Necessary as Blood

Carefully, she gathered all the black sketchbooks from the shelf, added the bundle of pencils from her bag, and left the studio.

On the way down the stairs, she retrieved Charlotte’s flowered holdall and tucked her acquisitions inside.

Reaching the ground floor, she turned out the lights and locked the garden door, then let herself out of the house and locked the front door as well.

She glanced up and down, as was her habit, but the street was empty. Walking quickly to her car, she opened the rear door and leaned in, meaning to place the bag securely on the floorboard.

Then, a hard shove slammed her forwards, cracking her head against the Escort’s roof.

Staggering, shaking her head, she instinctively dropped the bag, clenched her keys in her fist, and spun round.

There were two of them, crowding her, so close she could smell the mingled odors of sweat and beer.

They must have been waiting round the corner in Wilkes Street, to have come on her so fast. One man was bigger, heavier, with pouches under his hard blue eyes; the other was thinner, acne scarred, jittery.

And she knew them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The streets of the East End were awash with heroin, or smack, which was no longer the exclusive junk of emaciated squatters with puncture marks running the length of their arms. Although as addictive as ever, the new improved heroin came in an easy-to-smoke brown resin at a vastly reduced price…In the East End, smack was now easier to obtain than marijuana.

– Tarquin Hall, Salaam Brick Lane

Sandra Gilles’s brothers. Kevin and Terry.

“Get the hell away from me,” Gemma spat, but they were too close-her back was against the car. She clutched her keys tighter, thinking she could hit only one, and that she’d have no time to react against the other.

“We saw you,” said the bigger one. “Didn’t we, Ter?”

Acne scar nodded.

“Snooping at our mum’s,” continued the big one. Kevin. “And now you’re at our sister’s ’ouse. You some sort of spy for them social workers?” He jabbed a finger at her collarbone and Gemma smacked it away, her reaction automatic.

“Keep your hands off me. Back off,” she said, cold with fury. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just told you,” said Kevin, but he moved back a few inches. “This ’ouse”-this time he jabbed the sausagelike finger towards the house across the street-“belongs to our sister”-jab-“and our niece”-jab-“and you got no business ’ere.”

“Neither”-Gemma jabbed a finger back at him-“do”-she jabbed again-“you. Now bugger off before I call the police.” It was pure bravado-her mobile was in her bag, on the floor of the car.

Kevin ignored the threat. “Who gave you our mum’s address?” Gemma glanced at Terry, wondering if he could talk. Kevin pulled her attention back. “You after our sister’s money or what?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She glared at him. “And I’m leaving now. Bugger off.” She tensed, wondering what she was going to do next.

Then a voice, male, vaguely familiar, came from behind her. “You heard her. Move it.” She turned her head a fraction, saw a man in a T-shirt and jeans. Dark, spiky hair, olive skin, green eyes. Rashid Kaleem, the pathologist. He had his mobile in his hand. “I’ve called the cops,” he said. “They’ll be here any second.”

Kevin’s eyes darted one way, then the other. A couple turned the corner from Brick Lane into Fournier Street, walking towards them. Somewhere in the distance a siren sounded. He stepped back, grabbing Terry by the shoulder. “Come on,” he said to his brother. Then he fixed Gemma with a hard stare. “You remember what we said.” He glanced at Rashid and spat. “Paki scum.”

With his brother in tow, he turned and moved quickly away. The two men passed the shadow of Christ Church and disappeared into the bustle of Commercial Street.

Gemma turned to Rashid. She realized her legs were shaking. “Did you really call the police? Where did you come from?”

“I was coming from the mosque, and I saw you. I live near here. What are you doing here? Who were those guys?”

“The police?” she said again, urgently. “Did you call the police?”

“No. No, I didn’t take the time. I was afraid they were going to hurt you.” He lifted the phone. “I’ll ring now. We’ve got a good description-”

“No. Wait.” Gemma leaned against the car, pushing her hair back from her face. She was suddenly aware that she was drenched with sweat, and her head was pounding.

With a look of concern, Rashid Kaleem reached out with gentle fingers and moved her hair just enough to examine the bump at her hairline. “You’re going to have a goose egg. Did they do that to you?” At her nod, he dropped his hand and began to key the phone.

“No, wait,” said Gemma. “It’s complicated.”

Rashid looked up, his fingers still, his face closing.

“I’m not protecting them,” Gemma hastened to explain. “It’s something else. It has to do with Naz Malik, the man you examined in the park.”

“Malik?” Slowly, Rashid’s distant expression relaxed into curiosity. He studied her more closely. “You need to sit down. Let me take you for a coffee.”

He led her round the corner into Brick Lane and up to the Old Truman Brewery. There was a coffeehouse in the back, behind the trendy shops and artists’ studios. Rashid ushered her inside and sat her down on one of the hard wooden benches, saying, “Wait here.” He disappeared towards the back.

It was only then, as she sank onto the bench, that Gemma realized just how shaken up she was.

Good God, what might those two have done to her if Rashid Kaleem hadn’t come along? She told herself that it had still been daylight, that it had been a residential street, that the Gilles brothers were bullies and had only meant to frighten her, but none of those logical reassurances helped.

She’d seen too many knife crimes and muggings; she knew how quickly things could flare out of control and how badly people could be hurt.

And now she knew how it felt to be a victim.

The rage that shot through her was so intense it made her feel sick. The pain in her head grew worse. She forced herself to breathe, to focus on something besides the nausea. She gazed out, watching the patterns of sunlight made by the leaves of a tree in a planter, and after a moment she realized she was looking out into the old brewery yard.

On the expanse of concrete stood a double-decker bus, an old Routemaster, with tables and umbrellas in front of it, and the name ROOTMASTER painted cheerfully across its side.

The pun made her smile, in spite of her anger and her headache, and then she remembered where she had heard the name before.

This was where Naz was supposed to have met Sandra and Charlotte that Sunday afternoon, the afternoon Sandra had disappeared. This was where Naz had waited for the wife who had never come.

Rashid returned, and she tore her gaze from the bus, glancing at the mug he’d set down on the table before her. She groaned. “That’s not coffee. Don’t tell me-it’s hot, sweet tea. I hate sweet tea.”

“I didn’t think coffee was a good idea with that bump on your head. You’ve got enough bruising without a big jolt of caffeine increasing your blood flow. So, tea”-he held out his other hand-“and ice.” He’d cadged a plastic bag filled with ice cubes and wrapped it in a somewhat bedraggled tea towel. “Put this on your head, and drink up. Believe me, they didn’t like parting with the ice, but I know the owner.”

Gemma obeyed, finding that the searing heat of the tea was comforting, and the ice felt good on her pounding head.