Necessary as Blood

by Deborah Crombie

  When they reached the house in Arundel Gardens and rang the bell, Erika answered immediately, beaming at them and brushing back the snow white hair escaping from its usual twist. She wore a flowered pinny and had a smudge of something on her cheek. “Ah, kitchen help,” she said. “What good timing.”

  “Are you making something for us?” Toby asked as they followed her into the hall.

  “No. I’m having a guest for dinner, and the entrée must be something very French. It’s too hot to use the cooker, so I’m making a seafood salad, and I thought Kit could help me with the calamari.”

  “What’s calamari?” said Toby.

  Kit wiggled his fingers at him. “Squid.”

  “Ooh, yuck,” Toby pronounced, but the smell of garlic, lemon, and fresh herbs coming from the kitchen made Gemma’s mouth water.

  “I can do squid,” Kit added with relish. “You disembowel them.”

  Laughing, Erika said, “Well, before you start your operation, I have a little treat for you both, just some things I picked up at the market yesterday.” From a shelf, she fished an antique double-decker bus for Toby, and for Kit, a book, its cover stained and musty. Looking over Kit’s shoulder as he opened it, Gemma saw that it was filled with beautifully detailed, colored zoological drawings. Kit exclaimed in delight and leaned down to kiss Erika’s cheek.

  “It’s brilliant,” he said. “Where did you find it?”

  “One of the stalls on Portobello Road itself. Lucky this one didn’t fall into the hands of the print dealers,” Erika added, touching a finger to the book. Many old, and sometimes rare, editions containing botanical or zoological drawings were bought in job lots by the print dealers, who cut them from the books and matted them to sell individually.

  “These are lovely, Erika,” said Gemma, “but you’re spoiling the boys.” For a moment she regretted leaving them, even for the few minutes it would take her to visit Charlotte at Betty Howard’s-she had little enough time with Kit and Toby as it was. But she couldn’t get little Charlotte Malik’s face out of her mind, and she had made Charlotte a promise that she had to keep.

  “And who better to do that?” Erika countered with a twinkle. “When I get fish gutting in return?”

  “You’re very cheerful today.” Gemma eyed her affectionately. “You said your menu had to be French-would your guest by chance be French, as well?”

  “A little something for my friend Henri, yes,” Erika admitted, smiling. “Now, if you will run your errand, I’ll make tea in the garden when you come back. And I think you promised ice cream? Perhaps you could pick some up.”

  Leaving the boys in the kitchen, she walked Gemma to the door. “This is very sad, about the little girl,” she said quietly. Gemma had told her a bit of Charlotte’s story over the phone. “But children are very resilient, and she is in good hands.”

  “Erika…” Gemma paused on the threshold. “Do you think a child that young understands what death means? If she should ask me…”

  “Yes, that might be difficult. You don’t know her references. Were her parents religious?”

  “I don’t know.” Gemma considered what she’d been told about Naz and Sandra, and what she’d seen in their house. “I’m inclined to think not.”

  “Then I think I would wait and see how she makes sense of it. She might surprise you.”

  Gemma turned into Portobello Road at Elgin Crescent, stopping a moment to look up the hill. The street, baking in the late-afternoon heat, seemed alien in its Sunday-afternoon emptiness. The arcades were shuttered, the stalls down, and the pubs seemed to be doing only desultory business. Even her friend Otto’s venerable café in Elgin Crescent was closed, it being his rule that Sunday afternoons were reserved for time with his daughters.

  There was something about the deserted landscape that appealed to Gemma; for a moment she felt as if she owned the street, in all its cheerful and slightly Mediterranean tattiness.

  She turned and walked north, down the hill, and turned into Westbourne Park Road. Betty Howard and her son, Wesley, lived in the same flat Betty’s parents had first occupied in 1959, fresh off the boat from Trinidad. Betty and her husband, Colin, had bought it from the slum landlords who had once owned it, and had brought up their six children in it. But Colin had passed away a few years ago from an early heart attack, and Wesley’s five older sisters were grown and gone.

