Necessary as Blood

“Nothing definite, but her parents think she’s living in a squat in Plumstead. Or was it Wanstead? Undoubtedly the dodgy end. Cullen’s checking on it.” He sounded tired.

“Drugs involved?” Gemma thought about Rashid’s speculation that Terry Gilles was a user, and the implications of that for the Narcotics investigation.

And for Charlotte.

But she couldn’t pass those suspicions on to Janice Silverman without an explanation of how she had come by them. And she couldn’t talk to Kincaid about it now, not with Toby and Kit coming in and out of the kitchen.

“Maybe,” Kincaid said, then he added, “You okay? You sound a bit wobbly.”

“Oh, fine. I’m fine. It’s just been-a long day. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

But when Kincaid got home a few hours later, having finally had a very unrewarding conversation with his opposite number in Narcotics, he found Gemma in bed, fast asleep.

And when he woke the next morning, a bit late, he came downstairs to find Kit and Toby finishing breakfast, and Gemma already gone.

“She got a call,” Kit told him. “Another burglary in the middle of the night. Golborne Road, this time.” He sounded pleased with himself for passing on the information. “Here. I’ve made you toast.”

“Thanks, sport.” Kincaid glanced at the kitchen clock. “But I’d better eat it on the run if I’m going to get Toby to child care on time.”

He’d sent Toby to get his backpack, and had washed a mouthful of toast and jam down with coffee, when his mobile rang. When he saw that it was Cullen, he took another bite of toast as he answered. “I’m on my way,” he said. “Just as soon as-”

Cullen broke in, his voice a register higher than normal. “Guv, you’re not going to believe what made the bloody tabloids this morning.”

“Boss.” Melody ducked her head in the door of Gemma’s office. “The super’s here to see you.”

Gemma looked up from the report she was scrolling through on her computer. It hadn’t been burglary this time, but a robbery. The owner of a small grocery had been assaulted as he unlocked the shop at daybreak. “Mark?” she said, assuming Melody meant Superintendent Lamb, her guv’nor, and wondering why Melody felt the need to announce him.

“No.” Melody’s voice dropped to an emphatic whisper. “Your super. Duncan.”

She disappeared from view and Kincaid walked into Gemma’s office, his face set in a thunderous scowl. He closed the door behind him as he tossed a newspaper on Gemma’s desk. “Have you seen this?”

Gemma turned the paper round. It was that morning’s Chronicle, and the headline read: Slave Trade Linked to Rumored Whitechapel Sex Club.

“What?” She pulled the paper closer and skimmed the lead. In the Chronicle’s usual lurid style, the article said it had learned that police were conducting an ongoing investigation into an exclusive private club in Whitechapel, which a well-known Bangladeshi businessman, soon to stand trial for modern-day slavery, was known to frequent. It gave Azad’s name, the details of the prosecution’s human-trafficking charges against him, and a summary of the various businesses in which he was allegedly involved.

It then, without actually giving an address, described in fulsome terms the club near historic Artillery Lane in Whitechapel, including the beautiful young hostesses whom it suggested were little better than high-class prostitutes. It ended by insinuating that the club harbored members whose ill-gotten wealth allowed them to scoff at British law and human rights.

“What the-” Gemma stared blankly at the page, then looked up at Kincaid. “That’s Ritchie’s club. They’re talking about Ritchie’s club. Where the hell did they get this?”

“I’ve no clue.” He sat down on the other side of her desk. “But I’ve already had the chief superintendent on the phone, who’s had the assistant commissioner on the phone, who’s had God knows who on the phone, all wanting to know what ongoing police investigation. I’ve said I merely made some routine inquiries in the course of a homicide investigation, and that there is no direct involvement on the part of the club. The question is, did anyone see you?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I only spoke to Ritchie.” Gemma lowered her voice. “And my visit had nothing to do with Narcotics.”

