Necessary as Blood

by Deborah Crombie

  “We’re separated,” broke in Hazel. “Tim and I are separated. We share custody of Holly, so she’s only here during the school week.”

  “Then it would certainly be unsuitable for the child to stay with you, Mr. Cavendish. Now, I’ll need to talk to her, and then I’ll get the placement machinery rolling.” She glanced at the children, her expression softening. The girls had stopped swinging and were watching the adults. “Charlotte is the younger of the two?”

  “Yes,” said Tim.

  “Perhaps you could call your little girl, Mr. Cavendish?” suggested Silverman.

  Hazel reacted first. She called Holly to her, then, taking her hand, said, “Mummy needs some help in the kitchen, sweetheart. It’s hot-we’ll make some cool drinks, shall we?”

  Holly went with her willingly enough, glancing back only once at her playmate as she entered the house.

  “Do you have to tell her? About her dad?” Gemma said quietly to Silverman.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” Silverman went to Charlotte and knelt beside her swing, Gemma following. “Charlotte, I’m Miss Janice. I’m going to be looking after you for a bit.”

  Sliding from her swing with her thumb in her mouth, Charlotte looked from Silverman to Gemma, her eyes wide.

  “Your daddy’s had an accident, Charlotte,” Silverman went on gently. “He was hurt, and he died. That means someone else will take care of you now. I have a nice friend you can stay with, where you’ll be very safe.”

  Slowly, Charlotte removed her thumb from her mouth. “Don’t want to,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I want my daddy.”

  “Your daddy is not coming home, Charlotte. I’m sorry.”

  “My mummy is coming home,” Charlotte stated with conviction.

  Silverman glanced at Gemma, then said, “Well, that may be. But your mummy isn’t home now, so you’ll have to stay with someone else. Why don’t we-”

  “I want my daddy!” Charlotte’s wail ended on a hiccupping sob, and when Janice Silverman reached for her, she threw herself at Gemma.

  Gemma gathered Charlotte into her arms, cradling her head and feeling the dampness of the child’s tears against her shoulder. The girl smelled of the newly mown garden grass, and faintly, of chocolate. Tightening her grip, Gemma murmured, “You are a little love, aren’t you?” and suddenly found she couldn’t bear the thought of this precious child being turned over to a stranger.

  “Look, Mrs. Silverman,” she said, “can’t I take her? I’m a police officer. I’ve got two boys, and my-partner”-she’d been about to say husband and realized she couldn’t, not yet-“my partner and I could look after her until things are sorted.”

  “She’s obviously formed an attachment to you. Have you done any foster care?”

  “No, but-”

  Silverman shook her head. “Then you’re not in the system. I’m sorry, but you’d have to be evaluated, and we need someone who can take her right away. I’ll just-”

  “Wait,” said Gemma as inspiration struck. “I know someone. Just let me make one phone call.”

  “I’ve a friend,” Gemma explained when the still-tearful Charlotte had been coaxed into Tim’s arms. “She’s fostered children before. If she’s willing, would that be acceptable?”

  “If she’s in good standing,” Silverman said cautiously. “I’d have to speak to her myself, and do a check.”

  “I’m sure she’d be fine. She’s the mother of the friend who helps look after our kids. She’s great with them.” Gemma knew she was over-explaining, and that it was as much to reassure herself as Janice Silverman. Excusing herself, she walked to the back of the garden and looked out over the garage flat as she made the call, fingers crossed.

  When she heard Betty Howard’s cheerful voice, West Indian accent still intact after more than forty years in Notting Hill, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Betty, it’s Gemma. I’ve a favor to ask.” She explained the situation as succinctly as she could.

  “Oh, the poor child,” said Betty. “I’d be glad to take her, Gemma. Only thing is, I’ve got the costumes for carnival-”

  “We could help out,” Gemma offered. Betty had sewn elaborate costumes for the Notting Hill carnival since the seventies, and Gemma knew what a time-consuming job it was. “If that would make a difference.”

  “Wesley should be able to pitch in a bit,” said Betty, in a considering tone. “Though it would mean less time with your two. But if you could take the child the odd hour or two in the evening, I think we could just manage.”