  Wesley liked to tease his mother, saying he only stayed because he couldn’t afford the rent on his own place. But while that was as true for Wes as it was for any young person in London, Gemma knew that he worried about his mum and didn’t like the idea of leaving her on her own.

  Reaching Betty’s building, she pressed the buzzer for the top-floor flat, and when the door released, climbed the stairs. Betty opened the door just as Gemma reached it, holding her finger to her lips.

  “She’s asleep, poor love,” Betty said quietly, giving Gemma a quick hug. She wore her usual bright headscarf, today in turquoise, with just a little graying hair showing against her dark skin. “It was the oddest thing,” she went on as she led Gemma into the sitting room. “When Mrs. Silverman left, the little thing, she cried and cried. Not even Wesley could comfort her. Maybe she’s not used to our dark faces.

  “Then she spied those fabrics in the corner. She went right to them, burrowed in like a mole, and was out like a light. I took her little trainers off without waking her. Will you look at that?”

  At first glance, Betty’s sitting room seemed a chaos of color and texture. But a closer inspection revealed that the first impression was deceptive, a product of many things occupying a small space. A multitude of clear plastic boxes held collections of buttons, feathers, braiding, sequins, and spools of thread. The sewing machine, a new and expensive model, sat on a table at the front window, where Betty could overlook the street as she sewed. As well as her work on costumes for carnival, she made slipcovers, drapes, Roman blinds-“Anything that can be stitched together”-as she liked to say. Her father had been an upholsterer and had taught Betty to sew as a tot. She’d left school at sixteen to work for a milliner and had been proudly following the family tradition ever since.

  Looking where Betty pointed, Gemma saw the bolts of cloth stored between the sofa and the window. There were silks and taffetas in rainbow hues, heavy brocades and satins, gauzy nets, and one roll of gold lamé.

  Charlotte had indeed burrowed in between the bolts, pulling a fold of the shimmering gold cloth over herself like a blanket. Only her curls showed at one end and her stockinged feet at the other.

  “A little princess,” said Betty. “Going right for the gold.”

  “Oh, I should have realized,” whispered Gemma, her chest tightening. “It looks like home to her. Her mother’s an artist who works with textiles. She had her studio in the house.”

  “An artist? Mrs. Silverman said the mother went missing?”

  “Yes. In May. And now this. Her dad…” Gemma pushed away the image of Naz Malik’s body, with the flies buzzing round it in the heat. It would be cold now, on a trolley in the mortuary.

  “She’s an odd mix, this little one,” said Betty. “Striking. Her mother white, her father Pakistani, Mrs. Silverman told me, but with that hair, I’d swear she’s got more than a drop of West Indian in her. Wesley will have his camera out, soon as her tears have dried, mark my words.”

  “Where is Wes?” asked Gemma.

  “Bread-and-butter shoot. Molly Janes, the fishmonger’s daughter, it was her birthday party this afternoon. I don’t envy Wesley having to deal with a pack of sweets-fueled children in this heat.”

  Although Wesley was taking evening classes at university towards a business degree, he earned his keep working at Otto’s café and helping out with Toby and Kit. But his true love was photography, and he was getting more and more of what he called bread-and-butter jobs-weddings, birthdays, family portraits-through word of mouth in the neighborhood. He had a particular gift for capturing children, and had given Gemma a be
autiful candid portrait of Toby for her birthday.

  Charlotte stirred, disturbed perhaps by the sound of their voices, although they had kept them close to a whisper. Pushing the cloth from her face, she blinked and rubbed her eyes, starting to whimper. Then she caught sight of Gemma and held out her arms.

  Gemma knelt, gathering Charlotte’s small, warm body into her arms, and it felt to her as if she had always held this child. “Hello, pet,” she whispered. “Did you have a good sleep?”

  Charlotte rubbed her nose against Gemma’s shoulder, an indeterminate answer, but at least a response. Gemma eased herself into a sitting position with her back against the sofa, cradling Charlotte in her lap. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.” Tim had told her that Charlotte had barely touched her food last night or that morning. Looking up at Betty, Gemma said, “Something smells fabulous. What are you cooking?”

