Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“When you are on the streets in Brick Lane the interior spaces are external to you. There aren’t many reasons to go inside the buildings and get into these private spaces that hold their time in a different way to street time, which is always contemporary.” [Iain Sinclair]

– Rachel Lichtenstein, On Brick Lane

Doug Cullen came into Kincaid’s office and laid an evidence bag containing a familiar-looking, gold-stamped leather folder down on Kincaid’s desk. “Forensics just delivered Alexander’s passport. Makes for very interesting reading.”

“I bloody well hope so,” Kincaid said, with feeling. It was Monday morning and he had been up most of the night. Miles Alexander had been singularly uncooperative, either sneering or silent, and Kincaid was tired and frustrated. “We’d better come up with something that will make the child-trafficking charges stick like glue, because we haven’t got enough so far to sell the prosecution on a single homicide, much less a double one. And I do not want to let this bastard go.”

He felt quite sure that if Miles Alexander walked out of Scotland Yard, he would disappear, just like his friend Truman.

He still had hopes that the lab would find fiber transfer that would place Naz Malik in Alexander’s house or car, but even that might be too little and too late. Alexander could argue that Naz had visited him, or ridden in his car, at any time. What they really needed was to match Alexander with hair or fiber that had been found on or around Naz Malik’s body. But the processing of trace evidence took time, and he doubted he’d get a result soon enough to allow him to keep Alexander in the nick.

“What about Gemma’s project?” asked Cullen, his face schooled into a neutrality Kincaid was sure he didn’t feel. “I hear the super’s not best pleased at the expense.”

Kincaid knew Cullen was less than enthusiastic about Gemma’s suggestion that they excavate Alexander’s garden. “Slow going. They’ve got the fountain moved and the pavers up, but apparently it’s teaspoon digging from now on. They can’t risk disturbing any evidence.”

“If there’s any evidence to disturb.”

“Gemma’s right, Doug,” Kincaid said, his patience fraying. “If Alexander killed Sandra Gilles, he had to put her body somewhere, and the garden is as good a place to start as any.”

He took Alexander’s passport out of the bag and flipped through it, raising an eyebrow as he read. “Quite the traveler, I see. Regular trips to Thailand and Bangladesh, as well as visits to Spain, favorite holiday spot of his mate Truman.”

Cullen pulled a chair up to the desk. “And quite the serial monogamist, too, if you believe the records.” His face lit up with a self-satisfied grin. “I’ve been through the files. Every couple of years for the past decade, he’s married a girl-supposedly of age-in Bangladesh or Thailand, then brought her into the U.K. Then after a year or two-I’d assume it’s when they’ve got too ‘old’ for his taste-he files for divorce, in each case assuring the judge that he’ll pay the girl maintenance so she won’t become a burden on the state. Then the girl disappears from the system. Very neat.”

“Any-”

Cullen cut Kincaid off. “The best part is yet to come. It’s been the same court in every case, and the judge’s name is on the members’ list of Lucas Ritchie’s club.”

“And was his lawyer the same bloke who’s representing him now?”

Cullen thought about it. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, it was.”

“How much do you want to wager that the lawyer’s name is on Ritchie’s list, too?” Kincaid asked with rising glee. Shuffling through the papers on his desk, he found the list, then ran his finger down it until he found the name he was seeking. “Bloody hallelujah.” Grinning, he looked up at Cullen. “Bingo. I thought his name sounded familiar. No wonder he’s looked so nervous.”

“If he’s one of Alexander’s playmates, he’ll be thanking whoever he prays to that he wasn’t in Alexander’s photo album.”

Kincaid glanced at his watch. “Speaking of the photo album, Ritchie should be at the club by now. It’s time we took those photos round. I’ll just-” His desk phone rang and he broke off to answer.

It was the receptionist informing him that a Ms. Louise Phillips was downstairs. “Have someone show her up to my office,” Kincaid said, deciding he’d rather speak to her there than in an interview room.

“News travels fast,” he said to Cullen, and a few moments later, a uniformed constable showed Louise Phillips in.

She looked better than when he had last seen her, as if she were beginning to pull herself together after the shock of her partner’s death. But she still smelled of smoke, and her dark eyes were as intent as ever. Taking the chair Cullen offered her, she got right to the point. “I hear you arrested someone, a suspect in Naz’s murder-an anesthetist named Alexander.”

“Do you know him?” Kincaid asked.

“No. But there’s something you should know. I’m here on behalf of my client.”

“Azad?” Kincaid wondered if they’d been wrong to discount Azad’s involvement in the child trafficking.

“Mr. Azad has been very distressed over Naz’s murder. He didn’t feel he could speak, however, as long as he was in the delicate position of facing charges himself.”

“Are you telling me the Crown dropped its case?”

“Mr. Azad’s nephew has returned. He no longer wishes to testify against his uncle.”

“Please, enough of the lawyer-speak, Ms. Phillips,” Kincaid said, exasperated. “What are you here to tell us?”

Phillips touched her bag, as if she were about to reach for a cigarette, then sat back in her chair with a sigh. “Look, it’s like this. Azad’s silly nephew got himself involved in a forced labor scheme in East Anglia. They promised him the moon, then kept him in a hut for weeks, except when they sent him and the others they’d recruited out to work in the fields. No decent food, little water, no lavs, no medical care-even after he suffered a bad cut-and absolutely no communication with the outside world.

“But day before yesterday, he managed to get away and thumb a ride back to London. He’s thrilled to be back in his uncle’s house, and now thinks washing dishes in the restaurant kitchen is heaven on earth. So he’s not about to bite the hand that-quite literally-feeds him.”

“I’m sure his uncle must be thrilled by his nephew’s safe return,” Kincaid said sardonically. “But I don’t see-”

“Having heard about Alexander’s arrest, Azad feels he may have had some degree of responsibility for what happened-although of course he didn’t realize this at the time.”

“Of course,” Kincaid agreed, with no small degree of sarcasm.

“Look,” Lou Phillips said again. She brushed at her lapel. “Azad’s not a bad guy, really. Feudal, yes, but that means he takes care of his own. He’s loyal to his friends and his family, and he would never condone child prostitution. He heard rumors going round in Ritchie’s club. Maybe because he’d been charged with human trafficking, certain people let things slip. They were checking him out, he thought, to see if he was interested in abusing children.

“But Azad was disgusted. He told Naz about it. Then the day before Naz disappeared-the day before he was murdered,” Louise corrected herself, “they had a row. The upshot was that Azad finally agreed to tell Naz the names of the people he thought might be involved. Alexander was one of them. But Naz must have made the connection between Alexander and Sandra himself.”

“And then Naz went round to confront Alexander,” Kincaid finished. “With disastrous consequences. You realize I could charge your client as an accessory. Or, at the very least, with obstruction.”