  “You’re a dear, Betty. I’ll let you speak to Mrs. Silverman, then.”

  When Betty had given her information to Janice Silverman, and the caseworker was calling her own office to confirm them, Gemma went into the house to put together Charlotte’s things. She found Hazel in the kitchen, pouring orange squash into glasses that held a few meager ice cubes.

  “This is all there is,” Hazel said. “Tim’s run out of anything decent to drink. Not to mention he’s forgotten to fill the ice trays. And I can’t,” she added, her voice rising, “bloody find anything.” She opened the fridge door, then slammed it shut again.

  Gemma stared at her in surprise, but Hazel didn’t meet her eyes. “Even water would be fine,” Gemma said after a moment, treading carefully, not sure what had triggered the outburst. “It doesn’t matter, really. Hazel, I just need to get Charlotte’s things together. Do you-”

  “No. I don’t know where Tim’s put her things. I’ve just said I don’t know where anything is.” Hazel pushed the most recently filled glass into the others on a tray, causing them all to slosh, then went into the sitting room, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Gemma heard her say more calmly, “Holly, can you put Charlotte’s things in her little bag? Is it in your room? Good girl. Just bring it down when you’re done, and don’t miss anything.”

  Then Holly clattered up the stairs, and Hazel came back into the kitchen, muttering, “…herd of elephants.” Her eyes were red. “I’m sorry,” she said to Gemma. “I didn’t mean to snap, and at you, of all people. It’s just that-last night, I thought Tim was manufacturing a drama. I never thought-poor little Charlotte-her father’s really dead?”

  “Yes. I saw the body.”

  “Oh, God.” With the tea towel, Hazel swiped at the spilled drink on the work top. “Now I feel a complete bitch. Did he-was it suicide?”

  “We don’t know. They don’t know,” Gemma corrected as she glimpsed Weller through the kitchen window, reminding herself that it wasn’t her case. “There were no obvious signs of foul play. We’ll have to wait for the postmortem.”

  “Surely he wouldn’t have deliberately left that adorable child-” Hazel gestured towards the garden. “Will she be all right?”

  “For the moment. I’ve fixed it so that she can stay with Betty Howard.” Gemma went to stand beside her friend. Lowering her voice, she said, “Mrs. Silverman told Charlotte her father was dead. I know, when we-the police-give a death notice, we get it over with as simply and quickly as we can, but for a child that young it seems awfully harsh-”

  “No, Mrs. Silverman was right.” Hazel nodded in agreement. She had often worked with children in her therapy practice. “Allowing her to think her dad was coming home would be worse for her in the long run. She would have to be told eventually, and the deception would damage her ability to trust. Not that I would know anything about that.” Hazel folded the tea towel, then shook it out again, staring at it. It had a pattern of little red roosters on a beige background. “This is hideous,” she said. “Where did he find it?” She glanced at Gemma, then away. “And he’s painted the kitchen.”

  “I noticed.” Gemma searched for the right thing to say. “It looks nice. But it’s…different.”

  “Everything’s different,” said Hazel. “And I know it’s all trivial in comparison to what’s happened to Tim’s friend, but I didn’t think it would be so hard.”

  “Dr. Cavendish, from what DI James has told me, you’ll be best placed
to help us with inquiries into your friend’s death,” Weller was saying to Tim as Gemma came back out onto the patio.

  She’d just given Charlotte a last hug, and a promise that she’d come to visit her later that afternoon. She didn’t know how much the little girl understood. She had clung to Gemma, and after a final fit of sobbing, she’d gone mute in Janice Silverman’s arms.

  “I’ve already told Gemma everything I know.” Tim had emptied his glass of squash, apparently having no objection to its safety-glow orange color. Now he sipped at the melting ice cubes, then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Naz loved Sandra and Charlotte. He’d never have done anything to hurt either of them. They were the perfect family.”

  Hazel, having got Holly started playing in her sandbox on the far side of the garden, had come to stand at the edge of the patio. At Tim’s words, she winced.

  “Perfect, except for the fact that Sandra Gilles disappeared,” said Weller.

  Tim stared at him with dawning recognition. “You investigated the case. I remember Naz talking about you. You made him feel he’d done something wrong.”

