set him on the floor, pausing to rub his head. “So what’s this all about?” she asked Wes, teasing. “Is there a new girlfriend?”
“You might say that.” Wesley dolloped more icing on the top of the cake. “Her name is Charlotte,” he added, grinning. “I brought home a slice of Otto’s best chocolate gateau from the cafe last night, but she wouldn’t eat it. So I thought I’d try something different.”
“Oh, Wes.” Gemma sank down in one of the kitchen chairs, feeling a rush of gratitude. “I knew you’d spoil her.”
“You mean you were hoping I’d spoil her.”
“I was counting on it.” She smiled. “How’s she doing today? Will she talk to you?”
“Not much, yet, but I’ll keep trying. Maybe strawberry cake will do the trick. Mum got out some of the girls’ old toys this morning, but she doesn’t seem much interested in anything but Mum’s sewing. She’s a natural for the camera, though-not the least bit self-conscious.”
“I think her mother took a lot of photographs.”
“That would explain it, then.” Wesley finished smoothing on the last of the icing. Reaching for a bowl of carefully sliced strawberries, he began to make a border round the top of the cake.
“I’ll check on her,” said Gemma. “But first I have to go to Battersea to see Hazel.”
Wesley gave her a puzzled glance. “But isn’t Hazel coming for tea? I’ve got out the best teapot and mugs.” He gestured towards a tray on the work top, where he had placed Gemma’s treasured Clarice Cliff teapot and cups. “I thought I’d have the cake iced by the time she got here. The two of you can have some with the boys, then I can take the rest home for Mum and Charlotte.”
Gemma stared at him, equally perplexed. “Wes, why would you think Hazel was coming for tea? I’ve been ringing her for an hour with no answer, and Tim hasn’t been able to get her for two days. I’m worried about her.”
Frowning, Wesley said, “But she was at my mum’s when I left. I just assumed she was coming here afterwards.”
“Your mum’s?” Gemma felt even more confused. “Why was Hazel at your mum’s?”
Wesley looked at her as if she’d missed the nose on her face. “She came to see Charlotte, of course.”
“Well, that’s put the wind up him,” Cullen said as Azad’s gate clicked shut behind them. He cast a disapproving glance at Neal Weller.
“That’s simply marked your position on the board,” Weller shot back. “Don’t think you could have put anything over on Azad. The question is whether he knows more than he’s told us.”
“And do you think he does?” Kincaid asked as they moved away, heading back towards Commercial Street.
“Azad prefers to be cooperative as long as it doesn’t interfere with his interests, and he didn’t get prickly until I mentioned the missing nephew.” Weller stopped at the corner. “And that surprised me, to tell the truth. I wasn’t expecting a reaction to the dig-he’s usually too cool for that. Maybe Malik’s death has him worried about his prospects in court.”
“Will he stay with Louise Phillips?” Kincaid asked.
They had stopped by the ancient horse trough in front of Christ Church. The pedestrian traffic flowed around them as if they were three suited boulders in a stream, while Weller scratched at the stubble on his chin, considering his response. “He’s not the sort to appreciate women in their professional capacity,” he said after a moment. “But at this point, I don’t think he has much choice, and I suspect that’s making him unhappy.”
“According to Louise Phillips, Naz was getting cold feet about Azad’s case,” Kincaid said. “Maybe Azad was afraid Naz would complicate things. He was certainly ready to lay blame for Naz’s death.”
“Laying blame and being responsible are two entirely different things.”
“You almost sound as if you like him,” said Cullen.
“No law against it.” Weller shrugged and looked at his watch. “I’m off. I’ll see you two hearties bright and early at the station. Thanks for the drinks.” He raised a hand in salute and turned into the crowd.
“Cheeky bastard,” muttered Cullen. “Who the hell does he think he is?”
“We’re on his patch, Doug,” Kincaid said. “He knows the currents and undertows-he can read things we’d miss altogether. We need him.” He gave a shrug as expressive as Weller’s. “At least for the moment. I suspect that Ahmed Azad isn’t the only one who knows more than he’s telling.”
“You think Weller’s involved in this somehow?”
“No. Why would he have called us in if he was?” Kincaid shook his head. “But there’s something…I just haven’t quite put my finger on it yet.” He looked round. Shops were closing, passersby carried bags of shopping, and the front of the church had begun to take on a faint gold glow in the western sun. “I’ve got to go, as well. I’m going to stop in at Naz Malik’s house.”
“I’ll come with you,” offered Doug.
“No, you go on, Doug. I won’t stay long. And you should have a look at some more flat adverts.” He clapped his sergeant on the shoulder. “I don’t want you to lose your momentum.”
Fournier Street was a canyon of shadow. The chimney pots looked starkly uniform in the flat light, marching across the tops of the terraces like rigid orange soldiers. Kincaid found the house easily in the short row. There was no crime scene van in the street, and when he tried the door, it was locked. He took out the copied key Sergeant Singh had given him before he left Bethnal Green, unlocked the door, and stepped in.
The house was shuttered and dim. He fumbled a bit for the switch-in these old houses, the wiring was often exposed, and terminated in odd places. In this one, the switch for the entry hall was coupled with the switch for the sitting room, and was just outside the sitting room door. His fingers came away smudged with black-the fingerprint demons had made their appointed rounds.
The illumination revealed more black dust: the doorknobs and stair rail, the handlebars and crossbars of the bike that stood propped against the wall, the jauntily flower-decaled helmet hanging from one rubber grip.
He looked into the sitting room, then went downstairs to the kitchen, where he checked to make sure no rubbish had been left in the kitchen bin. As far as he knew, the house had no caretaker, and the odor of rotting garbage could permeate the place quickly. Someone had tidied, however, either Naz Malik’s nanny or the SOCOs- or Gemma.
Returning to the ground floor, he stood for a moment, wishing he had seen the house the way Gemma had seen it on Saturday. It would still have had human presence then, a pulse of life and energy. Now it had taken on the too-quiet pall of the uninhabited. The air felt stale, unused, and the fingerprint dust gave the rooms an atmosphere of shabby neglect.
And as he stood in the stillness, Kincaid realized something else. In spite of the differences in age and architectural style, this house felt very much like their own. There was the same comfortable feel to the mix of contemporary and antique furniture, the splashes of rugs and artwork, the clutter of books and children’s toys.
Gemma would have felt very much at home here. Perhaps that had contributed to her attachment to the child.
He climbed the stairs, looking briefly into the rooms on each landing, finding he liked the little eccentric touches. Sandra’s influence, he guessed, remembering the conservative tidiness of the reception room in Naz Malik’s office, echoed here in the office he kept at home. He didn’t spend time looking through Naz’s papers. The computer was gone, in the hands of the boffins, and he would have Doug, whose father was a solicitor, look through anything that remained.
Reaching the top floor, he felt again for the light switch, then stood there, dazzled. Gemma had described Sandra’s collages, but he supposed he had visualized something dated, slightly fussy, if he had bothered to think about it at all. Nothing had prepared him for the blaze of color and shape that leapt out to meet him. He moved closer, drawn to study the work in progress on the table, others propped against the walls.
The images were not as abstract as he’d first thought. They teased mind and eye, as the hauntingly familiar merged into the unexpected. In one, the glass towers of the City dwarfed small shop fronts in crumbling buildings. Bright-colored bolts of fabric spilled, like fallen bodies, from the shop doorways.
Kincaid dragged himself away and went to the white trestle table that apparently had served Sandra as a
