She gave Charlotte a hug, resisting the temptation to keep her in her arms, then waved as she let herself out of the flat.
The stairs, however, proved almost as daunting going down as they had going up, and when she reached the car, she got in and simply sat.
She felt overwhelmed, as if the pieces of her life were flying off in all directions, out of her control, and she couldn’t summon the focus to hold them together.
Avoiding the tender bruise on her forehead, she rested her head on the hot steering wheel, trying to think.
Her mind whirled and she sat up, fighting another wave of dizziness. She couldn’t sort it out, not the way she was feeling. She needed some sensible advice, and suddenly she realized who she
Doug Cullen had left home that morning with a list of flats and estate agents in his pocket. But somehow, instead of taking the District Line to Putney, he got on the wrong train and found himself at Victoria. The mistake was half habit and half absentmindedness. But as the reason for the absentmindedness was his mulling over of the business of the newspaper story, he decided to get off the train and go on into the Yard.
He was glad to shut himself in his office, quiet on a Saturday, where he could think it through properly. Something was not right about the whole thing. There was Kincaid’s reaction, to start with. After his first surprise, the guv’nor had gone all quiet and nonchalant about it, and while he might have the clout to buck displeasure from above, Cullen had been in on the interview with Ritchie as well, and he knew
How the hell had someone put together their visit-because that had to have been the “police investigation”- with Azad’s membership in the club, something they hadn’t known themselves?
Unless, of course, there really was another investigation…He picked up a pen and doodled on the message pad on his desk-names, interconnected with big swooping arrows. What if the club was somehow tied into the Narcotics investigation? But if he and Kincaid had been warned off, there was no way any other detectives were going to be going round asking official questions, so that idea didn’t wash.
But Lucas Ritchie did have a connection with Sandra Gilles’s brothers, through his friendship with Sandra. And if the brothers were dealing drugs, was it possible that Ritchie was running them? The club would certainly be a convenient front for money laundering, and some of Ritchie’s clients might be investing in a bit of the action on the side.
But how did Ahmed Azad tie into that? He had never been accused, as far as Cullen knew, of having any connection with drugs.
The pen had leaked as he scribbled. Cullen tore the inky piece of paper into strips, staining his fingers in the process. He shuffled the strips, realizing he’d left something-or rather someone-out.
Gemma. Gemma had been involved in this case from the beginning, even before they’d been called in. And he knew her well enough now to be certain that she hadn’t just walked away from it, especially after she’d helped arrange foster care for Naz Malik’s daughter. But what could Gemma possibly have to do with Lucas Ritchie? The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Gemma was mixed up in all of it, somehow, and he didn’t like the idea one bit. But he needed more information.
Maybe it was time to take advantage of a favor owed him by a reporter on the
He picked up the phone, and after a few calls, managed to track down his sometime source, a veteran reporter named Cal Grogan.
But by the time he rang off, he felt more baffled than ever. Cal had assured him that he’d be more than happy to help, but the story had come straight from the owner’s desk, and Ivan Talbot never revealed a source.
The square tucked away behind Kensington High Street was green and quiet, a residential enclave of elegant town houses. A few of these now housed businesses, including, on the ground floor at the end of a terrace, the cafe where Hazel had taken a job.
When Gemma walked in, she saw that the interior of the cafe was a clean, white space, with only a few tables, and fewer customers lingering over their lunches. Hazel stood at the back of the long, narrow room, stocking clean glassware on a shelf. She wore a white apron and T-shirt over tan trousers, and when she saw Gemma, she gave a radiant smile and hurried forward.
“Gemma! What are you doing here? What a lovely surprise.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t ring first. But I knew you’d said you were working today, and I just-I thought we could talk. Are you too busy?”
Hazel glanced at the remaining diners. “We’re just finishing up the lunch rush. Then there will be a bit of a lull before the afternoon-tea crowd starts filtering in.” She pointed Gemma to a small table at the front. “Have a seat and I’ll bring you some tea. You can enjoy the view, and I’ll be with you in a tick. There are some lunch specials left-have you eaten?”
“Just tea would be fine,” said Gemma, avoiding the question.
“You look dreadful,” Hazel exclaimed, examining her more closely. “What on earth did you do to yourself?”
“Oh, it was just something stupid that happened at work. I’m fine, really.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a better answer than ‘I walked into a door.’” Hazel gave her an assessing, skeptical look, but brought her a cup of tea. When the last customers had left, she took off her apron and sat down beside Gemma with a cup of her own. “Coffee for me, I’m afraid. I need the boost to get through the rest of the afternoon.”
“And this from the woman who used to drink herbal teas?” Gemma teased.
“Ah, well, another time, another place. Another person, really,” Hazel added, with just a touch of sadness, but then she smiled. “And I’ve discovered I quite like coffee. I’m going to take full advantage of my few minutes’ respite while Chef is out making an emergency-supply run.” She looked much better than the last time Gemma had seen her, when they had talked under the Westway.
“I’m glad you’re settling in.”
“So am I. But at the moment, I’m more concerned about you. Is it your mum?”
“In a way.” Gemma told her about the call from Cyn that morning.
Hazel frowned. “Well, no one would deny that your sister can be a bitch, but that’s a bit over the top, even for her. You know she’s jealous of you.”
“Cyn? Jealous of me? But she’s the one gets all the approval.”
“Sometimes you are thick, Gemma,” Hazel said with a sigh. “I suspect that’s her way of making up for not having your life-your job, your partner, your children, your house. But in this case, I think it’s more than envy. For all her bossiness, Cynthia is much more dependent on your mum than you are. I think she’s terrified of losing her-as is your dad-and you’ve become a convenient scapegoat.”
“But why would-” Gemma rubbed her head, trying to sort out her thoughts. “I don’t understand why blaming me would make them feel better-and I feel like I’m just being stubborn, not giving them what they want.” She swallowed, making an effort to steady her voice. “But this wedding has turned into a monster. I wanted it to be something special, for Duncan and me, and the boys, not some stupid spectacle in a cheap-or not so cheap-hotel. But if it means that much to my mum-”
“Darling, you are letting your father and your sister blow this all out of proportion. Your mother loves you. She wants you to be happy. And I think nothing would please her more than to see you get on with your life, by whatever means. And if you were thinking logically, you would know that your mother’s recovery does not depend on your getting married in the Ritz rather than the register’s office.”
“No. I suppose you’re right,” Gemma admitted, feeling a smidgen of relief, and with an attempt at lightness, added, “Are you sure you shouldn’t be practicing therapy again, rather than working in a cafe?”
“This suits me very well for the moment, and I mean to hold on to what I have,” Hazel said firmly. “And you- you are not going to let your family spoil your wedding. You are going to do what feels right for you.” Hazel patted
