Necessary as Blood

“Now,” said Rashid as a waitress in shorts and a midriff-baring T-shirt brought him a cup of espresso, “tell me about those unsavory characters.”

“Unsavory?” Gemma suppressed a slightly hysterical laugh because it hurt her head. And suddenly she realized what a fright she must look, damp and shaky, with a lump on her forehead and water dripping down her face.

The thought of Kevin and Terry sobered her quickly enough, however, and as she drank a little more of her tea and held the ice pack to her head, she told Rashid as much as she dared about Charlotte and about her visit to Gail Gilles. She left out any mention of Kincaid and the Narcotics investigation, finishing with, “So, you see, I can’t report them, because if I do I’ll have to identify myself, and I’ll be admitting that I visited the grandmother under false pretenses.”

“But you didn’t actually lie.”

“No, but I’m afraid my interference will bugger up the custody issue.”

“And you don’t think the caseworker needs to know that those louts threatened you?” Rashid’s dark eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl. “This little girl is mixed race, then? The father was Pakistani, the mother white?”

Gemma nodded, not adding the speculation that Sandra’s father had been at least partly Afro-Caribbean.

“You know those two will use her as a punching bag, if they get their hands on her.” Rashid’s face was hard. “And from what you’re telling me about the family, no amount of oversight is going to keep them from having contact with their mother.”

“I have been trying to convey that,” Gemma said, attempting to keep her frustration in check.

“And the scrawny one is a user,” Rashid added. “You see it on every Bangladeshi estate. After a while you can’t miss the signs, whether the kids are white, black, or brown. Acne. Twitching. That charming, vacant stare.”

“Dealers aren’t usually users, though,” said Gemma, thinking about the Narcotics investigation.

“Not if they’re any good at it. But I wouldn’t discount the other brother. The talker.”

“Kevin.” The thought of Kevin’s face made Gemma press the ice pack to her head again.

“You okay? Any dizziness?” Rashid was half out of his seat, looming over her.

Gemma inched back on her bench. “You should work with live people. Great bedside manner.”

Rashid subsided onto his own bench, looking sheepish. “Sorry. Too many years of looking after neighbors and aunties and cousins who don’t take me seriously.”

“But you’re a doctor,” Gemma said, surprised.

“I’m a snotty-nosed kid from a housing estate.” For just an instant, Gemma could see the boy Neal Weller had described.

“Not anymore.” Gemma smiled at him, and he returned it. Then she asked, “Do they come to you for advice, these neighbors and aunties and cousins?”

“Only in a very roundabout way. Medical degree or not, I’m still a male, and they’re not comfortable talking to me.”

She thought about the clinic in Rivington Street. “Would they talk to other women?”

“Maybe. If they felt safe.” Rashid finished his coffee, then cast a disapproving glance at her half-drunk tea. “You should finish that. And it might not be a good idea for you to drive. I should see you home.”

There was something so charmingly old-fashioned in the way he phrased it that Gemma found herself beginning to blush. “No, really, I’m fine. My head just hurts a little.”

“They don’t know where you live, those two? You shouldn’t be on your own.”

“No. I’ve got kids-and my partner-waiting at home for me.” She felt stupidly awkward, wondering why she’d felt the need to explain her situation, and the flush intensified. “I really should go. Thanks for your help.”

Tentatively, she felt the tender spot on her forehead. It had just occurred to her to wonder how on earth she was going to explain what had happened to Duncan. He would want Kevin and Terry Gilles’s heads on platters, and that would not be good at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

One of the few sentiments which unites all generations of the Bangladeshi community is the feeling that white families fail to protect the interests of needy members… Even though their successful children may now want to live separately from their parents when they marry, and even leave home when single in a few cases, most still believe in the moral solidarity of the family and the importance of putting family interests before those of the individual. Indeed, in most situations individual interests are seen as best served by the family.

– Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron, Michael Young, The New East End

It was Toby who noticed it first. “Mummy, what happened to your head?”

She was putting away the groceries she had picked up at the supermarket on her way home, having taken advantage of the fact that she had the car, but now she felt a little queasy at the thought of eating.

Kit looked up from the fantasy novel he was reading at the kitchen table. “Ow. You do have a lump.”

“I went to get some things for Charlotte, and I bumped my head in the loft.”

“What did you get for her?” asked Toby, who was picking through her shopping bags like a puppy looking for treats.

“Some art pencils.”

“We went to visit Charlotte today,” Toby informed her. “Wes took us.” He abandoned the bags as unrewarding. “Can I draw with the pencils?”

“No, they’re Charlotte’s. You’ll have to ask her first.”

“When? When are you going to give them to her?”

“I don’t know,” Gemma snapped, her patience fraying. Her head was splitting, and there were times she thought her son was a terrier disguised as a little boy.

She had meant to stop at Betty’s on the way home, but at the last minute she had put it off. She didn’t think she could face seeing Charlotte, not with the image of the girl’s uncles still so freshly imprinted in her mind.

“Kit, will you light the grill? I’ve got some chicken for dinner, and a salad.” Gemma had discovered that the oil- fired cooker she had so fancied was a monster to cook on in the summer heat, so most evenings they resorted to cold salads or pasta, or used the charcoal grill on the patio.

Fortunately, Kit was a nascent pyromaniac, and having applied himself to the project with scientific intensity, had become an expert at lighting and tending charcoal.

“Roger that,” he said, and got up, but instead of heading for the patio, he came over to her and looked at her head more closely. “You should have that looked at.”

“I’m fine, really.” She summoned a smile. “Go on. Everyone’s starving, and I’m sure your dad will be home soon.”

She was thinking that the “bumping her head in the loft” explanation would have to do for Duncan as well until the children went to bed, when her mobile rang.

“I’m going to be late,” Kincaid said without preamble when she answered. “It turns out that Kevin’s boss owns a white transit van. I’m trying to get Narcotics to let me pull it over on a traffic stop, or at least to tell me if they think this guy, Roby, is involved in the drugs thing. If they’ve been watching him, too, they may know where the van was last Saturday.”

Gemma spilled a bagged salad into a bowl and fetched dressing from the fridge. “I don’t fancy your chances.”

“No. But nothing else is panning out. Lucas Ritchie has as much of an alibi for Saturday as we’re likely to get, by the way. He was at his niece’s birthday party in St. John’s Wood. His mum showed Cullen photos. And he didn’t drive there, so it’s not likely he ducked out of the party long enough to have met Naz and dumped him in the park. Cullen got the names of some other guests to follow up, but…”

“Not likely,” Gemma agreed. “What about the missing girl from the club? What was her name? Kylie?”