  “And had he done something wrong, Dr. Cavendish? You’d be the one he confided in, the one he felt safe with-”

  “No.” Tim thrust his head forward. “Naz thought you’d not taken Sandra’s disappearance seriously, that you’d overlooked things. He said you’d never investigated her brothers thoroughly.”

  “Sandra Gilles’s brothers had alibis for the day of her disappearance.”

  “Given by their mates down the pub-”

  “Naz Malik did not,” said Weller, ignoring the dig. “He said he was in his office, on a Sunday, but there was no corroboration.”

  “You’re saying Naz had something to do with Sandra’s disappearance?” Tim was half out of his chair, his fists balled.

  Weller raised a hand. “No, Dr. Cavendish. I’m merely saying that you can’t take anything for granted. Even from the mouths of friends. Now, you tell me if your mate Naz Malik really thought his wife was coming back.”

  Tim sank back in his chair, his anger seeming to drain away. “No. Yes. Look at it from Naz’s viewpoint, will you? Either something terrible had happened to his wife and the mother of his child, whom he adored. Or everything he believed about his life was a lie, and his wife, his beloved wife, had voluntarily left him. How could he choose between those alternatives? So one day he believed one thing, the next, the other. But I think in his heart he thought something dreadful had happened to her…except…”

  “Except what, Dr. Cavendish?” All Weller’s weariness seemed to vanish in an instant. Gemma found herself tempted to caution Tim, but she couldn’t-it was not her interview, she couldn’t interfere. And she wanted to know what he had been about to say as much as Weller.

  “I-it was nothing. A rumor. I’d never repeat it if Naz were…here.”

  “Go on. What sort of rumor?” asked Weller.

  Tim, fidgeting, with obvious reluctance, glanced at Hazel, then back at Weller. “It isn’t anything-” He shook his head. “Some of the last commissions Sandra did were for a club in Spitalfields. A private club. The owner’s name is Lucas Ritchie. Naz heard-”

  “Naz heard what, Dr. Cavendish?” prompted Weller.

  “There was…talk…that Sandra was having an affair with Ritchie.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  From hence I only infer that an Englishman, of all men, ought not to despise foreigners as such, and I think the inference is just, since what they are to-day, we were yesterday, and to-morrow they will be like us.

  – Daniel Defoe, The True-Born Englishman

  “Why didn’t you tell us this?” demanded Weller.

  “It didn’t occur to me-Naz only told me the last time we talked.” Tim glared back at Weller.

  “And Mr. Malik didn’t think this was germane to our investigation of his wife’s disappearance?” DI Weller shot back. His large hands twitched, and Gemma felt sure his annoyance was not feigned.

  “He only heard it a couple of weeks ago,” said Tim. “And he didn’t take it seriously. Sandra didn’t run off with Lucas Ritchie-Ritchie’s never left London. Naz went to see him.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? And this Ritchie assured him he had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance, and that was that? Was your friend really that naive, Dr. Cavendish? That’s not the only scenario. If Sandra Gilles was having an affair with this man, maybe she wanted more. Maybe she threatened to expose him and he shut her up-”

  “No! It wasn’t like that-at least not from what Naz told me. Look, according to Naz, Lucas Ritchie is single and well off, with no shortage of available women in his life. Who would Sandra have threatened to expose him to? She would have been the one with something to lose.”

  “So maybe Ritchie wanted her to leave Malik. Maybe she refused and they fought.”

  “No. Naz didn’t believe she was having an affair, and I don’t believe it, either. She wasn’t-she wasn’t that kind of person.”

  “And what kind of person is that?” Hazel said, her voice shrill with fury. She’d been standing at the edge of the patio, listening, half forgotten by the others. “Did she come with some sort of guarantee? A no-fault wife?”

  Tim looked horrified as he realized the import of what he’d said, but he defended himself. “Hazel, will you just not take everything so bloody personally? All I meant was that Sandra Gilles had no use for Lucas Ritchie’s lifestyle. She told Naz it was all gloss and window dressing, hype, and she valued real things, like her husband and her child and her work.” He faced his wife, not backing down. “You were not so different, once.”

