Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“And the holiday in Spain, two weeks ago? Can you document that?”

“Of course I can.” A bit of Truman’s bluster returned. “I drove. I had my passport stamped getting on and off the ferry.”

He was more comfortable accounting for his movements during the time of Naz’s murder, Gemma thought, than he had been with the questions about Asia. And Kincaid’s remark about the selling of children had frightened him badly. He definitely knew something dodgy.

Somewhere beneath them, a dog barked. “Mr. Truman.” Gemma smiled at him. “I take it your surgery is downstairs?”

“Yes.” He sounded a little wary, but relieved by the change in direction. “And there is a small boarding facility adjacent to the garden. The garden here is quite large, you know.”

“You must have assistants,” Gemma said, in a tone of sympathetic interest. The man was wearing a suit. Perhaps he traded his jacket for a lab coat, but she couldn’t imagine him dealing personally with anything that might involve contact with blood or bodily fluids.

“Yes. Eric and Anthony. They’re very good.”

“Of course they are, or I’m sure you wouldn’t employ them.”

Truman had relaxed enough to glance at his watch. “And they’ll be waiting for me to start afternoon surgery-”

“Do you use ketamine in your practice, Mr. Truman?” Gemma asked.

He stared at her as if a friendly dog had turned and bitten him. “Ketamine? It’s not uncommon. It’s a useful sedative.” Puffing out his cheeks, he said, “Look, is this about drugs? I’m not stupid. I know ketamine is sold as a street drug, but if you’re accusing me-”

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Kincaid broke in. “But I’m assuming you keep records of use against supply.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you won’t mind if we have a look at them.”

“I certainly would.” Truman had regained his obstinate attitude. “You might as well accuse me of being a common criminal, and I won’t have it.”

“We could get a warrant,” Kincaid said.

“Then I suggest you do it.” Truman stood, and Gemma saw that he was a good deal smaller than he’d looked sitting down. His body seemed oddly proportioned, long in the torso compared to his legs. Perhaps that was why he’d preferred to face them from behind his desk.

“But you will let us have a look at your passport?”

“I will not.”

Kincaid shook his head. “That’s most uncooperative, Mr. Truman. We have only to check with Immigration.”

“Then I suggest you do that, as well.” Truman crossed his arms, the stance of a man prepared to stand his ground. “And I won’t speak to you again without a solicitor present. This is police bullying.”

“I think you’ll find it’s not,” Kincaid said, with a smile that would have made Gemma quail. “And you do realize, Mr. Truman, that the people who insist on solicitors are most often those who have something to hide.”

“We’ve done nothing more than put the wind up him,” said Cullen when they’d reached Gemma’s car. “And given him a chance to falsify his drug records.”

“If he’s been selling veterinary drugs on the side, I suspect he’ll have done that already,” Kincaid answered. “And the amount given to Naz Malik would likely not be traceable. I thought he might slip and connect the question about the ketamine to Naz’s death, as we’ve never released that information, but he didn’t.”

“Meaning either he didn’t know or he’s very clever,” put in Gemma. “And I’m not sure I buy the very clever.”

“He knew something about the girls,” insisted Cullen.

“I thought so, too.” Gemma unlocked her car and opened the door a bit to let the interior cool. “But if his passport’s clean-”

“He could have traveled on false papers.”

“I’m just not sure I see him as that enterprising. Or competent.” Gemma gave a shrug of frustration.

Kincaid had been standing, gazing thoughtfully at the front of the house. “Truman ticks all the boxes. The connection with Sandra. The connection with Ritchie’s club. The access to ketamine. But even if we assume that Sandra was onto him, either about the girls or the drugs, and that he was somehow responsible for her disappearance, we can’t connect him with Naz. The pieces don’t fit. There’s something missing, and I’m damned if I know what it is.”

“He may be a common policeman, but I have every reason to believe he is a fine young man and will make a good husband.” [Sister Julienne]

– Jennifer Worth, Farewell to the East End

While Kincaid and Cullen returned to the Yard to begin the tedious process of checking John Truman’s record with Customs and Immigration, Gemma went back to Notting Hill.

“We’ll have to come up with something more solid to have any hope of getting a warrant to look at his passport,” Kincaid had said, and although Gemma knew he was right, she felt frustrated and discouraged. They were so close to the truth, but she couldn’t see how to move forward.

The more she thought about what must have happened to Sandra Gilles and what would happen to Charlotte, the worse things seemed. Everything they had was merely hearsay, speculation. No matter how convinced they were that they were right, they had no proof.

They couldn’t talk to Alia again without risking her trust; nor could they interview Lucas Ritchie without presenting a very convincing case to Kincaid’s guv’nor and the assistant commissioner.

She called Melody into her office and told her about her unexpected encounter with Alia and about their interview with John Truman. “The man’s a complete slime. I know he’s dirty-I’m just not sure how dirty. And if he really was in Spain, he couldn’t have killed Naz, and we’re back to square one-Sandra’s brothers.” She sighed. “But we couldn’t have got this far without that list, and your help,” she added. “Now, if I just knew what to do next…”

“I’ll have another look at the list. Maybe there’s something we’ve missed.” Melody stood up and gave her an odd look. “Oh, by the way, Hazel rang you here. Your phone was off and she wanted to make sure you got the message. She wanted you to call her as soon as possible. Something about lunch tomorrow.” Looking as if she were trying to suppress a grin, Melody went out.

What had got into Melody? Gemma wondered. She shook her head, which was aching again, but obediently dialed Hazel’s number.

“What’s this about tomorrow?” she asked when Hazel answered.

“I’m taking you to lunch at the Oriel Café,” Hazel announced.

“Oh, Hazel, I’d love to, but I’ve said I’d go to Leyton, and anyway, I’m not sure I feel much like-”

“No, it’s all set. Tell your mum and dad you’ll come on Sunday. I’ve organized the day off tomorrow, and I’ve already worked things out with Duncan for Holly to play with Toby while we’re out. It will be a treat for all of us, and you, darling, need a bit of pampering.”

“But that’s what I said last week-”

“Well, you had a good excuse for not showing, I should think. Now, really, I’m insisting. I’ll call your mum myself if I must. I’ll be round about eleven,” she added, ringing off.

Gemma stared at the phone, bemused. Hazel could be a stubborn cow when she set her mind to it. Gemma found she was glad to see her friend more like her old self. And she was relieved, although she hated to admit it, to put off her visit to Leyton for a day. She was going to have to tell her parents-and more than likely her sister-that she still hadn’t made plans for the wedding. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Maybe a day out with Hazel would make it seem easier to cope.