“And Mr. Naz didn’t say where he was going?”
“No. Just that he’d be back in time to take Charlotte with him to visit Dr. Cavendish.” She looked from Tim to Hazel, obviously confused by the two Dr. Cavendishes, but this wasn’t the moment to enlighten her.
“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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
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.
“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.”
CHAPTER FIVE
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.
“I need to make phone calls, and I don’t know how long that will take.” She checked her watch. The first call was personal and urgent-she needed to tell Duncan where she was and what she was doing. “You go on,” she added to Hazel. “I’ll get the tube from Liverpool Street when I’ve finished. I’m trespassing, really, without Tim or Alia here, and I’d rather you not be guilty by association.” She didn’t say that the house might be a potential crime scene, and the less disturbed, the better.
“But I-” Hazel left the sentence unfinished, but the si
lence spoke clearly-she didn’t want to go home.
Impulsively, Gemma hugged her and kissed her cheek. “I’ll ring you in just a bit. I promise.”
When Hazel reached the Golf, she turned back. “I’ve been a bitch, haven’t I? It’s just-” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I hope Tim’s friend is all right.”
“So do I,” said Gemma.
Duncan Kincaid was stretched out on the sitting room sofa, the Saturday Times scattered across the coffee table and the floor, a dog across his chest, a cat on his feet. The garden doors stood open to let in the slightest breath of early evening, but the air was muggy and Geordie, the cocker spaniel, was making him sweat.
“You’re taking up too much real estate, buddy,” he said, but he felt too lazy to make the dog move and merely stroked his dark gray ears. Geordie gave a huge doggy sigh of contentment and settled himself more firmly against Kincaid’s rib cage.
That afternoon, Kincaid had paid a call on the tenant in his flat in Carlingford Road, and had taken advantage of the visit to Hampstead to take both boys and both dogs to Hampstead Heath.
There had been method in his madness-a couple of hours of Frisbee throwing, ball chasing, and hunting for imaginary buried treasure had worn everyone out sufficiently to give him a rare bit of Saturday-afternoon peace. The boys were upstairs in their rooms, and the faint thump of bass from Kit’s iPod speakers provided an oddly comforting counterpoint to doggy snores.
When his mobile rang, he stretched towards the coffee table, fumbling for the phone, and dislodged Geordie in the process. “Sorry, mates,” he said as Sid, their black cat, raised his head and gave a hiss of displeasure at the disturbance.
Expecting Gemma, he was surprised by the name on the caller ID. Why ring him and not Gemma? A little jolt of dread made him sit up as he answered.
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