Being outside and extreme is what Spitalfields is all about. In medieval times the area was occupied by two classic categories of outcasts: the lepers and the insane, and Spitalfields derives its name from the leper hospice, St Mary’s Spital and the fields on which it stood. The insane were taken out to the gates of St Mary’s of Bethlehem or “Bedlam”, which occupied the site of what is today Liverpool Street Station.
– Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street: The Tale of a House in Spitalfields
Kincaid and Cullen found the club in Widegate Street through the process of elimination. The short and very narrow street was anchored at one end by the Kings Stores pub, loomed over at the other by the glass-and-brick hulk of Broadgate. In between, there were offices and a few discreet shops.
When they hadn’t turned up either of the Gilles brothers by lunchtime, Kincaid had decided it was time to hunt down Lucas Ritchie and his mysterious club. He’d grabbed a quick sandwich, then asked Cullen to meet him at the Liverpool Street station. It was only one stop on the tube from Bethnal Green, and he hadn’t fancied trying to park in the narrow streets of old Spitalfields.
Now, it was the entrance without insignia that interested Kincaid. It was an elegant frontage, with brass detailing, a bell, and a pass-card slot. When Kincaid examined the building more closely, he saw that the brick was new, but fitted seamlessly into the facades of the older buildings on either side.
“Hmm,” he said to Cullen. “A bit Diagon Alley. Let’s see what happens if we ring the bell.”
A moment later, a pleasant female voice issued from the tiny speaker beside the bell. “Can I help you, sir?”
Looking up, Kincaid saw the discreet camera mounted below the sill of the first-floor window. “Duncan Kincaid to see Mr. Ritchie,” he ventured.
The response was a buzz, followed by a click as the door latch released. Kincaid grinned at Cullen, said, “Open, sesame,” and pushed. Cullen followed, looking as though he might be entering a dragon’s den.
They stepped into a reception area that hovered somewhere between warehouse and posh hotel. Brick walls, wooden floors, unornamented windows, industrial-style pendant lighting-but the leather upholstery on the contemporary furniture grouped before the plain fireplace looked butter soft, the curved reception desk was an exotic-looking wood polished to a mirror shine, and the floral arrangements on the desk and in the sitting area were exquisite-as was the young woman standing behind the curved desk.
Asian-perhaps Anglo-Chinese-flawlessly groomed and made up, she wore a crisp white blouse under a perfectly tailored charcoal pinstripe suit. She was breathtaking, but behind the desk hung the collage that Kincaid had seen in the photo in Sandra Gilles’s studio, and it was this that held him riveted.
The photo hadn’t prepared him for the size of the piece, or for the depth of the colors and the intricacy of the design. He thought if he stared long enough, he could fall into it, peeling back the beckoning layers of life and history.
“Sir,” said the girl at the desk, bringing him back with a jolt, “can I help you? You said you wanted to see Mr. Ritchie?”
Kincaid smiled and showed his warrant card. “Just a quick chat, if you don’t mind.”
Although the girl’s eyes widened, her smile stayed in place. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll see if he’s available. Please make yourselves comfortable.” She gestured at the sitting area. “Can I get you water, or a pot of tea?”
When Kincaid declined, she ducked through an unobtrusive door to one side of the desk.
“What is this place?” Cullen said when she’d gone.
“Not your old-fashioned St. James’s gentlemen’s club, I don’t think.” Kincaid looked round, now noticing other artwork: two wood sculptures, a contemporary and unidentifiable metal piece, a beautiful pottery vase on a lit display stand. Nothing, however, compared to Sandra Gilles’s collage. “The question is, what’s on offer?”
“Sir.” The girl was back. She pushed a button on the other side of the desk and a door slid open, revealing a mirrored lift. “Mr. Ritchie will meet you on the first floor. My name’s Melanie, if there’s anything else I can do to assist you.”
Kincaid and Cullen stepped into the lift. When the door closed, Cullen whispered, “Does she mean-”
“I doubt it.” Kincaid grinned. “And if she did, you couldn’t afford it.”
