glance, then started to close the gate again, whispering, “Not home. Not home,” but Weller wedged his shoulder in the gap.
“Oh, I think he is home. Tell Mr. Azad that Inspector Weller is here to see him.”
She flinched away from him, giving Weller the advantage, but didn’t loosen her grip on the gate. “No, Mr. Azad not home,” she insisted, but she looked more terrified than stubborn.
Kincaid saw that the gate opened onto a courtyard filled with tubs of plants anchored by an ornate three-tiered fountain. Water burbled over the lips of the fountain bowls, and he caught the scent of hot cooking oil and spices. It seemed Ahmed Azad had his bit of paradise, indeed.
Before the tableau at the gate turned into a shoving match, a man’s voice said, “Leave it, Maha.” The gate swung wide, revealing a short, plump man with a wide face and thinning dark hair, the long strands of which were carefully combed over his bald spot.
The young woman pulled her head scarf a little tighter and hurried back towards the house, but her steps were hampered by her sari.
“To what do we owe the honor, Inspector Weller,” said their host. Azad’s English was formal and only faintly accented, and he wore Western dress, a crisp white short-sleeved shirt loose over tan trousers.
“We’d just like a word, Mr. Azad, if we could come in. It’s about Naz Malik.”
“Ah. I have heard the sad news about Nasir Malik. Tragic.” Azad’s eyes narrowed, as if he were considering. “Come into the courtyard, then, where we will not disturb my family.”
As they passed through the gate, Kincaid saw that wooden benches were set among the potted plants. Beyond the garden stood the house, a square, stucco structure painted a soft pink and sporting several arched doorways. Kincaid caught a glimpse of movement inside, a flash of color, and heard the murmur of voices not quite masked by the splash of the fountain.
Near the fountain, a pair of benches faced each other. Azad took one, Weller and Kincaid the other, leaving Cullen in the awkward position of having to choose between sitting next to Azad, or standing. He chose the latter, stepping back a little way and looking usefully idle.
Azad studied Kincaid with dark, intelligent eyes. “And your friends, Inspector Weller?”
“Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen.” Weller made no mention of Scotland Yard, but Kincaid thought he saw a flicker of calculation in Azad’s gaze at the mention of his rank.
“A superintendent,” said Azad with evident approval. “It is very fitting that Nasir Malik should have a superintendent to investigate this crime, you know. This is a lawless country, Mr. Kincaid. Such a thing would never have happened in Bangladesh.”
“What exactly do you think happened to Naz Malik, Mr. Azad?” Kincaid asked, knowing that the cause of death was still speculative even within the investigating team.
But Azad said smoothly, “He was found dead in the park. I assumed he was set on by youths. These young people have no respect, and some of them, I am sorry to say, are Bangladeshi.” He shook his head with the regretful exasperation suited to a fond uncle. “Nasir was a good man, in spite of the questionable wisdom of some of his choices.”
Weller cocked his head like a large, rumpled bird. “Choices?”
Azad shrugged. “I mean no offense, Inspector, but Nasir married a white woman. Marriage is difficult enough without racial and cultural differences.”
“Malik spent most of his life here,” said Weller. “He seemed very English to me.”
“Did you know Sandra Gilles, Mr. Azad?” asked Kincaid.
“Of course I knew Sandra. Everyone in and around Brick Lane knew Sandra. She often stopped into my restaurant.”
“You didn’t like her?”
Azad looked irritated. “I said nothing about liking, Mr. Kincaid. It was simply a matter of what is appropriate. And she brought shame on Nasir.”
“Shame? How?”
“A man must be able to keep a wife, Mr. Kincaid.”
“So you think Sandra Gilles left Naz voluntarily, Mr. Azad?”
Azad shrugged again, less patiently. “It seems that is the most likely thing to have happened.”
“Why is that, when you immediately assumed that Naz had been killed by a gang?”
“Because you have found poor Nasir, but not Sandra,” Azad said, as if his logic were irrefutable.
“Perhaps she went to the same place as your nephew-or was it great-nephew?” suggested Weller, lazily.
The pouches of flesh under Azad’s eyes tightened, and although he didn’t move, there was a sudden tension in his posture. “This has been very pleasant, Mr. Weller, but if you are going to discuss my personal business, I’d think I’d prefer that my lawyer be present.”
“That would be Miss Phillips, then?” said Weller. “It must be rather inconvenient for you, losing one of your lawyers just as your case is coming to trial. And I can’t help but wonder,” he added, “how comfortable you feel with a woman as your sole representative.”
Smiling, Azad stood. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your condolences on the loss of my friend. If you will ring Ms. Phillips in the morning, I’m sure we can agree on a mutually convenient time to continue our discussion. Now, let me show you out.”
Having decided that she would go home and check on the boys before deciding what to do next about Hazel, Gemma walked into a quiet house redolent of the smell of baking.
Neither boys nor dogs came to greet her. There was no blare of the telly, no murmur of voices. There was, however, she realized as she stood and listened, a soft clanking of dishes coming from the kitchen.
“Anybody home?” she called, setting her bag on the hall bench.
“In here,” replied a familiar voice. Wesley Howard came out of the kitchen, holding a blue pottery bowl in the crook of one arm and a spatula in his other hand. He had a streak of something white across his nose, and a broad smile on his face.
Wesley, Betty Howard’s youngest child and only son, acted as part-time nanny to the boys, and Gemma had felt a special connection with the young man since the day she’d met him.
“Wes,” said Gemma, delighted. “What are you doing here? I thought you had to work tonight. And where is everyone?”
“The boys are walking the dogs. Toby and the mutts were bouncing off the walls-it was like Arsenal versus Man United in here. And I’m borrowing your oven.” Wesley put the spatula in the bowl and wiped his fingers on the tea towel tucked into the waist of his jeans. He wore an orange T-shirt emblazoned with the words PEACE, LOVE, AND REGGAE, and had tied his dreadlocks back with a royal blue bandanna. Like his mother, he embraced color. “Tuesday is our slow night at the cafe,” he added. “I don’t have to be in for a while yet.”
“What are you making? It smells heavenly.” Gemma sniffed again, following him as he headed back into the kitchen. She had a sudden worried thought about Charlotte. “Tell me the cooker in your flat hasn’t gone out.”
“No, just didn’t want to heat the place up any more. You know how small the kitchen is, and it was already stifling.”
Gemma took in the empty layer pans scattered across the work top. On the kitchen table, a large plate held a beautiful cake, half iced.
“And I thought Kit and Toby might like to help with the cake,” Wes continued. “It be verra good strawberry,” he added for emphasis, making Gemma laugh. She’d learned early on that Wes was a chameleon-he turned the West Indian accent on to suit, and usually as camouflage when he didn’t feel comfortable with someone. “You’ve missed your calling, Wes. You should be an actor.”
“I think we’ll save the stage for Toby.” Wes danced a little fencing step, using the spatula as a rapier.
Gemma raised her hands in mock horror. “Oh, no, please don’t encourage him. He’s bad enough already.”
Wesley returned the spatula to the bowl, scooping out more icing and smoothing it carefully onto the top layer of the cake. “I’ll tell him pirates didn’t have cake. Especially not cake with cream cheese icing and pureed fresh strawberries in the batter.”
Sid, their black cat, jumped up on the table and eyed the cake, his whiskers quivering. “No, you don’t, you bad cat. You know you’re not supposed to be on the table,” scolded Gemma. She scooped him up gently, however, and
