector James, and Detective Sergeant Cullen. We understand that you knew Sandra Gilles. I believe you own some of her work.”

“Sandra?” Truman looked genuinely shocked. “I have a collage, yes, in my house. They’re very collectible. But what has that to do with you?”

“You do realize that Sandra Gilles has been missing for months?”

“Well, yes, but as you said, it’s been months. I still don’t see-”

“And where did you learn that Sandra was missing, Mr. Truman? Would that have been at the club in Widegate Street?”

Truman stared at him. His fat white fingers moved convulsively. “That’s not-How did you-I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Was it Lucas Ritchie who introduced you to Sandra?” asked Gemma. She sat, uninvited, in the chair in front of Truman’s desk, leaning forward so that she encroached on his personal space as much as possible.

“Well, yes, but there’s nothing wrong with that.” Truman looked incensed. “I still don’t see-”

Kincaid took up the volley. “Where were you Saturday before last, Mr. Truman?”

“Why on earth do you-I was in Spain, if you must know. It is August, and the last I heard there was no law against taking a holiday.” Glaring at them, he added, “Are you the ones responsible for hounding Lucas Ritchie? I saw that piece in the newspaper. That sort of thing should be against the law.”

“The newspaper story may have been in questionable taste, but I don’t think it crossed the line into libel,” Kincaid said pleasantly. “And I assure you we’re not hounding anyone. We’re merely doing our job, which is to investigate the disappearance of Sandra Gilles and the murder of her husband, Nasir Malik.”

“Murder?” Truman came close to squeaking.

“Surely you were aware of that? Lucas Ritchie knew, and it seems to have been common knowledge at the club.”

“I haven’t been there much lately,” Truman muttered, apparently losing sight of the fact that he’d been denying any knowledge of the place a moment before. “Maybe I did hear something, but it meant nothing to me. I never met the man.”

“That’s a bit unfeeling of you, considering you knew Sandra.” Hands in his pockets, Kincaid had moved round one side of Truman’s desk, studying the plaques on the walls. Cullen walked to the other side and stood, watching Truman. Kincaid and Cullen had learned, Gemma realized, that instant and silent communication required of partners. She felt a twinge of jealousy, quickly repressed. That was as it should be.

She caught an unpleasant whiff of sweat. They were succeeding, at least, in making Truman uncomfortable.

Kincaid turned from studying the certificates. “Conferences in Brussels, and Bruges, and Lisbon. And you were just in Spain, you say? You must like to travel, Mr. Truman. Have you ever been to Asia? India, perhaps, or Bangladesh?”

“What? No. Why would I want to go there? Those places are hardly civilized.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But some areas are very poor, and people will do desperate things to survive. Things like selling their children, for instance.”

Truman stared at Kincaid. He was sweating visibly now, and had gone slightly blue around the lips. Gemma hoped he wouldn’t keel over from a heart attack or a stroke right in front of them. “I’ve never been to Asia,” he said. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You can check my passport.”