petticoat, canary yellow. Folded jumpers. T-shirts. Jeans. Boots and flip-flops, and a few pairs of very high heels.
The sense of presence was so strong that Gemma snapped the doors closed. She realized she’d been holding her breath.
Next, Charlotte’s room. A white, iron bedstead. A pony lamp. A pink, painted chest that Gemma suspected had been rapidly ransacked by Alia, as the contents of its open drawers cascaded out like the tiers in a fountain, bits of a little girl’s clothing flowing over the edges. And on the bedside table, a photo.
Sandra. Charlotte’s mum. The same corkscrew curls, but blond. An alert, intelligent face, pretty but not overly so. She looked directly into the camera, her lips curved in a slight smile. This, Gemma thought, was the face of a woman engaged with the world, not the face of a woman who had walked away from it.
Gemma went out, started up to the next level. Now the banister was plain, the steps narrower. She was moving into the old servants’ territory. This time she tried the back room first, a spare bedroom with a simple double bed.
The front room had been turned into a home office, immediately masculine, legal. A heavy desk. Glass-fronted bookcases with leather-bound volumes. A green-shaded desk lamp. Papers were scattered over the blotter, but a quick perusal revealed nothing but legal documents and what looked like case notes scribbled on a yellow pad. There was no Rolodex or diary. There was a laptop, but it was closed, and Gemma decided it was beyond her remit to open it.
She went back to the stairs and continued to climb. Enough light filtered up to the top of the stairs for her to see that she had entered a large space rather than a hall. She felt for a switch, found it. Light blossomed, and Gemma breathed an involuntary, “Oh.”
The top floor
It took a moment for Gemma to organize what she was seeing. A large worktable filled the room’s center. One side of the table held scraps of fabric, loose sheets of paper covered with pencil sketches. On the other, muslin had been stretched over a wood frame about four feet square. Parts of the muslin were covered with fabrics; others were bare or held only faint penciled lines.
A collage, then. Unfinished, abstract, yet suggesting the bright flare of women’s dresses against dark brick. Gilded cording made Gemma think of bell-shaped birdcages. It was not birds that peeped through the bars, but women’s faces, eerily featureless.
Disturbed, Gemma turned away, examining the rest of the room. Everywhere, baskets held fabrics, multicolored, multitextured, some spilling out onto the floor.
One end wall held wooden cubbies filled with smaller, folded pieces. At the other end of the room, a simple white desk, and above it, a painting of a red horse. The desk surface held more sketches, notebooks, a jumble of Post-its, and the usual assortment of pens, pencils, and elastic bands. Gemma reached out, pulled back. She’d been careful, except for the light switches, not to disturb, not to leave prints, and again, this was beyond her remit.
She turned once more, to the back wall. It was covered in corkboard and festooned with drawings, both Sandra’s and Charlotte’s, and-eureka for Gemma-photos. This was why there were no posed, tidily framed family portraits in the rest of the house. The photos were here, pushpinned, overlapping, candid-a family captured in the day-to-day act of living.
There were more shots of Naz and Charlotte than of Sandra, an indication that Sandra was the primary photographer. Gemma studied a photo of Naz with Charlotte in his lap, recognizing the setting as the kitchen sofa.
Tim had given her a description: Nasir Malik, forty years old (Tim assumed, as they were at uni together), medium height, medium build (a bit thin these days, since Sandra’s disappearance, Tim had added), dark hair and eyes, deep olive complexion, glasses.
What Tim had not conveyed was the slight professorial air, the seriousness of the gaze through the wire- framed specs, the unexpected charm and warmth of the smile.
Gemma rubbed at the hair that had risen on her arms. She had ruled out obvious evidence of foul play or a visible suicide note.
What she had found was the certainty that Naz Malik had not given up hope of his wife’s return.
CHAPTER SIX
– Rachel Lichtenstein,
The kitchen had grown dark while Gemma was upstairs. She flicked on the lights, then, feeling exposed, closed the heavy inside shutters over the street windows. The French doors at the back still stood open to the garden, and when some capricious current moved the heavy air, she smelled garlic and spices and the hot, prickly aroma of frying oil.
Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she’d only nibbled for lunch, having expected to have tea with Hazel, and that had been hours ago. Hazel had left Alia’s samosas on the work top, the baking pan covered with aluminium foil. Gemma lifted the foil and took one, feeling she was trespassing, but she certainly didn’t want to go digging round in the fridge.
It was good, she thought as she tasted the potato mixture, but would be better warm. She looked round for a microwave and realized there wasn’t one. The cooker and the fridge seemed the kitchen’s only concessions to mod cons. Studying the room more carefully, she saw that the great Welsh dresser just fit beneath the low ceiling, and she wondered if it had been part of the original kitchen furnishings. The hearth, too, was enormous, and she guessed it had been the working fireplace when the kitchen had been the dark, subterranean heart of the house.
The kitchen was still the heart of the house. She gazed at one of Charlotte’s drawings, stuck haphazardly on the fridge door. Now she could see their faces, Naz and Sandra, here in this room with their child.
She finished the samosa and wiped her fingers on an embroidered tea towel. It was enough to keep her hunger from distracting her, and she had things to do. Sitting at the table, she searched in her handbag for a notepad and pen and took out her phone.
First, she called Mile End Hospital, then the Royal London, identifying herself. Neither reported a casualty fitting Naz Malik’s description. Gemma wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
Next, she rang Bethnal Green Police Station, working her way through the phone-tree options until she got a real live person, a duty officer who identified herself as Sergeant Singh. From her voice, Gemma imagined her as young, slight, and pretty, but she spoke with a competent briskness.
“I’d like to speak to the detective investigating the disappearance of Sandra Gilles,” said Gemma, having offered her credentials. “It would have been in May.”
“Oh, right. Weird one, that.” The sergeant’s tone was conversational. Gemma wondered if Bethnal Green was quiet at dinnertime on a Saturday night. “Inspector Weller handled that, but he’s not available this weekend.”
“Surely you’ve got a mobile number, or some other contact where he can be reached.”
“Um, no, actually. He’s gone to his son’s wedding in Shropshire. Said he’d throw his mobile in the toilet if anyone rang.” The hint of humor was replaced by alertness. “That case is months old. Why is it so urgent?”
“Because Sandra Gilles’s husband seems to have disappeared this afternoon.” Gemma gave her the details. “I know it’s early for an official alert, but under the circumstances I think you can make an exception.”
“I’ll pass it along.” All levity had disappeared from Singh’s voice. “What about the little girl? Do we need to contact social services?”
“She’s with a family friend for tonight.” Gemma passed on Tim’s address and phone number, added her own contact information, then said, “Listen, could you leave a message with your Inspector Weller, just in case he checks in? Ask him to ring me at his earliest convenience.”