The doors opened again, soundlessly, and they faced an expansive space. The front of the room was another sitting area with a bar; the back, a dining room furnished with long oak refectory tables set with crisp white linen, silver, and crystal.
It was getting late for lunch, but the tables were still well filled, as was the bar. The clientele was mostly male, Kincaid saw, but there were a few women in business attire. Another of Sandra Gilles’s collages hung over the fireplace in the lounge area, this one depicting what Kincaid thought was Petticoat Lane Market.
Kincaid noticed several young women dressed in suits identical to Melanie’s, moving among the tables, so gathered that the charcoal pinstripe must be a uniform of sorts for the club staff. Very classy indeed.
A man came towards them from the direction of the dining room, hand outstretched. “Melanie said you wanted to see me? I’m Lucas Ritchie.” He was tall and fair, with the faintest hint of designer stubble, and was considerably younger than Kincaid had expected. When Kincaid shook the offered hand, he found it surprisingly hard and calloused. It was an interesting contrast to the man’s impeccable tailoring and carefully classless London accent. Kincaid thought he recognized Ritchie’s cologne as the spicy Jo Malone fragrance Gemma had given him the previous Christmas.
While Cullen shook Ritchie’s hand, Kincaid produced his warrant card. “I’d like to talk to you about Naz Malik and Sandra Gilles, Mr. Ritchie. Is there somewhere-”
“In my office.” As polished as his receptionist, Ritchie hadn’t blinked. Had he been expecting a visit from the police?
He led them back into the lift. “These are our public rooms,” he explained as the lift doors closed. “My office is on the next floor, where we have our private meeting and conference rooms.”
They stepped out into a lounge area much like the one below, but smaller and cozier. Ritchie led them down a corridor behind the lounge, passing a number of rooms with conference tables and wall-mounted flat-screen televisions, and several small sitting rooms and private dining rooms. His office was at the very end of the corridor, a small room flooded with light from the single window. It was furnished with a sofa, comfortable chairs, and a desk, its surface bare except for an open laptop. Behind the desk hung a painting of a red horse, and although slightly different in composition, it was obviously by the same artist as the painting in Sandra’s studio. Looking more closely, Kincaid thought the signature was a scrawled “LR.”
“I heard about Naz Malik,” said Ritchie as he sat down at the desk. “One of the girls who knew Sandra saw it in the paper. But the story said he was found dead in Haggerston Park. Why is Scotland Yard making inquiries? Does this have something to do with Sandra?”
Lucas Ritchie was obviously accustomed to being in charge. Kincaid wondered what would shake him. “Our evidence suggests that Naz Malik was murdered. We don’t know whether his death is connected with his wife’s disappearance. We were hoping you might be able to tell us.”
“Me?” Ritchie raised his sandy eyebrows, but his tone seemed more exasperated than surprised. “Don’t tell me someone’s dug up that old chestnut about Sandra and me again. I thought that was well put to rest.”
“Apparently not,” Kincaid answered, “since Naz mentioned it to a close friend not long before he died.”
Ritchie rocked back in his chair, but kept his hands folded in his lap. So far the shift in position was his only display of ruffled composure, as his desk provided none of the usual outlets for fiddling. “Naz knew there was nothing to that rumor. Sandra and I had known each other for years. We were at art college together, and I’d supported her career whenever possible. We were good friends.”
“Do you have any idea what happened to her?” Kincaid asked.
“God, no.” Ritchie rocked the chair forward again with such force it squeaked. “Do you think I wouldn’t have said at the time if I had? I’d given her lunch here the week before. We’d talked about an idea for another collage for the club, and just, you know, the ordinary things, gossip about people we both knew. We planned to talk again soon-she was going to bring me some preliminary sketches. There was nothing-absolutely nothing-to indicate that she would walk into Columbia Market and bloody disappear.”
“You went to art college?” said Cullen. “Seems a far cry from all this.” His gesture took in the club.
