Kincaid frowned. “What about it? There was no evidence of trauma.”
“I explained to the DI from Notting Hill-” Kaleem paused, a little smile turning up the corners of his mouth, as if he was remembering something pleasant. “People don’t just fall with their noses in the dirt.” All trace of amusement vanished, and Kaleem’s handsome face hardened. “I think he was helpless. I think someone held his head in that position, with his breathing compromised, and waited for him to suffocate. And that is very, very nasty indeed.”
“Why haven’t I met you before?” Kincaid asked when they had gone over the rest of the report with Kaleem.
“I worked the Midlands for almost eight years. I’ve only been back in London about ten months, although I grew up here, in Bethnal Green. The prodigal returns, and all that.”
The pathologist must be older than he looked, Kincaid surmised. But he was, as Gemma had been, impressed with Rashid Kaleem. Glancing up at the spray-painted wall, he asked, “That yours?”
“Have to keep my skills up,” Kaleem said with a grin.
“Nobody minds?”
“Nobody comes down here voluntarily. Look.” He stopped them as they turned to leave. “About Weller. He did the right thing turning this over to you. He’s a good copper, but this-I think this is something that’s out of his league. Just watch yourselves.”
Gemma sat through what seemed another interminable staff meeting, fighting post-lunch dullness as she listened to Sergeant Talley trying to micromanage everyone else’s cases. She’d had trouble with the career sergeant repeatedly, and she supposed it was time to have another little talk. But it was better done privately, in her office.
She wondered, not for the first time, why Melody Talbot, who was much more competent than most of the department’s sergeants, was content to stay a detective constable. Gemma had broached the subject of promotion a few times, telling Melody she’d be glad to make a recommendation, but Melody had merely smiled, said she’d think about it, and never raised the subject again. It seemed odd, as everything else about Melody’s performance and character marked her as a highflier.
Gemma had decided she was going to have to interrupt the longwinded sergeant when her phone clattered and scooted across the conference table like a crab, then beeped stridently. So much for the inconspicuous Vibrate option. Aware of all eyes on her, Gemma grabbed the mobile and read the text message from Kincaid, a succinct
“I’ll have to take this,” she said, escaping gladly into the corridor.
“You’ve just rescued me from staffing hell,” she said when he answered. “What’s up?”
“And I’ve just had a meeting with your pathologist,” Kincaid said.
“
“Naz Malik was pumped full of Valium and ketamine.”
“Ketamine? You think it was suicide, then,” said Gemma, “or accidental overdose.” She felt an odd stab of regret. Not of course that she wanted Naz Malik to have been murdered-that was unthinkable-but she hated the idea that he could have willingly abandoned Charlotte to an unknown fate.
Kincaid interrupted her thoughts. “No, actually, Kaleem doesn’t believe the drugs were self-administered.” He went on to detail the pathologist’s reasoning. “Kaleem’s adamant. And if he’s right, it means that we not only have a murder that was premeditated, we have a murderer who was willing to bide his time and watch Naz Malik die.”
Gemma digested this, feeling ice down her spine. “He?”
“Grammatically speaking.”
“A man is more likely, if Kaleem believes Naz was walked or carried into the park.”
“Malik wasn’t a particularly large man. A strong woman might have managed. Or two people.”
“But how would you get the drugs into an unwilling victim?” she asked.
“I’d assume the Valium could have been administered in drink or food, at least enough to make the victim compliant,” Kincaid said. “I don’t know about the ketamine. We’ll have to talk to Kaleem again.”
“We?” said Gemma with a little jolt of excitement.
Kincaid responded with a question of his own. “You’re planning to visit your mum this afternoon, right? So you’ll be in the East End. And you’ve met the nanny-” She heard a rustle of paper, as if he were checking notes. “Alia Hakim. I’ll need to interview her, and I thought it would be helpful if you came along.”
Kincaid had given Gemma the address of the council estate in Bethnal Green where Alia lived with her parents. It was not a high-rise, Gemma saw with relief, and the brown brick blocks were interspersed with panels of turquoise plaster. If the council had intended to add a note of cheer, it seemed the residents had responded in kind. There was an unusually well-kept common lawn. Flags of laundry hung bleaching in the sun on balconies and the ground-floor patios, amid hanging baskets and the inevitable chained bikes.
The Hakims lived in a ground-floor flat at one end of a unit, with access through a gated front patio fenced with eight-foot-high chicken wire. Shrubs had been planted outside the fence, and beside the gate, a half whisky barrel planter held a large palm. A framework of wooden slats had been built over the garden to hold a canvas canopy, now rolled back, and the garden itself held flowering plants, clotheslines, and a motley collection of children’s toys. The Hakims had extended their living space quite efficiently, Gemma thought as she waited for Kincaid to join her.
Watching him cross the lawn, she saw that he’d discarded his tie altogether and had rolled up the sleeves of his pale pink dress shirt. He wore sunglasses, and the sun sparked gold from his chestnut hair.
“It’s blistering,” he said when he reached her, tucking the sunglasses into his shirt pocket.
“You look like you should be in Miami,” she said, repressing the sudden desire to touch his face. “I like the glasses.”
“If it were Miami, there would be ocean. And we would be in it.” He studied her. “Not looking forward to this, are you? I spoke to Mrs. Hakim on the phone. She said Alia’s very upset. Her father’s taken off work.”
Gemma frowned, thinking of the offhand comments Alia had made about her parents. “Not necessarily a good thing, I suspect,” she murmured. “But best to get on with it. Where’s Doug?”
“Gone back to the Yard to do some research on one of Naz Malik’s pending cases. I’ll fill you in later.”
Both the gate and the flat’s front door were open, the doorway protected by a swinging curtain of beads. Gemma and Kincaid entered the garden, but before they could ring the bell, the beads parted and Alia came out. Today, although dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved yellow blouse, she wore the hijab. Her face looked pale and puffy against the head scarf, and the heavy frames of her glasses didn’t quite disguise the fact that her eyes were red from weeping.
“Alia,” said Gemma, “this is Superintendent Kincaid. We just need to talk to you for a bit.”
The girl glanced at Kincaid, then ducked her head and whispered to Gemma, “Is Charlotte okay? I’ve been so worried.”
“She’s fine,” Gemma assured her. “She’s with a good friend of mine.” She didn’t mention Sandra’s sister’s petition. “How are you doing?”
Alia touched Gemma’s sleeve and dropped her voice further. “I didn’t tell my parents I was keeping Charlotte on Saturday. They don’t like-my
“Alia,” called a man’s firm voice. “Bring your visitors inside.”
“Coming, Abba.” To Gemma, she whispered, “Do I have to-”
“Yes, I’m afraid you do,” Gemma said.
With a resigned nod, Alia held the curtain aside, and Gemma and Kincaid entered the flat.
Except for a box of toys, the sitting room reflected none of the jumble of the front garden. There was a three-piece suite in a floral print and a coffee table made from a brass tray on a stand, and center stage against the far wall an enormous flat-screen TV played a Bollywood channel with the sound off. Gemma wondered if the flat had been tidied especially for their visit.
Shelves held colorful Eastern knickknacks, but there were no visible books or magazines. On a side table, a
