Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“Was there anything else different in what he said, or how he looked?” Gemma asked.

Alia’s broad brow creased as she thought. “He only gave Charlotte a kiss. Usually he picks her up and swings her round.” At the sound of her name, Charlotte put her thumb in her mouth.

Perhaps he had been distracted, Gemma thought, but she went on matter-of-factly. “Then what did you and Charlotte do? Did you go out?” She smiled at the child but got no response.

“Just in the garden.” Alia glanced at the back doors. “Charlotte has a sandbox, and it was nice outside. Then Mr. Naz had got mangoes, so we made a lassi in the blender. Mr. Naz had said he’d be back by three, so I had everything tidied up by then. But he didn’t come home.”

Gemma took in the neat kitchen. One of the work tops held the baking sheet Alia had used to heat the samosas, and a Tupperware container. The fridge, a retro Smeg, was adorned with magnets and bright crayon drawings, an ordinary scene in a household with a child. But something here was not ordinary at all. Thinking that Toby, now almost six, had not stopped talking since he’d learned how to form words, she smiled again at Charlotte and said, “Hi, Charlotte. I’m Gemma. Did you make those nice pictures?”

Charlotte merely gazed back at her, expressionless.

Wondering if the child was developmentally delayed, she said softly to Alia, “Is she very shy?”

“Shy?” Alia sounded startled. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that. It’s just that…since her mum…she doesn’t talk much, especially round strangers.”

“She doesn’t see her mum?”

Alia stared at her, the finger she had been twining in Charlotte’s curls suddenly still. “You don’t know about Sandra?” she whispered.

Gemma shot an accusing glance at Tim, who shrugged, mouthing “No time.”

“No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

Tim sat forward, hands on his knees as if holding himself down. “It was in May,” he said. “I saw an appeal Naz put in the papers afterwards. That’s why I got in touch.” He glanced at Charlotte, then seemed to choose his words even more carefully. “She-Sandra-left the baby with a friend at Columbia Road. It was a Sunday, just as the market was winding down. She said she had an errand and she’d only be gone a few minutes. She never returned.”

A domestic dream, with a low crooked ceiling and large dresser stacked to its full height; a table of scrubbed pine covered with wooden bowls and baskets, all spilling over with green vegetables, white turnips, brown onions and bright orange carrots. This is undoubtedly the house’s kitchen…

– Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street: The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

Gemma and Hazel both gaped at Tim, but it was Hazel who got in the first word. “She disappeared? This man’s wife disappeared, and you didn’t tell me?”

“When would I have had the chance?” protested Tim.

Standing, Hazel balled her small hands into fists. “You rang up this man you hadn’t seen in years because his wife disappeared? And you offered him counseling? That’s-that’s unethical. And just sick.”

Tim looked up at her. “It wasn’t like that. I just thought Naz needed to talk. I never charged him. And since when are you the queen of ethics?” The bitterness on both sides was out in the open now, blistering as acid, the air in the room charged with animosity. Charlotte started to cry.

“I don’t understand.” Alia looked from Tim to Hazel. Hugging Charlotte tighter, she whispered, “Hush, Char, it’s all right.”

“What either of you think, or did, isn’t the point right now,” Gemma said sharply. The simple fact of a man missing an appointment and failing to ring his child’s nanny had suddenly become infinitely more complicated, and Hazel and Tim’s bickering was not going to help. Rapidly, Gemma considered options.

“Tim, I think you should take Charlotte home with you for the moment, if there’s no immediate family to call in. It’s too much responsibility for Alia, and-”

“I can take her,” put in Hazel. “I can take both the girls.”

Gemma shook her head. “Charlotte knows Tim and has been to the house with her father; it will be a familiar environment. And Tim has a relationship with her father, whether personal or professional. You don’t.”

She turned to Alia, who was still gently rocking Charlotte. “Alia, would you mind taking Charlotte upstairs and getting some overnight things together for her?”

“Okay.” Alia looked from her to Tim uncertainly. “But-but what if Mr. Naz comes home and we’re not here-”

“You and Dr. Cavendish can both leave notes for him, and Dr. Cavendish will leave messages on his phones. Tim, do you have his mobile and his office?” When Tim nodded, Gemma turned back to Alia. “And Dr. Cavendish and I will both get your phone number. We’ll let you know just as soon as we learn anything. And you’ve done a great job looking after Charlotte today.” Gemma smiled, wanting to reassure the girl, but her copper’s instinct was sending up fizzing red flares.

“But what should I-”

“Change of clothes, pajamas, toothbrush, hairbrush.” Gemma thought a moment. “Does she have a special blanket or stuffed toy?”

“A green elephant. She calls him Bob.” Alia’s face relaxed into a half smile. “I don’t know why.”

“Okay. Bob, then. Make a game of it, if you can,” Gemma added quietly as Alia got up, hefting Charlotte onto her hip.

When Alia left the room, Hazel moved to clear the dishes from the table, her movements sharp with disapproval.

Gemma could deal with soothing her friend’s ruffled feathers later. She turned to Tim, who said, “Gemma, do you think-could something really have happened to Naz?”

“I don’t know. But I think it would help if I knew exactly what happened to your friend’s wife.”

“No one knows. That’s what I was telling you. She just vanished into thin air. There was a missing-person appeal, telly and newspapers. The police investigated. They even-well, they even treated Naz as a suspect.” Tim’s tone was defensive, and below his beard his exposed neck turned a telltale red. Hazel, her back to them as she dried the baking sheet, had gone still.

Dangerous territory, this, and Gemma thought she would have to traverse it carefully if she didn’t want an explosion of hostility between the two whose cooperation she needed. She sat beside Tim on the sofa, near enough to touch. “Let’s back up a bit. You said your friend’s wife is called Sandra. Is she not Pakistani?” Although the name, combined with the daughter’s light-colored hair and eyes and frizzy curls, made it a likely conclusion, she had to ask.

“No. Her name was Sandra Gilles.” Tim used the past tense, Gemma noticed. “She grew up in a council flat in Bethnal Green, still has family there. A mother, half brothers and half sister. The family disapproved of the marriage, and Naz and Sandra disapproved of them. ‘Layabouts,’ Naz said Sandra called them. Or worse. Sandra wouldn’t let them have any contact with Charlotte. It infuriated her that they criticized Naz, who had worked his way through school and studied law, when none of them had ever held down a decent job. They weren’t pleased with Sandra’s success as an artist either-said she ‘gave herself airs.’”

“She was an artist?” Hazel had left her tidying up and slipped into one of the dining-table chairs, looking intrigued in spite of herself.

“Textile collage. Naz helped her through art college-Goldsmiths-when they were first married. She’d become quite successful-gallery showings, some big commissions. Naz said she loved her work.”

“Any marital difficulties?” Gemma asked.