Necessary as Blood

above all to succeed at his job, and pissing off the boss was not the way forward.

But nothing else seemed to motivate him. Social networking was not his cup of tea, although he’d lurked on Internet sites. It was an easy habit to acquire when part of your job was finding out things about other people, but that made him even less likely to want to put information about himself in the public domain.

As the train lurched into Euston Square station, he waited, sweating, as he listened to the carriage creak and groan. He hated the tube, even when it wasn’t sweltering. It occurred to him that he could buy a car and avoid public transport altogether-that would be something new to occupy him for a bit. But then parking near his flat would be a nightmare, and as he often had access to transport pool cars during an investigation, it seemed a pointless expenditure.

He climbed the stairs to the street and walked east, his steps slowing as he neared his building. He hated his flat, a boring gray cube in a boring gray building near Euston Station. Stella had liked to say that he lived on the edge of Bloomsbury, but that was stretching it, in terms of style as well as geography. She’d always wanted to make him sound cooler than he was. Hell, that was an understatement-she’d always wanted to make him cooler than he was.

As part of her “fix Dougie” mission, she’d done the flat up for him in a trendy minimalist style that he’d hated from the first minute. But he’d not wanted to hurt her feelings, and since they’d split, he’d never found the energy or the imagination to change it. He’d bought some nice audio equipment, but Stella had made fun of his music collection so often that he was reluctant to share it with anyone else, and in truth he listened to his iPod most of the time.

And then, after Stella, there had been Maura Bell, the prickly detective from Southwark, and that little interlude had put paid to any remaining self-confidence. He tried not to think about that disaster.

Entering his building, he took the elevator to his floor and unlocked the door. The place was tidy, at least, but roasting. He pulled open the sitting room window as far as it would go, letting in a faint current of exhaust-scented air, then looked round the flat in increasing dismay.

Why did he stay? His lease was coming up for renewal next month, he realized, and he hadn’t yet signed the papers. The flat had been the best he could afford before he’d been promoted to sergeant, but he’d had several pay rises since then. He even had some money in the bank-aside from splashing out on electronics and decent clothes for work, he didn’t spend much, and he’d paid off all his university debt.

An exhilarating sense of freedom swept through him. He could go…anywhere. Someplace nearer work. Someplace near the river, maybe. Kincaid was right, he needed a hobby. He’d rowed at school, and it had been the only athletic thing he’d ever been halfway decent at. Maybe he could find a flat in Fulham or Putney, near the rowing club.

He booted up his computer, then checked the fridge. One beer, but that would do for now. He sat down again and typed in “Flats to Let.”

The next morning Cullen went in to work early, excusing his further zealousness on the grounds that he wanted to take some time off at lunch. He’d not slept much, lying awake with visions of flats dancing in his head, knowing it was unlikely any would live up to their adverts, but unable to resist the siren lure of fitted kitchens, power showers, and hardwood floors. One flat even claimed to have a view of the river, and although he knew that probably meant standing on a box in a room the size of a postage stamp, he’d put it first on his list.

Schooling himself to take care of business before calling estate agents, he shut himself in Kincaid’s office with the assistance requests that had come in overnight for the murder investigation teams. He’d make a start on assignments, then Kincaid could check them when he came in.

He was happily humming something by Abba when he stopped dead, staring at the monitor with wide eyes.

“Gemma’s name on an incoming-case file?” Kincaid asked, frowning. He loosened his tie, which he never managed to keep properly knotted once he got in his office, and took the printout from Cullen, scanning for essentials.

He recognized the name of the victim, Nasir Malik, found dead in Haggerston Park, and tried to remember what Gemma had told him about yesterday’s events. She and the boys had come in after he’d got home from the Yard, and the evening had passed quickly with the Sunday family routine: dinner, discussing the boys’ plans for the week, finishing up the laundry, weekend chores.

In a lull during the washing-up after the meal, when the boys were out of earshot, they had talked about Gemma’s mum. And then Gemma had told him a little about her day. Tim Cavendish’s friend had been found dead, and she’d been called to the scene by the investigating officer. Afterwards, she said, she’d managed to have the victim’s little girl placed in foster care with Betty Howard. She’d talked about the child with such concern that Kincaid had wondered if she was displacing her worry over her mother.

But before he’d had a chance to ask her more about the case, Toby had come in wanting a story, and by the time the boys were tucked up, they had fallen into bed themselves, exhausted, and he had given it no more thought.

Now, pulling out his mobile, he rang her. “Didn’t you say the pathologist thought Tim’s friend’s death was suspicious?” he asked.

“Yes, that was my impression,” she said. “But there was no sign of trauma, and they won’t have the tox results yet. Why?”

“Tox results or not, the DI in charge”-he peered at the page, wondering if he was going to have to give in to reading glasses-“Neal Weller, his name is, has sent us the case. You said you met the pathologist. Any good?”

“He seemed very thorough. But Weller, he’s a bit of a bulldog. I’d not have thought he’d hand it off so easily. He argued with Dr. Kaleem.”

“Well, it looks like something’s spooked Weller. What’s your gut feeling on this?”

He waited, listening to the hum of activity on Gemma’s end of the line.

“I’m in the CID room. Give me a sec.” Then he heard a door shut and the background sound vanished as if a switch had been flipped. “Um, I think I’m inclined to agree with the pathologist,” Gemma said from the sanctity of her office. “Something didn’t feel right.”

“But on Saturday, you said Tim was worried about his friend. I gathered he thought he might be suicidal.”

“Tim was worried, but he’s adamant that Naz didn’t kill himself.” She paused, and Kincaid heard the tap of a pencil on her desk, her habit when she was thinking. After a moment, she said, “It’s a dodgy case, any way you look at it. And Weller was the one who investigated the wife’s disappearance.”

Kincaid picked up a pencil himself and doodled interlocking circles. “Then Weller’s treading on eggshells now, I would guess. Afraid he missed something. Could be a right balls-up, and he’s getting out while the getting’s good.”

“I’d guess he’s close to retirement,” said Gemma. “He wouldn’t want to finish his career on a black mark. So…” She hesitated, and Kincaid grinned at her restraint. “So, if you think the case merits reassignment, will you take it yourself?”

“Would you kill me if I didn’t?”

“Oh, worse than that. Much worse,” Gemma answered, and he heard the smile in her voice.

“And where would you start?” he asked. “If it were your case.”

“You’ll want to see Weller, of course. And Tim. And the pathologist. But if it were me, I think I’d start with Naz Malik’s law partner. She’s bound to know more about Naz and his wife than anyone else.”

Kincaid flipped through the case notes, saw the name and address of Naz Malik’s firm.

“You’ll keep me in the loop?” added Gemma.

“Have you ever known me to overlook a valuable resource?” he asked, and smiled as he clicked off. Cullen was staring at him, his lips pursed as if he’d just eaten a lemon.

“We’re going to take this one?” Cullen repeated Gemma’s question, but with much less anticipation.

Kincaid’s sergeant tended to be territorial, and wouldn’t care for Gemma’s involvement in the case. That alone was enough to make Kincaid want to stir the pot. “You have any objection?”

“I-I was going to look at flats at lunchtime,” Cullen said, and Kincaid had the distinct impression he’d been