Ritchie seemed unoffended. “I acted for a bit, and I was a passable painter. But I was always better at putting things together, managing things. I had an idea, and I met some people in the City who were on the lookout for an investment.” He shrugged. “I must say it’s been quite successful.”
“So you’re the manager rather than the owner?” Kincaid said.
“A mere employee of the board of directors. A minion. And it suits me perfectly well. No strings.”
“Why is there no name or public listing for the club?”
“A gimmick. There’s not even an Internet listing. Strictly word of mouth. It’s the ultimate exclusivity for the businessman-or woman-who has everything. And believe me, even in a recession, there are still people with money to spend.”
“The anonymity has nothing to do with the kind of services you provide?”
“Services?” Ritchie laughed. “Very tactful of you, Superintendent. We provide the same services as any other reputable private club. And if you are referring to our delightful female members of staff, they are very good at selling very expensive bottles of wine to the clientele, but that’s all they do. And they would be quite insulted if you suggested otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Kincaid with an answering smile. “You said you gave Sandra lunch. That implies that she was not a member?”
“You didn’t know Sandra.” Ritchie chuckled again. “No, she was not a member. This was not her cup of tea, to put it mildly. In her fonder moments, she would tell me I was a shallow, capitalist pig.” His smile faded. “I miss her. Everyone needs a friend who tells them what they don’t want to hear.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Although for all her philosophically elevated position, she was very practical, and not above poaching my clients.”
“Poaching?”
“It was a joke between us. She called me her ‘one-man PR band.’ If I hung her work in the club, the members would want their own. She got quite a few commissions out of it.”
“Are you saying you didn’t pay for the collages?” asked Kincaid.
“Of course I paid for them. Or I should say, the board of directors paid very nicely for them, as they have for the other artworks I’ve suggested. All lovely, aboveboard, and tax deductible.”
“I can’t help but notice that you refer to Sandra in the past tense, Mr. Ritchie,” Kincaid said levelly, holding Ritchie’s gaze.
Ritchie looked irritated for the first time. “I’m not an idiot, Superintendent. Sandra was happily married, at least as far as she confided in me. She loved her child. Her career was successful. She didn’t drink, other than the occasional glass of wine, and she didn’t do drugs. In all the time I knew her, she never showed the least sign of mental instability.”
“You think she’s dead?”
“I hope not. But I think it’s the most logical explanation. What I don’t understand is why the police haven’t come up with a single clue as to what happened to her. And now Naz-” Ritchie shook his head. “What the hell happened to Naz? Why would someone kill him? He was a nice bloke who’d been through hell.”
“Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against him?”
“I didn’t know him well enough to be privy to something like that. And Sandra never mentioned anything to me.”
“Did Sandra ever talk to you about her family?”
“No. Closed subject.” Ritchie thought for a moment. “I suppose I got the impression that her family didn’t approve of her work, but we just didn’t go there. Neither of us was comfortable with it.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, the dining room is still busy, and I need to keep an eye on things. If there’s nothing else-”
“Mr. Ritchie, have you any idea who started the rumor about you and Sandra?” Kincaid asked as he stood.
Ritchie sighed. “It could have been one of the staff here. I don’t go out with the girls, Superintendent. The complications are bad for business. But occasionally one of them gets a bit too attached and it gets…difficult. There was one I had to let go-Kylie. I don’t know where she is now.”
“Another missing woman?” Cullen asked.
“She’s not missing, Sergeant,” Ritchie said with exaggerated patience. “She just doesn’t work here anymore. Ask Melanie about her if you like. They were flatmates for a bit. Now-” He stood and ushered them back into the corridor. As they passed the private bar, a man came out of the lift, glanced at Kincaid, then frowned and came towards them.
“Don’t I know you?” he said, holding out a hand. “Miles Alexander.”
The man’s face looked familiar, and there was something sleek and a little padded about him that made Kincaid think of a seal. The comparison triggered recollection. “I saw you at the London,” Kincaid said. This was the man who had passed them in the corridor as they were going to Dr. Kaleem’s office, and had responded rather irritably to Kincaid’s request for directions.
“Ah, that was it. I’m a consultant there.” Alexander seemed sociable enough now.