  “Pork roast with achiote rub, black beans and rice. Not anything special.”

  “It would be at my house.” Gemma chuckled and ran a soothing hand through Charlotte’s curls, saying meditatively, “I wonder if Charlotte likes beans and rice?” Again the nose rub, but this time more of a nod than a shake. “I’ll take that as a yes. Betty’s the best cook in the whole world,” she stage-whispered in Charlotte’s ear, “but don’t tell her I said so.”

  Charlotte turned her head just enough to peek at Betty.

  “The roast is about done,” Betty said. “And I might just have some mango rice pudding. Why don’t I go and see?”

  Gemma nodded and Betty left the room. After a moment there came the comforting sound of Betty moving about in the kitchen, and her soft voice singing. Shifting her position a bit, so that Charlotte could see more of the room, she said, “Betty has some pretty things, don’t you think?” She pulled a box of thread spools closer with her free hand.

  Lifting the top, she began to rummage through them, pulling spools out for inspection. “There’s blue, and red, and lime green, and a very pretty yellow. What about this one?” She held up a deep pink spool. “What color is this?”

  “Magenta,” whispered Charlotte, reaching for it with fingers that were still toddler chubby.

  “Magenta? What a clever girl you are.”

  Charlotte slid from Gemma’s lap and knelt by the box. “My mummy has threads.” She began to take spools out and stack them, sorting by color. “Reds together, blues together, greens together.”

  “Where does the pink go, then?”

  “Between the reds and the blues.” Charlotte looked up at her, frowning, as if the answer were obvious. “They’re families. Reds are mummies, blues are daddies, and the pinks can be the little children.” She had the slightest lisp, but her diction was remarkably clear for not quite three. This was a child who had spent much time in the company of adults.

  “Yes, that sounds a good idea.” Impeccable color-wheel logic, thought Gemma. “Does your mummy let you play with her thread?” she asked, having noted Charlotte’s usage of the present tense.

  “I help. I’m her best helper.” The red spools toppled, and Charlotte gathered them up with studied patience. “They shouldn’t run away. That’s naughty. My daddy says families belong together.”

  Present tense for Daddy, too. Treading very carefully, but wanting to get an idea of just how much Charlotte understood, Gemma said, “But your daddy’s not here now, is he?”

  Charlotte pushed her stacks of spools a bit closer together and shook her head. “No,” she said, as matter-of-factly as if Gemma had asked about the weather. “Daddy’s gone to look for Mummy.”

  Weller always felt there was a persistent hum to a hospital. Even in nether regions like the basement, you could sense the unseen activity, a working hive.

  Unfair to compare Rashid to a bee, however-there was no mindless industry here, in this room of tile and steel and precision instruments. And there was definitely no smell of honey.

  “You getting soft, old man?” said Rashid, glancing up from the table. “You’re looking a bit green.” He’d finished the postmortem on Naz Malik and had sent his assistant off, preferring to do the close himself. He liked, as he had told Weller often enough, the sense of closure. And then he’d flashed his wicked pathologist’s grin at the bad pun.

  “Still suffering from the ravages of too much wedding champagne,” Weller said, rubbing his temples. “Cheap stuff, too, although I can’t say I blame the bride’s family, considering everything else they had to shell out.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it. One of the pathologists on the rota, Dr. Ling, had a family emergency. So duty called and all that. Give Sean my regrets.”

  Weller’s son and Rashid were the same age, and had become friends over the years. “You were well out of it, although you might have had a good laugh,” Weller told him. Rashid didn’t drink, and Weller imagined that a hotel ballroom full of thoroughly pissed guests would get a bit wearing after a while if you didn’t share their rather skewed perspective.

  His tie felt too tight, even in the cold room. Pulling at the knot, Weller repositioned himself against the tile wall so that Kaleem’s body half blocked his view of the table. “Look, Rashid, I appreciate you moving this one up.” Weller didn’t like to call in favors, but he was feeling less and less comfortable about this case. He’d gone back to Bethnal Green, gone over the notes on the Sandra Gilles case, wondering what he might have missed besides this man Ritchie. Tim Cavendish had had no further information on Ritchie or his club, so Weller had put Sergeant Singh on to a search.

