Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

“No.” Tim was vehement. “They had everything. They’d been married almost ten years when Charlotte came along. They’d almost given up on having a child. They were devoted to each other, and Sandra was a fiercely good mum.” The tension in the air had risen again, palpably, with the recitation of uncomfortable parallels. Tim and Hazel had also waited a long time to have a child, and Hazel had been a model mum.

“He told you a lot,” Hazel said now, with an edge of sarcasm.

Tim bristled. “Why do you have a problem with that? He had no one else to talk to.”

“How do you know he didn’t just tell you what you wanted to hear?” Hazel retorted.

“Stop it, the both of you,” said Gemma, exasperated, even though she knew Hazel was right. What Naz Malik had told Tim might have nothing to do with the truth. Whether one was grieving or guilty, a sympathetic audience gave one the liberty to paint life as one wished it to have been. And although that in itself might be useful, they needed to move on. “Tim, you said the police investigated Naz. They didn’t find anything?”

“No. Not a bloody thing.” He stared at them, as if daring contradiction.

“Okay.” Gemma touched Tim’s knee, giving credence to his statement. “So tell me about the day Sandra disappeared. You said it was in May, in Columbia Road?”

“She and Charlotte were supposed to meet Naz for a late lunch in Brick Lane. Naz had gone into the office-”

“On a Sunday?”

“He was preparing an important case. But they always went out for Sunday lunch together. Naz waited at the restaurant for an hour. Sandra didn’t answer her phone. Then Sandra’s friend Roy rang Naz and said Sandra had left Charlotte with him at the market, saying she’d be gone just a few minutes, but she hadn’t come back. He’d finished breaking down the stall and didn’t know what to do.”

“Breaking down the stall? This friend has a flower stall?”

Tim nodded. “Roy Blakely. Sandra worked for him on Sundays all through school and art college. She’d known him since she was a child-he was like a dad to her.”

“And she didn’t tell him where she was going?”

“No. Several people who knew her from the market reported seeing her in Columbia Road, but there was nothing after that. Just nothing. Naz was frantic, but at first not even the police would take him seriously. Then when they did, they searched the house for signs of…of foul play.” He swallowed, looking round uneasily, and Gemma imagined the SOCO drill: luminol, prints, any evidence of violence, alien DNA, fiber transfer. What if Sandra had gone back home unexpectedly that day, found her husband there with a lover?

“They questioned everyone Naz knew,” Tim went on. “His partner, his clients, his neighbors. Naz said no one ever looked at him the same way afterwards.”

“They were doing their job,” Gemma said.

“I know. But it didn’t help, did it? They didn’t find her, and now Naz is gone, too.”

Gemma paused, listening. She heard movement and a soft murmur from upstairs, not just Alia’s voice but a child’s counterpoint. Charlotte was talking. Quietly, she said, “Tim, you may know more about Naz’s mental state than anyone else. When he rang wanting to see you today, was he upset or anxious? Do you think he might have been contemplating suicide?”

Tim’s face blanched. “No. I mean, I know he was grieving, and angry, but he’d never have done that to Charlotte. And if anything, he sounded…” Looking puzzled, he groped for a word. “Excited.”

“That doesn’t rule out suicide,” said Hazel, pragmatic, but it seemed to put Tim on the defensive again.

“I’m telling you, Naz wouldn’t do that. There has to be some other explanation.” He looked at Gemma. “Can we report him missing?”

“Not officially, no. Not until tomorrow. But considering the circumstances, the local nick should be put on alert. I’ll see if there’s anything in the system yet that might be connected, check out hospital admissions, have a word with the neighbors. And if you’ll give me Naz’s partner’s name, I’ll see if I can get a home number or address.” There was the thump of footsteps on the stairs, the sound of a childish protest.

“Tim,” Gemma said hurriedly, “I’d like your permission to have a look round the house, see if there’s a note or a phone number, anything that might be helpful. Unofficially, of course.”

“But I-”

“There’s no one else to ask.”

“Right. Okay.” He straightened his shoulders, taking on the weight of this responsibility.

“And, Tim,” Gemma added, “I’ll need a description.”

While working in the eerie darkness of those deserted Spitalfields nights-and with the room and myself working towards the same goal-I have never felt so close to the past.

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

Alia had set down Charlotte’s little pink bag and got as far as the front door when Charlotte realized she meant to leave without her. “Lia!” she screamed, latching onto Alia’s leg with the tenacity of a limpet.

Loosening the child’s grip, Alia knelt and hugged her. “You go with Dr. Tim, Char. I’ll see you soon.” She looked up at Gemma, helplessly, her eyes filling.

Gemma reached down and gathered Charlotte into her arms, automatically settling her on her hip as she opened the door. Afternoon was fading into evening, the shadow from the great spire of the church seeming to loom over the narrow street. There were more cars now, and the sounds of voices and television drifted from a few town house windows, left open in the August warmth.

The child’s body was tense, unyielding. Strands of her hair tickled Gemma’s nose, smelling of baby shampoo and, faintly, curry.

“Lia,” Charlotte wailed again, “want to go with you.” She wriggled, then lunged towards Alia, almost causing Gemma to lose her balance. Gemma gripped Charlotte more tightly, feeling her small, firm body and the heat radiating through her thin T-shirt.

“Go,” Gemma mouthed at Alia.

Alia gave them an uncertain smile, then turned and walked swiftly towards Brick Lane, head down, her heavy leather handbag on her shoulder.

“You’d better go, too,” Gemma said to Tim. Charlotte was crying, but silently now, fat tears running down her cheeks as she watched Alia disappear around the corner. “You’d like to play with Holly, wouldn’t you, love?” Gemma coaxed, but Charlotte wept unchecked. Reluctantly, Gemma handed her to Tim, then fetched her things.

She looked so small, nestled in Tim’s arms, but she must have found his familiarity comforting, because when Gemma offered her green plush elephant, she took it and hugged it against her chest. “Will you let Bob play with Holly, too?” asked Gemma, and got a solemn nod in response. “Good girl.”

“We’ll see you later?” asked Tim, not looking reassured.

“I’ll ring beforehand if there’s any news.” Alia had left her keys, so Gemma and Tim had agreed that Gemma would take them to Islington once she’d had a look round the house.

Tim nodded, then carried Charlotte to the Volvo, carefully strapping her into Holly’s oversize safety seat in the rear. He got in and drove away without looking back.

“I can stay,” said Hazel. “I could help you. Then I can run you to Islington to drop off the keys.”

Gemma heard the note of entreaty in her friend’s voice, and was tempted. But the tension between Hazel and Tim was distracting her, and she felt suddenly that she needed to be alone in the house, to concentrate, to get a feel for who these people were and what might have happened.