“Miles is also one of Sandra’s patrons,” said Ritchie. “Miles, these gentlemen are from Scotland Yard.”
“Is there news about Sandra?” Alexander asked. He looked more interested than distressed.
“No. We’re here about her husband, Naz Malik,” Kincaid said. When Alexander looked at him blankly, he added, “Mr. Malik was killed this past weekend.”
“I hadn’t heard.” Alexander frowned. “That’s too bad. You’d think Sandra going missing was enough tragedy for one family.” He shook his head. “Not only do I miss her work, but she was a great benefactor of the clinic.”
“The clinic?”
“Miles is one of the directors of a sexual-health clinic in Shoreditch,” explained Ritchie. “It provides free screening and services for local women. Sandra felt really strongly about it, and contributed her time as well as her artwork. Many of the Asian women don’t want their husbands or families to know they’re seeing a doctor, so the clinic allows them confidentiality.”
“It’s a small return to the community.” Alexander glanced at his watch, then gave them a perfunctory smile. “Sorry. A business appointment. If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded, then left them to join a cluster of men at the bar.
Ritchie turned towards the lift and handed Kincaid a business card. “If there’s anything else I can do, Superintendent, you know where to find me.”
“There is one more thing, Mr. Ritchie,” Kincaid said. “We’ll need to know your whereabouts last Saturday.”
“A bit full of himself, don’t you think?” said Cullen as they stepped out into Widegate Street. “Conceited git. Just assumes that every woman is gaga over him.”
“Maybe they are.” Kincaid grinned. “Seems like a good-looking bloke, but we might want to get a female opinion. What I think is more interesting is his address.” He touched the card in his breast pocket. With some reluctance, Ritchie had scribbled an address and phone number on the back.
“I was at my parents Saturday afternoon and evening. It’s a slow day for the club, and there was a birthday party for my niece,” he’d told them.
“St. John’s Wood,” Kincaid said thoughtfully as they walked back towards Liverpool Street. “If he comes from that sort of background, why the neutral accent?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to scare off working-class boys who made good. But you can still tell he’s public school.”
“How?” Kincaid asked, looking curiously at Cullen.
Cullen shrugged. “I don’t really know. You just can.”
“Makes you wonder about his ‘contacts in the City’ who were so willing to funnel money into the club, doesn’t it?” Kincaid mused. “Old schoolmates? Friends of his parents?”
“He will be connected,” agreed Cullen. “Whether he likes it or not. And he has a bloody suntan,” he added darkly, as if that were the worst imaginable offense.
“Maybe he jogs, or rows, or plays tennis. It is August, after all,” Kincaid said with a grin. “You might even have a suntan if you ever got out of your flat. How’s the flat hunting going, by the way?”
“Not.” Cullen sounded discouraged.
“Well, if nothing major breaks, maybe you could take off a bit early this afternoon. But first, check out Ritchie’s alibi, and see if you can track down the not-missing girl. Kylie Watters.”
Melanie’s pretty mouth had turned down in distaste when they’d asked her about her former flatmate. “I don’t know where she is,” she’d told them. “And her mobile’s disconnected. I tried to ring her last week because she still owes me money on the rent. She was always late and coming up with excuses for it.”
“You don’t have another address or number for her?” Kincaid had asked.
“No. We weren’t really friends. It was just a convenient arrangement. And then she made a fool of herself with Lucas and made us all look bad. Silly cow.”
With a little more coaxing, she’d given them the defunct mobile number, said that she thought Kylie came from Essex, and had offered a description. “Mousy. And a bit chubby. I can’t imagine why Lucas hired her” had been her final, damning pronouncement.
They crossed Bishopsgate and Kincaid paused as they reached the escalators that led down into Liverpool Street Station, turning to Cullen. “Oh, and any luck with Azad’s missing nephew, by the way? We seem to be accumulating missing persons at an alarming rate.”
Gemma walked back towards Old Street, more slowly this time. She was beginning to wish she’d worn more sensible shoes. Given the continuing hot spell, strappy sandals had seemed the right choice that morning, but now she had a blister starting.
