one was a delicate blond, with a Nordic look that reminded Gemma of Pippa Nightingale, but Gemma’s gaze was held by the large fabric collage over the desk. Sandra’s work, undoubtedly, and as stunning as the pieces she had seen in Sandra’s studio.
They had no sooner asked to see Lucas Ritchie than a tall, fair man appeared from the small office area behind the reception desk. He came towards them with a hand outstretched, but his expression was a bit wary. “I’m Lucas Ritchie. Can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Gemma James, and this is DC Talbot. But I’m not here officially, Mr. Ritchie.” As Gemma shook his hand, she gave him the same explanation she had given Roy Blakely and Pippa Nightingale, and took the opportunity to study him. Good looking, yes, but-she couldn’t quite put her finger on what she found disconcerting. Perhaps he was just a bit too neat and perfectly tailored, although there was a suggestion of muscle under the fine fabric of his suit jacket. Or maybe it was the faintest hint of red to his fair hair, or the freckling on his lightly tanned skin-something she had a personal bias against. “Pippa said that you and Sandra went back a long way,” she went on, trying to mesh this very polished man with what she knew of Sandra. “I thought that if you’d known her family…”
Ritchie moved away from the desk, although the blond girl had disappeared into the office area. A pale, heatless flame flickered in the sitting-area fireplace, even on such a warm day. It was meant to invoke a cozy atmosphere, Gemma supposed, but Ritchie didn’t offer them a seat.
“I told your superintendent-Kincaid, was it?” Ritchie said, and Gemma nodded vaguely, as if she hadn’t a clue as to who he meant. She certainly wasn’t claiming possession at this point. “I told Superintendent Kincaid yesterday that I really didn’t know Sandra’s family.” Ritchie leaned against the back of an armchair, folding his arms. “You have to understand, when we first met, we were kids in art school. Those aren’t the sort of things we talked about. We were going to change the world, and we didn’t want any baggage while we were doing it.” There was a faraway look in his caramel-colored eyes. After a moment, he added reflectively, “Although I think you could say Sandra tipped the balance for the better. And she had more cachet than most of us, even in the beginning, being a genuine working-class girl, although she didn’t make stock of it.”
“Was she ashamed of her background?” asked Melody. In her tastefully pin-striped dark suit, she looked as if she belonged on the club staff.
“Sandra?” Ritchie laughed. “You didn’t know Sandra. She was proud of being an East Ender-a real East Ender, some would say now-although Sandra was never the type to exclude anyone. She was unusually touchy about prejudice against race or religion, even for the multicultural crowd we hung out with.”
“Mr. Ritchie,” said Gemma, trying to come up with a tactful way to say it, “were you and Sandra always…just friends?”
He gave her an assessing look, then shrugged. “I don’t know why it should be anyone else’s business. As I’ve said, it was a long time ago. But if you want the truth, I always fancied Sandra more than she fancied me. She thought I was all flash and no substance, and I have to admit my track record hasn’t been great, relationship wise. And then, when she met Naz, everyone else was history.”
“How did she meet Naz, do you know?”
“He bought flowers from her.”
The blond girl came out of the little office, carrying a tray set with a teapot and cups. “Sorry, Lucas,” she said. “Phone kept ringing.” She set the tray down on the coffee table in the sitting area, then hurried back to the desk as the front door buzzed.
“Thanks, Karen,” he called after her. Then, motioning them to sit, Ritchie joined them and poured the tea himself. Two men came in, greeting the blond girl. The doors behind the desk opened to reveal a lift, and a group of men stepped out, making way for the incomers. They nodded at Ritchie as they headed for the front door.
“Last of the lunch crowd clearing out,” Ritchie murmured. “It’ll be drinks soon.”
“So Sandra met Naz when she was working for Roy?” said Gemma, pleased by the idea.
“A bit fairy tale, but yes. I think he came every Sunday for a month before he got up the nerve to ask her for coffee.”
