“Doug.”
Proper introductions settled, Weller drank, then wiped the foam from his lip. “I was saying. Didn’t get a conviction today on a bastard we’re certain is a serial rapist. Jury considered the evidence circumstantial and the judge couldn’t convince them otherwise. Eighteen-year-old kid looks like a choirboy, and then there was me. Who’re they gonna believe?”
“Tough luck,” Kincaid agreed.
“For the next woman he lures into an alley.” Weller crushed out his cigarette with unnecessary force, then sighed. “But that’s neither here nor there, is it? You want to talk about Naz Malik.”
“First, I want to talk about Sandra Gilles,” Kincaid said. “What do you think happened to her?”
Weller shrugged. “What are the options? One-the most likely-domestic row turned ugly, husband got rid of the evidence. But within an hour of her leaving the kid at Columbia Road, Naz Malik was seen very publicly waiting for his family in a bus-turned-restaurant in Brick Lane. What could he have done with her in that hour? His office wasn’t far, but we went over every inch of the place and found nothing. And if she were meeting her husband, why leave the kid? And why not tell the friend at Columbia Road that she was meeting her husband?” Weller drank more of his pint and Cullen shifted in his chair, as if anticipating being sent to fetch the next round.
“So maybe she went home for something, caught her husband unexpectedly in the house with someone else,” Cullen suggested.
Weller shook his head. “Again, not enough time. Malik went straight from the restaurant to Columbia Road, took the kid home, and when his wife hadn’t turned up by dark, he called the police. When would he have disposed of a body? And there was no evidence in the house. Same as the office, it was clean as a whistle. So, option two.” He shook another cigarette from the pack and lit it.
“Sandra Gilles decided she was tired of being a wife and mum and simply disappeared from her life, either on her own or with someone else. It happens. Maybe she hitched a ride and is working as a fry cook at a Little Chef halfway to Scotland. I’d like to think so.”
“But you don’t,” Kincaid said, knowing the answer. “And option three?”
Weller’s eyes hardened. “Somebody snatched her off the street in broad daylight. Somebody like that psycho who got off today. Maybe he pulled over in a car, asked for directions, and dragged her in. Maybe everyone just happened to have their lace curtains closed at that very moment. And if that’s what happened, God help her. I hope it was quick.” He finished his drink in one long draft and Cullen stood up obligingly.
“Guv?” Cullen nodded at Kincaid’s glass, but Kincaid shook his head.
When Cullen had gone inside, Kincaid said. “What about her brothers? Apparently Naz thought their alibi was dodgy.”
“They were drinking in a pub near the Bethnal Green tube station. Not a nice place, to put it politely. Clientele mostly drunks and punters, and yes, some of them were mates of Kev and Terry. But the landlord didn’t care for the brothers, and he vouched for them regardless. And even if their alibi hadn’t checked out, what would they have done with her? Kev’s car, a clapped-out Ford, was up on blocks on the council estate, and they live with their mum, so it’s not likely they took her home.”
Cullen came back with a new pint for Weller and a glass of what looked suspiciously like tonic water for himself. “A scrum in there,” he said, edging his way past two standing drinkers to slip back into his chair.
The after-work crowd had now spilled out of the pub’s open doors. Most of the men and women wore suits, but Kincaid spied a patron or two in jeans and T-shirts, and one girl in full Goth regalia, black fingernails included.
“The City is moving in.” Weller eyed the suits with obvious distaste. “I suppose that’s a good thing-lowers the crime rate anyway, less work for us. But most of them are bloody wankers. They get jobs at some City bank, buy some overpriced tarted-up flat that’s barely been cleared of rats, and they think they belong here.”
“So who does belong here?” Kincaid asked, thinking about their earlier conversation with Alia Hakim. “The Bangladeshis? The Somalis? The artists?”
“There is that,” Weller agreed. “Not very many true Cockneys left-but what were Cockneys but poor immigrants who shoved out the immigrants who came before them?”
“Must have been a bit glamorous in its day, though, the old East End,” said Cullen. “The Kray twins-”
“Vicious bastards. I worked with blokes who’d seen the Krays’ handiwork up close-they had stories would make your hair stand on end. No”-Weller glanced round at the crowd-“good riddance to the Krays and their ilk, but just because the villains are less visible doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
“What about this Ahmed Azad that Naz Malik and his partner were defending?” Kincaid asked.
“Ah, he’s a villain, all right, although certainly more civilized than the old-style gangsters. A first-generation immigrant as a teenager, he worked his way up in a relative’s restaurant while taking night classes in English and accountancy. Now he owns the restaurant and runs it well. He’s a wily old sod, with a foot in both communities.”
“Sounds like you know him well.”
“He’s been the complainant more often than not, when the white gangs have wreaked havoc in Brick Lane. And while it’s rumored he has a finger in a number of questionable operations, I haven’t heard him linked to murder.”
“Louise Phillips told us that the prosecution’s star witness in a trafficking charge against him has vanished. If Azad was responsible, and Naz Malik found out-”
Weller shrugged. “If Naz thought Azad had removed a witness, he might have declined the case, but I can’t imagine Azad taking out his own lawyer. Might damage his prospects for future representation just a bit.”
“What if Naz thought Azad was involved in Sandra’s disappearance?”
“Sandra Gilles had no connection with Azad.”
“That you know of.” Kincaid locked eyes with Weller. “You didn’t know about Lucas Ritchie either.”
“We questioned everyone who had an immediate connection with Sandra Gilles. But we had no evidence that a crime had actually been committed. We had no reason to go through the woman’s client list.”
“If you didn’t think you had missed something, or that there was a connection between the wife’s disappearance and the husband’s murder, you wouldn’t have called us in.”
For a long moment, Weller stared back belligerently, then his shoulders relaxed and he drained his pint. “Point taken,” he said, carefully aligning his glass on the beer mat. “Rashid sent me the tox report. If he’s right-and he usually is, the smug bastard-it would be a very odd coincidence if Sandra Gilles disappeared and three months later someone just happened to kill her husband. But I’ll be damned if I know who to move to the top of the list.”
“How about we start with Azad,” Kincaid suggested.
Weller frowned. “Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Mr. Ahmed Azad. I don’t think you’ll get very far.” He pushed his empty glass aside. “But I can introduce you to him, if you like. He lives right round the corner.”
Gemma wasn’t sure if her call to Janice Silverman had reassured her or made her more anxious about Charlotte.
“Oh, not to worry about the sister,” Silverman had said. “We ran a check on her. She’s had half a dozen reports filed against her-neglect, too many boyfriends coming and going, her three little boys showing up at school with the unexplained bruise.”
“She still has her kids?”
“For the time being, although they’ve had a couple of short-term stays in foster care.” She sighed. “We can’t put half of London permanently in foster care, so we do the best we can. Her caseworker is making regular visits.”
Gemma passed on what Alia had told them about Sandra’s and Donna’s brothers.
“I’ll send a note to Donna’s caseworker. Her boys may not have regular contact with their uncles, but the information should go in the file. Thanks. And thanks for recommending Mrs. Howard, by the way,” Silverman added. “A nice woman, and she seems to be doing a good job with Charlotte. Nice of you to visit, as well. The more interested parties, the better, in our business.”
Gemma had said she’d look in on Charlotte again as soon as she could, and hung up feeling a warm rush of pleasure at the idea that she might have made a positive difference.
That soon faded, however, as she chewed over scenarios involving Sandra Gilles’s brothers and drugs. If the