She slowed a little more, favoring her foot and thinking about her conversation with Roy Blakely as she walked. She’d given him Janice Silverman’s number and he’d said he would ring her. But when she’d asked if he would appear in family court, he’d hesitated, saying, “Of course I want what’s best for Charlotte…but I’ve known the family most of my life. And I’ve nothing specific to say, other than that Gail hasn’t done that great a job with her own kids, and that’s just my opinion.”
“Well, have a word with Janice. That’s a start,” Gemma had said, sensing she couldn’t push him further at the moment, and with that she’d had to be content.
But she had a clearer picture of what had happened the day Sandra disappeared, and she was more convinced than ever that Sandra had not gone voluntarily. And she was curious about this woman called Pippa Nightingale who Roy had mentioned.
She stopped and checked her A to Zed. Rivington Street ran parallel to Old Street, and she was almost within a stone’s throw. She would check in with work, and then she could just pop in Pippa Nightingale’s gallery for a quick word.
Not knowing the exact address, she started at the bottom end of the street and walked up, searching for the name. Rivington Street had that air of slightly shabby trendiness she was coming to associate with the East End. There were clubs and clothing boutiques, a health clinic, offices, and galleries. Too many galleries-she reached the top end of the street, anchored by the friendly looking Rivington Grill, without finding the gallery she wanted. Starting back the other way, she looked more closely. Halfway down the street, she was rewarded by the sight of very discreet lettering announcing the NIGHTINGALE GALLERY, beside a plain facade and an anonymous-looking door.
Gemma studied the building, then pushed the buzzer. When the door latch clicked, she went in. She found herself in a small vestibule with a staircase. There was nowhere to go but up.
As she climbed, she saw that tiny jewel-like paintings hung on the stairwell walls. The works were abstract, with layers of line and color that created such depth she had an odd sensation of vertigo. But it was the handwritten prices on the cards mounted beside the paintings that made her gasp. Lovely, but certainly beyond her reach.
When she reached the first floor, the space opened out into a long, narrow gallery. The walls were painted a stark white, the floor was unvarnished planks, and light poured in from a large window at the front. Only half a dozen works hung on the walls. Gemma wasn’t sure if she should call them paintings, for they were monochrome, except each picture had one splash of brilliant scarlet pigment.
She moved closer, fascinated. The meticulously rendered drawings made her think of the Hans Christian Andersen tales she’d been reading Toby. There was a magical, foreboding feeling to them, a sense of deep woods and snow. Female figures morphed into wolves, male figures into stags, and half-formed creatures peered from crags and branches. The red was visceral, shocking. As were the prices, again.
Gemma stepped back and looked round. The space seemed cavernously empty, but there was a door at the back of the room. She walked towards it, calling out, “Anyone here?”
A woman stepped out, and Gemma had the impression that one of the drawings on the wall had come to life. Waif slender, the woman was dressed in black, but her skin and hair were ice pale. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was on the phone. Can I help you?” Her voice was polished and surprisingly husky.
“Are you Pippa Nightingale?” asked Gemma. As she moved closer, she saw that the woman’s eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.
“Yes.” Now she sounded slightly wary. “Did someone send you?”
“Not exactly.” Gemma gave her a condensed version of her explanation to Roy Blakely, finishing with “Roy said you and Sandra had known each other for a long time, and that you represented Sandra’s work. So I wondered if you could tell me anything more about Sandra’s relationship with her family.”
Pippa Nightingale’s eyes filled, and she clutched at the skirt of her black jersey dress. “I can’t believe Naz is dead,” she whispered.
There were no chairs in the gallery area. Spying two chrome-and-black-plastic models in the office, Gemma guided Pippa inside, saying, “Here, sit down, why don’t you?” Pippa sank into one of the chairs, the backs of her fingers pressed against her upper lip. “Can I get you some tea or something?” Gemma asked.