“Neither of us wants to explain that you were there pursuing a personal line of inquiry. Interfering in a murder investigation would not go down well with your boss or mine. And we’ll not be getting any further cooperation from Lucas Ritchie, or from Azad, on this case.”

With a sinking feeling, Gemma realized it was not likely she would get any help from Lucas Ritchie in Charlotte’s custody case either, nor would she be able to talk to him again.

“It’s not surprising that some of Ritchie’s club members have friends in high places,” Kincaid went on. “But as long as you’re not pulled into it, the funny-handshake brigade can complain all they like.”

“But the club wasn’t named,” Gemma protested.

“Didn’t need to be, for those who move on that level. I don’t know who’s going to be the most pissed off, Ritchie and his board of directors, or Azad.” He tapped the paper. “And the club may be perfectly respectable, but I guarantee there will be members who won’t want any association with the least rumor of high-class prostitution. Not to mention the fact that Azad will be a bit of an embarrassment.”

“Will he be blackballed, do you think?”

“I doubt he’s broadcast his legal troubles, so the charges may come as a shock to the other members, if not to Ritchie. It might make Azad the odd boy out at school for a while. But he’s a wily sod; I expect he’ll recover. If he doesn’t go to prison.”

Gemma was studying the paper again. “That’s not looking very likely, is it, with the prosecution’s star witness still missing?” She looked up at him, rubbing her aching head. “Bloody hell. I should never have gone to the club. What if Lucas Ritchie mentions me? It’s all going to come back on you. I-”

Kincaid didn’t give her a chance to finish. “I think Ritchie will be keeping his head down. And there’s no reason why Ritchie, or anyone else, should connect your visit with this story. I doubt Ritchie or Azad will complain to the Met, although Azad may raise hell with the newspaper.” He studied her more closely, really focusing on her face for the first time. “Is that a bruise?” His brow creased. “What on earth happened to your head?”

Now Gemma wished she had waited up to explain the night before, but she hadn’t felt well and had had trouble staying awake. “I had a little run-in with Kevin and Terry Gilles yesterday,” she said reluctantly, then went on to explain what had happened, including Rashid Kaleem’s part in her rescue.

Kincaid had come in glowering. Now he looked volcanic. “Those bastards!” He stood up, pacing in her small office. “Fucking lowlife slime.” He didn’t swear often-not as much, Gemma hated to admit, as she did-and when he did, it was usually for effect in interviews. “I’ll have them in, whether Narcotics likes it or not, and I’ll have their balls in a vise. They’re not going to get away with making threats and laying hands on you, for God’s sake.” He clenched his fist. “Those little shits-”

“They didn’t actually hit me,” broke in Gemma, trying to calm him down. She had known he’d be upset, but she hadn’t expected him to be quite so angry. “They just pushed me into the car. And you absolutely cannot jeopardize the drugs investigation. You can’t let Kevin and Terry Gilles know that I’m a police officer, or even that I have any connection with the police. Or with you. It will make any information I got from Gail Gilles suspect, and put both our jobs at risk. And it might seriously endanger Charlotte.”

Kincaid stared at her. “Damn it to hell and back. I sent you in there.” He jammed his hands in his pockets, as if he didn’t trust himself not to hit something. “I put you at risk.”

“You couldn’t have known. And I wanted to go. You just have to be prepared to throw everything you’ve got at the lovely Kev and Ter, once the Narcotics investigation is over.”

“That could be months,” he protested. “Narcotics won’t give me a timeline.”

“I don’t think Narcotics would be so touchy if the operation wasn’t coming to a head,” Gemma said thoughtfully.

Kincaid continued his pacing. “Even if it’s only days, every shred of evidence I have linking them to Naz Malik’s murder is going to go cold. And there’s something else. Azad told me that it was Kevin and Terry Gilles heading the mob that fire-bombed his restaurant. He didn’t tell the police, maybe out of a desire not to make more trouble,