  By the time Gemma got away from Islington, she couldn’t face another visit to hospital. A phone call had reassured her that her mother was resting comfortably. She drove across London, feeling barely able to breathe in the car. The late-afternoon heat was stifling, and she was still tense from the atmosphere at the Cavendishes’.

  Weller had left after telling Tim he’d want to speak to him again. “I’m not about to skip the country,” Tim had muttered, earning another dirty look from Hazel.

  Hazel had followed close on Weller’s heels, refusing to speak to either Tim or Gemma. “I don’t understand,” Tim said to Gemma as they watched her drive away. “Everything she’s done has been her choice. Why is she so angry with me?”

  “I’m sorry, Tim.” Gemma gave him a quick hug, not wanting to confess that Hazel’s behavior had shocked her as well. Tim had suffered the loss of a friend, and now he had to face the task of telling Alia, Naz Malik’s nanny, that Naz was dead. Gemma couldn’t imagine the Hazel she had known failing to express sympathy or being unable to put aside her own concerns in a crisis.

  When she reached Notting Hill, the square brown brick house with its cherry red door seemed comfortingly, reassuringly familiar. She found the boys watching a video in the sitting room, the dogs sprawled lazily by the garden door.

  She hugged Toby until he yelped, squirming, and Kit ducked away from her, grinning. “No squishing for me, ta very much.”

  “Why aren’t you outside?” asked Gemma.

  “Too hot. Dad said we had to watch something Toby liked, so it’s Pirates again.” Johnny Depp swaggered across the screen, gold tooth glinting, and Toby folded himself cross-legged on the floor once more, transfixed.

  “So I see.” The dogs were panting gently. “Where is your dad?”

  “Doug called him into the office, something about reports that had to be finished by Monday morning. He said for you to ring him.”

  Gemma hoped that meant she was forgiven for her bad temper of the night before, and she realized she’d been mentally criticizing Hazel when she’d been guilty of behaving unreasonably herself.

  “Would you two like to pay Erika a visit?” she said on impulse. “We could walk.”

  “Too hot,” said Kit.

  “We could get an ice cream afterwards.”

  Toby dragged his attention from the screen. “Ya
y, Mummy! What kind?”

  “Yeah, okay, so I’m susceptible to bribery,” agreed Kit.

  “Let me give Erika a ring, then get cleaned up a bit.”

  It wasn’t until they were walking down Ladbroke Road a few minutes later, Gemma having taken a quick shower and changed, that she confessed to an ulterior motive.

  “I want to see Erika, too,” she said, “but while you’re visiting I need to stop by Betty Howard’s for a few minutes.”

  “You’re going to see Wesley’s mum without us?” Kit stared at her suspiciously. “Why can’t we go? Betty always wants to see us.”

  “Of course she does, but this time it’s a bit complicated.” She explained that Betty was taking care of a little girl named Charlotte who needed a place to stay for a while, and that Charlotte wasn’t ready to meet anyone else new quite yet.

  She knew she would have to tell them about Charlotte’s parents, but she wasn’t eager to broach the subject with Kit. Kit merely said, however, “You won’t be gone long, will you?”

  Gemma had become friends with Erika Rosenthal in the course of investigating a case when she had first been posted back to Notting Hill. In the past few months they had become even closer, when the unexpected appearance of an antique brooch at auction had opened a window into the older woman’s troubled past.

  A retired academic with no children of her own, Erika had taken a special interest in Toby and Kit, and the boys considered her family-a courtesy grandmother. They saw Erika, in fact, much more often than they saw Gemma’s or Duncan’s parents. Toby’s dad, Rob, had walked out on Gemma when Toby was an infant, and Rob’s parents had cut off all contact, thereby helping their son avoid paying maintenance for Toby. Good riddance, as far as Gemma was concerned.

  And as for Kit, his maternal grandparents had proved even more difficult. After a failed attempt to gain custody, they were allowed only supervised visits with Kit, and so had stopped making any effort to see their grandson. Kit’s relationship with his grandmother had been unpleasant at best, abusive at worst, and if he missed his grandfather, he never said. He had quickly become attached to Duncan’s parents, and was fond of Gemma’s, but his relationship with Erika was special. They were in many ways kindred spirits, despite the differences in age and background.