Pippa took a shaky breath. “There’s a kettle on the worktable, and some teabags.” She nodded towards the back of the room. Unlike the gallery space, the office was cluttered-it looked as if every bit of detritus that might have sullied the pristine display space had been sucked into this room. Paper spilled from desk and worktable; file folders lay open, disgorging their contents in cascades; stacks of stapled exhibition brochures teetered precariously near edges.
Gemma found the sleek stainless-steel kettle, some obviously hand-thrown pottery mugs, and a box of PG tips. The kettle had water in it, so she flipped the switch and it boiled quickly. She didn’t see milk or sugar, so poured water over the teabags, then stirred the cups for a moment with a used and bent spoon she’d found beside the kettle. She fished out the teabags, tossed them into an overflowing rubbish bin, then carried them round the desk. She cleared a spot for Pippa’s cup, then sat in the other chair, holding her own.
“Thanks.” Pippa’s voice had recovered some of its huskiness. She lowered her hand, taking the pottery cup gingerly by the rim and handle. “Sorry the place is a tip. I haven’t been keeping up with things very well lately. And this…” Her eyes started to tear again and she shook her head.
“You knew Naz, then?” Gemma asked.
“Of course I knew Naz. Sandra and I were friends before they married. It’s not that Naz and I were ever all that close-I think Naz resented my influence on Sandra, and vice versa, I’m sorry to say-but I-” She stopped to sip at the still-steaming tea. “It’s just that-I can’t believe he’s dead. Now I don’t think Sandra will ever come back.” This time the tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.
“You thought Sandra would come home?” asked Gemma, surprised. She realized it was the first time anyone she’d talked to had genuinely seemed to believe it.
“I know it’s stupid, but yes. Somehow I thought she would just walk back into her life one day. But with Naz gone, I can’t imagine Sandra coming back.”
“What about Charlotte?” Gemma felt immediately incensed on Charlotte’s behalf.
“Oh, I don’t mean she didn’t love Charlotte. She adored her. But long before Charlotte was born, Naz and the house were her lodestones, the things that mattered most to her-even more than her work.” This was said with the faintest of frowns on her unlined, almost translucent face.
“Should her work have mattered more?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Some of Pippa’s initial wariness seemed to have returned. “I’m still not quite sure why you wanted to talk to me. I never met any of Sandra’s family.”
“Roy Blakely said you and Sandra hadn’t been as close lately, and that you weren’t representing her work any longer.”
“Sandra told him that?” Pippa stared at her, and Gemma found her pale eyes disconcerting. “It wasn’t that simple. Sandra and I had…a difference of opinion…over the direction her career was taking. I thought she was accepting too many commissions. She should have sold only through exhibitions and galleries-that’s how you build a reputation.” She gestured towards the gallery space. “I have two artists here now who may win major prizes. You won’t find them selling paintings to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who wants something pretty for his sitting room.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“It is if you want to be taken seriously. And it is a business, make no mistake. Sandra thought art was meant to be seen, and that it was up to the viewer to decide the meaning of a piece.” From Pippa’s tone, Sandra might as well have insisted that the world was flat. “That silliness I could have dealt with by careful marketing, building a mystique,” Pippa went on, “but I could only do that by representing her exclusively.” She drank more of her tea, although Gemma still found it too hot to touch.
“But Sandra wouldn’t agree to that?” she said, as neutrally as she could manage.
“No. Sandra could be infuriatingly stubborn. So I told her in that case I couldn’t represent her at all, thinking it would change her mind. But it didn’t. And there we were.” Pippa hunched over her mug, pushing back the curtain of her long, flaxen hair as it fell over her face. The color, Gemma saw, went all the way to the roots, and at the parting her scalp was pink. “I never meant it to go on,” Pippa said. “It wasn’t worth losing a friendship. And now I can’t take it back.”
“I’m sorry,” Gemma said. “That must be hard. But we don’t know for certain what happened to Sandra.”
“No. But I can’t imagine…and I can’t bear to think of her learning Naz was dead. Do you-I know you said you weren’t officially with the police-but do you know what happened? How-how Naz was killed?”