  Nothing had come in on Naz Malik. It was too soon to expect any results from the techies, and so far no good citizen had reported seeing Malik in the park last night or yesterday afternoon. Where had Malik been in those hours between the time he left his house in Fournier Street and the time Rashid estimated he had died in the park?

  “Interesting, the DI from Notting Hill getting herself involved,” commented Rashid, as if guilty of mind reading.

  “Interesting, or interested?” teased Weller. “She’s a looker.”

  “She looks attached. I can spot it from a mile away. I’ve got radar about these things. And you’re prevaricating.”

  “Ooh, they teach you big words in medical school,” Weller retorted, but he knew Rashid was right. “So, you still convinced this guy didn’t top himself?”

  Rashid shot him a look. “We’ll see what comes back on the tox. But I still think he was heavily sedated when he died. And if he was that trashed, how did he get himself to the park and onto the trail? He didn’t take anything when he got there-not unless he had a handful of loose pills in his pocket and swallowed them without liquid. I went through his clothes. No pill bottles, no syringes, and the techs didn’t find a drink or a water bottle near the body.”

  “I had the SOCOS bag the rubbish in the bin at the park entrance,” said Weller. “We’ll check it for his prints.”

  “Well, I suppose he might have got that far,” Kaleem said, going on with his stitching, “but I think you’re reaching for it. If it was a suicide, why dispose of the evidence?”

  “Because he didn’t want his daughter to grow up knowing he’d killed himself?”

  “He’d have known the drugs would show up on a tox screen, so what would be the point?” asked Kaleem.

  “Maybe he thought we’d assume he dropped dead of a heart attack.”

  “You said this guy was a lawyer. Give him a bit of credit.”

  Weller tried one more time. “You’re sure he didn’t croak from natural causes?”

  “No. He was still breathing when he fell. I found bits of dirt and leaf mold in his nostrils. No sign of stroke or aneurysm. A bit thin, as I said earlier, but not enough to cause him any problems. Other than that, your Mr. Malik was healthy as a horse. Except, of course, for the unfortunate fact that he’s dead.” Rashid finished closing the Y incision with a neat knot. He unfolded a sheet over the body, then stripped off his gloves. “I’ll send you the transcribed copy of my report. And you can have the
techs pick up the personal effects. I’ve already sent the hair and fiber I gathered off to the lab.”

  He glanced at the evidence bag on the cart by the door and frowned. “Could have sworn I put the phone in first.” There was a slim mobile phone near the top of the bag. Rashid shrugged. “Double shift. Too much coffee, not enough sleep.” He fixed Weller with the penetrating stare he usually reserved for the nonresponsive. “So what’s up with you, old man? It’s more than champagne hangover. Why are you so determined to prove this wasn’t murder?”

  Weller straightened up, sighed. “Because if Naz Malik was murdered, I suspect it means I screwed up. Big-time. And that means this case is out of my hands.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  …the land which is now Bangladesh was part of India until the partition in 1947, then it was East Pakistan from 1947 until the 1971 war of liberation, which saw the birth of Bangladesh as an independent nation.

  – Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron, Michael Young, The New East End: Kinship, Race and Conflict

  Another weekend spent finding excuses to come in to work. Worse still, Doug Cullen had even managed to get his guv’nor in on a Sunday afternoon, which hadn’t earned him any scout points. Sitting at his desk in his office at the Yard, Kincaid had pushed the printouts aside, steepled his fingers, given him a look worthy of the chief super, and said, “Just how bored are you, Doug?”

  “Don’t know what you mean, guv,” Cullen had said, but he’d colored, knowing full well.

  “This report could have waited until tomorrow morning.”

  “But I thought if the chief had it first thing…” He’d sounded lame even to himself.

  “Get a hobby, Doug. Check out the joys of Facebook or something.” Kincaid stood and stretched. He’d come to the office in T-shirt and jeans, hair rumpled. “I’m going home. And the next time you call me in on a Sunday, it had better be life or death.”