Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“Oh, aren’t you the wit. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.” Alexander seemed unperturbed. “Nor do I have to speak to you, although you do seem to be conscious.”

“I can’t question you, no. But I can say whatever I like.” She moved a step closer, and wondered if she were imagining the metallic, slightly chemical smell of him. “You see, I know you murdered Sandra Gilles and her husband. And I don’t intend to let you get away with playing God.”

“Then I’d say you have a rather elevated self-image, and a very active imagination.” Alexander smiled again, but she had seen the glint in his eyes, like the flash of a snake moving in the grass.

It was only then that she realized she’d been harboring the tiniest shred of hope that Sandra Gilles was still alive. She turned and left the room.

A few moments later, she was leaning against the corridor wall, her eyes closed, when she heard footsteps. She opened her eyes and saw Kincaid, alone.

“Where’s Alexander’s lawyer?” asked Gemma.

“Rethinking his strategy, I suspect. He said he needed to make a phone call.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Good news for us,” Kincaid answered, but his expression was grim. “Doug and Melody came up trumps. Mr. Alexander’s next-door neighbor came home after an evening out. She’s a single mum, apparently, and was only too happy to talk about the odd goings-on next door.

“She didn’t recall seeing Naz or Sandra. But”-he forestalled her disappointment-“she did tell them that she’d been worried about the young girl she’d seen in the house, sometimes looking out a window, a few times peeking through the open door when Alexander was coming or going.

“Once she stopped Alexander and asked if his little girl might like to play with her own daughter. He told her the girl was his housekeeper’s child, and more or less to mind her own business.

“But the mum says she never saw a housekeeper. And not long after that, she stopped seeing the girl, too.”

“When?” asked Gemma. “When did she last see the girl?”

“She said she was sure it was in May. Her wisteria had just finished blooming.”

Gemma stared at him in dismay. “And she said child ? Not a teenager? Not the girl who came into the clinic?”

“A little girl not more than ten or twelve, she told Doug. Asian, wearing traditional dress. I’ve rung the magistrate. We should have a search warrant by daybreak.”

The shadow of Christ Church falls across Spitalfields Gardens and in the shadow of Christ Church I see a sight I never wish to see again.

– Jack London, People of the Abyss (1903)

Miles Alexander had, on the advice of his solicitor, refused to answer any of their questions. After a whispered conference with his lawyer, he had not reacted when told they intended to search his house. The solicitor, however, had looked distinctly uneasy.

Gemma thought Kincaid might provoke a response when he suggested that Alexander might find a night enjoying the hospitality of the Metropolitan Police a novel experience, one more comfortable than a night spent in a National Health Service hospital ward. But Alexander had remained bland as butter, with no more displays of the veiled viciousness that had marked his off-the-record conversation with Gemma.

Kincaid had left Doug Cullen preparing the request for a warrant, and Gemma and Kincaid had gone home and fallen into bed.

“We’ve made a real balls-up of this if we don’t find anything,” Kincaid said as Gemma turned out the light.

“We will. He’s an arrogant bastard who thinks the rules don’t apply to him-any rules. But he’s not quite as clever as he thinks.”

Duncan rolled over against her back. His voice already slurred with sleep, he threw an arm over her and murmured, “Wifey.”

Gemma roused herself enough to poke him with her elbow and say, “Don’t you dare call me that,” but she smiled and pulled him closer.

“How are you going to stop me?”

“Oh, I can think of ways,” said Gemma. She could feel the warmth of his hand on her belly, and snuggled against him. But his hand relaxed, and his breathing settled into a slow, regular rhythm.

She smiled and fell asleep.

As the sky began to gray, his phone rang. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet room. “Oh, God, turn it off,” Gemma mumbled groggily.

But when she heard his voice, she came wide awake, sitting up and pushing her hair away from her face.

“What’s happened?” she asked when he rang off. “Did they get the warrant?”

Kincaid was already half out of bed. He leaned back and kissed her quickly. “A team will be waiting for us in Hoxton.”

Gemma had washed her face and thrown on jeans and a light jumper, then checked on the children.

Betty had insisted on staying over, and had made herself a bed on the sofa. She’d put Charlotte in with Toby, and when Gemma peeked in at the two little ones, Toby had, as usual, thrown off the covers, and Charlotte was rolled up in the duvet like a little hedgehog, with just her curls showing.

Gemma stood, gazing at them, wishing with all her heart she could protect Charlotte from any more harm-and from the truth about what had happened to her parents, if they should learn it. Then she sighed and closed the door.

The Georgian street in Hoxton seemed slightly later in period than Fournier Street in Spitalfields. The front doors lacked Fournier Street’s ornate lintels, and the houses lacked the touches of eccentricity that made Fournier Street so appealing.

Here, the terrace was uniform, from windows and doors to trim work to bellpulls. Miles Alexander’s house, however, was easily identified by the surrounding cluster of police cars, the SOCO van, and the open front door.

Doug Cullen was waiting for them on the pavement, and so, to Gemma’s surprise, was Melody. Melody, like Gemma, had thrown on jeans and a cardigan, as the early morning air was still cool. She looked exhausted, but she had paper cups of coffee waiting for them. “Coffee shop round the corner,” she explained. “I was desperate.”

“What are you doing here?” Gemma asked her. “I didn’t mean for you to get out this morning, after all the work you put in last night.”

“Doug called me. And I wanted to be here.”

Gemma noted with interest that Doug and Melody seemed to have advanced to a comfortable first-name basis, and that he had actually invited Melody’s participation.

“Anything so far?” Kincaid asked.

“You were right, guv,” said Cullen. “I had a look at his computer before forensics packed it up. Bastard didn’t even have his files encrypted, but I suppose he thought he could wipe them if anyone came snooping round.”

“And there are photos,” Melody added, with no trace of her usual cheerful manner. “Albums of them.” She hunched her shoulders. “Truman’s in some of them, too. And some other blokes. We’ll have to crop the girls’ faces from the shots, so that we can show them to Alia, and to the lady next door.”

“How many girls?” asked Gemma.

Melody shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Half a dozen, maybe. The last girl looked very young. Very pretty. The men were-” She shook her head.

“Any sign of girls in the house recently?” Kincaid asked.

Doug took over from Melody, but without his usual territorial defensiveness. “Not at the moment, no, but they’ve not got through everything yet. The interior of the house is recognizable from some of the photos, so apparently he used it for his…entertainment…on a regular basis. And the SOCOs found a pair of girl’s knickers in the outside rubbish bin. They were…” Cullen seemed unusually hesitant. “…soiled.”