Knowing that no information about the drugs in Naz’s system had been released, Gemma couldn’t enlighten her, although she wondered what Pippa Nightingale’s reaction would be. Instead, she said, “Pippa, when I came in, you already knew about Naz’s death. Who told you?”
Pippa Nightingale looked up, her delicate eyebrows raised, and Gemma had to resist the urge to look away from those strange eyes.
“Why, Lucas of course,” she said.
Ahmed Azad must have more relatives than most people had acquaintances, Cullen thought as he sat wearily back from the computer screen at his desk.
According to the immigration records Cullen had accessed, Azad had already sponsored nieces, nephews, great-nieces and-nephews, cousins, and a few second cousins thrown in for good measure. Mohammed Rahman, the missing great-nephew, was only the latest ripple in a years’ long flood. And young Mohammed had been working at his uncle’s restaurant, living in his uncle’s house, reporting regularly to his contact with the prosecution-and then he was not. Mohammed Rahman’s blip had simply disappeared from the radar screen.
Cullen had tried every database he could think of, including missing persons and John Does. Mohammed’s friends and acquaintances had been questioned by Immigration, but Cullen would have to institute another go-round.
Nor had he had much better luck with Lucas Ritchie’s former employee Kylie Watters. There had been no activity on her national insurance number, so she wasn’t drawing benefits, and if she was working, it was off the record. The mobile number Melanie had given them was indeed out of service, having been canceled for nonpayment a few days after she had moved out of Melanie’s flat.
Kylie’s national insurance number linked back to an address in Essex. He’d found a phone number through reverse look-up, but there had been no answer. That meant more legwork, as did checking out Lucas Ritchie’s alibi for the day Naz Malik had been killed. The St. John’s Wood address Ritchie had given them was listed as belonging to a Matthew Ritchie, and a quick search had revealed that Matthew Ritchie was not a banker, as Kincaid had speculated, but a record company executive, with two children listed as Lucas and Sarah. So perhaps Ritchie had been telling the truth about the niece’s birthday party, but learning whether all his time could be accounted for would require a personal visit. And family alibis were always liable to be dodgy.
Looking at his watch, Cullen saw that there would be no flat hunting on the agenda that afternoon. As he pulled out his mobile to check in with Kincaid, he thought about the call he’d had earlier from Gemma, asking for Roy Blakely’s address. Should he mention it? Had she told Kincaid, as she’d promised? Either way, Cullen would look like a telltale if he said anything about it, and that irritated him. Whatever her rationale, she was meddling in their case, and he didn’t like it. He disliked even more the fact that he couldn’t complain about it.
But he would just have to bide his time.
Betty Howard rang just as Gemma was walking into the house. Putting her handbag down, Gemma juggled her mobile while trying to pet the dogs jumping excitedly at her legs. There was no suit jacket tossed carelessly over the coat rack-Duncan wasn’t home yet. Nor was there any immediate sign of the boys, so she guessed they were in the garden.
Betty’s rich voice came distantly until she managed to get the phone to her ear. “-hate to bother you so soon, Gemma, but Wesley’s working at the café tonight and I’ve got a carnival meeting-an emergency costume summit.” Betty chuckled. “Would you mind keeping little Charlotte? It will only be for an hour or two.”
Gemma suddenly found that her heart was beating a bit faster. “No, of course I don’t mind. What time will you bring her? Or do you want me to pick her up?”
“I’ll drop her in half an hour, if that’s all right. She’ll have had her tea.”
“Right. See you then.” Gemma was hanging up when she heard a tread on the front steps and Duncan came in, jacket already thrown over his shoulder, tie off and shirt sleeves rolled up.
“You look positively pink,” he said. She felt the rasp of stubble as he kissed her cheek. She put a hand to his shoulder and held her cheek to his a moment longer. When she let go, he studied her. “Are you sunburned, or are you glad to see me?”
“No. Yes, I mean. Both.” She didn’t know why she felt so flustered. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how to look after a toddler, although it had begun to seem a long time since Toby was that small. “What I mean is, we’re having company.”