Necessary as Blood

or maybe from some sort of loyalty to Naz and Sandra. But if Naz knew…”

“Kevin and Terry might have thought that shutting Naz up would guarantee Azad’s silence,” Gemma suggested. “Or maybe Naz threatened to turn them in.”

“Or it might be more complicated than that.” Kincaid stopped at the desk and turned the paper back in his direction. “This piece suggests that Azad owns businesses that are less aboveboard than his restaurant. Low-rent housing for illegals, sweatshops. Maybe he didn’t give up the Gilles brothers because Naz, or Sandra, had something on him.”

“Tit for tat? You’re assuming that Sandra would have protected her brothers?”

“No. I’m thinking that Azad might have assumed that Sandra would protect them.”

Gemma shook her head. “I thought you’d pretty much ruled Azad out.”

“Maybe I didn’t look closely enough.” Kincaid leaned across the desk and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “And in the meantime, I want you to promise me you won’t go near Brick Lane, or Bethnal Green, or anywhere in the East End.” Although his touch had been gentle, his voice was grim. “Not until this drugs investigation is over with, and I have a chance to deal with Kevin and Terry Gilles.”

No sooner had Kincaid walked out of Gemma’s office than Melody walked in, carefully closing the door behind her. Her face was white as chalk. “Boss-”

“Melody, are you okay?” said Gemma. “Whatever is the matter? Sit down, for heaven’s sa-”

“Boss.” Melody stood at attention. Her crisp navy suit might have been a uniform, and she didn’t meet Gemma’s eyes. “Boss, I want to tender my resignation.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I am very proud of my cockney background and have many memories of my East End childhood. I wanted to record the stories about that way of life before they were forgotten…Many families have roots in East London or in similar close-knit communities, and I wanted to preserve their stories, too.

– Gilda O’Neill, East End Tales

“Don’t be daft, Melody,” Gemma said. “Sit down.”

As Melody walked stiffly to the chair, she looked as if her limbs belonged to someone else. She sat and nodded towards the paper. “It’s my fault. That story.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My father. My father owns the Chronicle.”

“What?” Gemma wondered if her headache was making her hear things. “You’re having me on. This isn’t fun-”

“No. Oh, I’m serious, all right. I wish I weren’t,” said Melody. “My dad is Ivan Talbot. That Ivan Talbot. The newspaper baron.”

“But-But why did you never tell anyone?” asked Gemma, feeling thoroughly gobsmacked.

“Because I thought no one would ever trust me if they knew who I was. And they would have been right. None of this”-she prodded the paper with a scowl of distaste-“would have happened if it hadn’t been for me.”

“But surely you didn’t deliberately-”

“Of course not. But when I saw Ahmed Azad in the club, I couldn’t resist using the newspaper office to do the research. It was too easy, and it’s not the first time I’ve used the Chronicle’s morgue when I needed information that I thought would help solve a case. I thought I could have my cake and eat it, too, more fool me. Because this time, I blew it.

“I thought my dad had gone for the day. I used his office, and he came back when I still had the file on Azad open. He saw what I was working on. And then”-Melody shook her head, as if astounded by her own folly-“and then I was stupid enough to ask him if he knew anything about Ritchie’s club. That was all it took for him to put the pieces together.”

“And he didn’t tell you he was going to run the story?”

“You don’t know my dad. Nothing is more important than a story. Nothing. I could kill him.”

So that was how the paper had connected the police, the club, and Azad, thought Gemma.

“I should have known better,” Melody went on. “I should never have trusted him. And you should never have trusted me.”

“Melody, this wasn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy,” protested Gemma. “Maybe you shouldn’t have done the research at the paper-”

“But this is just the tip of the iceberg, don’t you see? You know what the papers are like, and my dad’s is one of the worst. Oh, he wants a shred of truth to a story, but given that, he can spin straw into gold. If he knew I was involved in a sensitive case, he’d watch me like a vulture. And if anyone in the force knew my connection with him, they’d never let me near anything high profile. Didn’t you wonder why I’d never applied for promotion? I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk anyone taking an interest in me.”

“Melody,” Gemma broke in, “did it not occur to you that by leaking this story, your father might have been trying to sabotage your career? That he might have guessed you’d try to resign? I mean, really, this doesn’t amount to all that much, except that it caused some ruffled feathers, and it humiliated you.”

Melody stared at her. “No. But-Oh, God. I was even more stupid than I thought. He’s never wanted me to do this…He considers police work a waste of my very expensive education, and my intelligence, not to mention the fact that he thinks I should want to take over what he’s worked so hard to build. And he’s a persistent bastard, my dad, or he wouldn’t be where he is.” She frowned. “I just handed him the opportunity on a plate, didn’t I?”

“Are you tempted?” Gemma asked, wondering what it would be like to be offered the kind of life Melody’s father must lead. “To take over from him, eventually, I mean? I think most people would be. Power, position-and money. Your dad must be richer than-well, I don’t imagine he worries about the mortgage or the grocery bill, to put it mildly.”

“It’s all on a relative scale,” Melody answered with a bitter smile. “He has to worry about keeping up with his friends’ private jets. But it’s not really about the money for my dad. It’s about what he can do, how much influence he has, how far he’s come from snotty-nosed little Ivan Talbot who scrapped his way out of a Newcastle Council estate.”

Gemma stared at Melody, bemused. She felt as if she was trying to fit together two photographic negatives, one over the other, that didn’t quite match. “Talbot’s a common enough name. I’d never have thought…But why on earth is your dad called Ivan?”

“My nan was reading Russian history at school when she got pregnant. She was a bright girl who raised a bright child, in spite of the obstacles. But”-Melody leaned forward-“I don’t want to be him. I don’t want his job or his newspaper. I would never be more than Ivan’s daughter, no matter what I accomplished. Can you understand that?”

Gemma thought about her own father, about his constant disapproval of her choices, and his bitter disappointment that she had failed to fit into his mold. What might he do to scupper her career, if he had the power?

“And besides,” Melody went on raggedly, “all I ever wanted for as long as I can remember was to be in the police. I grew up watching every cop show, reading books on how to be a detective…Dad thought if he sent me to the best schools, and university…that I would eventually grow out of it, that I’d learn to be ‘normal.’ But I didn’t.”

“And you’re telling me that you would even consider letting him get away with this? I don’t believe it.” A desire to tell Ivan Talbot what she thought of him was making Gemma’s head pound. “You are good at this, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want the force to lose you. I am not going to accept your resignation. And you-you’re going to be much more careful from now on. No more research at the paper. No hints to your father about any cases, no matter how innocently given. Is that settled?”

“But-but how can you possibly trust me after this-”

“Because I know you.” And in spite of Melody’s dissembling, Gemma felt sure that she did. “What your father