“You’ve known Naz for a long time, too, then.” Gemma balanced the fine white china cup on her knee. She wasn’t sure why Ritchie was being so accommodating-she had the sense that it was in some way a performance- but she wasn’t going to let an opportunity go by. “What was he like? It’s been harder to get a feeling for him, for what made him tick.”
“We all thought she’d gone bonkers at first. It wasn’t that he was Asian-if you were racially prejudiced you certainly didn’t admit to it-but he was a lawyer, for God’s sake. Older, sober, hardworking-none of those things was in our art student manifesto.” Ritchie drank some of his tea and stared into the cold fire. “It was only later, as I got to know him a bit better, that I saw the sense of humor beneath that serious exterior. But there was also a sort of rock-solid steadiness to Naz. They balanced each other, or maybe it was that he saw something in Sandra that no one else did.
“And they were both completely committed to being a family.” He frowned, as if testing his memory. “I don’t think Naz had any family left, and Sandra, well, it comes back to that, doesn’t it?”
He glanced at her, as if considering, then went on more slowly. “There was something that happened, I’d forgotten. In art college, when she first starting going out with Naz. She came to class one day with a black eye. She hadn’t tried to cover it up, she wasn’t like that-there was always a bit of defiance to Sandra-but she wouldn’t talk about it either. If you asked something she didn’t want to answer, she would just give you a look that would freeze your marrow.
“But I asked her, because I didn’t know Naz well then, if it was this new guy, and she looked truly shocked. She said, ‘Bloody hell, do you think I’m some sort of slag?’ and she wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”
“Was she living at home still?” Gemma asked.
“Yeah. Dreadful council flat. I picked her up and dropped her off now and again, but she never let me come in.”
“So do you think someone in her family did that to her?”
“Well, if it wasn’t Naz-and I don’t believe it was-she had those two younger brothers. I got the impression she’d never known her dad, but then I suppose her mum might have had boyfriends…”
“Don’t discount the mum,” Melody put in. “It wouldn’t be the first time a mother lost her temper, even with a grown daughter.”
Gemma had considered that Gail might neglect Charlotte, or verbally abuse her, or expose her to bad influences, but it hadn’t occurred to her that Gail might physically harm her. But of course it was possible. She felt stupid, and more than a little horrified.
“Mr. Ritchie, would you be willing to testify in family court about the possibility that Sandra was abused by someone in her family?”
“Family court?” He stared at her as if she were the one who’d gone bonkers. “But it’s completely unsubstantiated. And it was years ago. I really don’t see-” He looked round and even though there was no one else in the reception area, lowered his voice. “I can’t afford to be involved in some sort of squabble that would damage the club’s reputation.”
“Squabble?” Now it was Gemma’s voice that rose. “Mr. Ritchie, a child’s well-being depends on-”
Melody touched Gemma’s arm, a definite back-off signal. “Boss, I think Mr. Ritchie’s been very helpful.”
Realizing that Melody was right, Gemma forced a smile. “Of course. I understand your concerns, Mr. Ritchie. But if you think about Charlotte-”
“Look, I’m not much of a kid person. And Sandra didn’t bring Charlotte when she came to the club, so I suppose I haven’t seen her since she was in nappies-she’s not still in nappies, is she?” Ritchie looked a little dismayed at the thought.
“No. She’s almost three, and she’s a lovely, bright little girl.” Gemma leaned forward, at her most persuasive. “She is, I imagine, a lot like Sandra. And she’s missing her mum, and now her dad. Mr. Ritchie, I’ve met Sandra’s mother, and I don’t think anyone who cared for Sandra would want Charlotte to go there.”
“That’s straight-out blackmail, and you’re very well aware of it,” he shot back, but the animosity had gone from his tone. “Look, I want to help Sandra’s little girl. But it has to be something better than repeating a speculation about an incident that happened years ago. Are you sure Pippa can’t tell you anything more? She and Sandra were closer, in some ways.”
