Necessary as Blood (16 page)

Roy’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Kev and Terry are a couple of shiftless louts who’ve been nothing but trouble for Sandra since she was a kid. And yeah, Naz came to see me, wanted me to say I’d seen them that day, but I hadn’t. And why would they hurt her? She was the one person they could count on to bail them out of trouble, worst case.

“Not to mention that if they had done something to her, at least a hint of it would have leaked. Those two couldn’t keep their mouths shut if their lives depended on it, and word still travels in these parts.”

“Was there anyone else that Sandra didn’t get on with, besides her family?”

Blakely reached for Gemma’s empty water glass and rubbed his thumb round the rim. “Sandra was…connected. Interested in people. And she crossed the border into the Bangladeshi community, something not very many old East End families are willing to do. Only person I can think of that she had a falling-out with was Pippa, and then she didn’t talk about it.”

“Pippa?” asked Gemma, her interest piqued by the unfamiliar name.

“Pippa Nightingale. Owns a gallery on Rivington Street. She’d been Sandra’s mentor since art college, and she represented Sandra’s work for years.”

“She doesn’t anymore?”

“I don’t think so. Like I said, Sandra didn’t really talk about it. You could ask Pippa yourself. Her place is called the Nightingale Gallery.”

“Mr. Blakely—Roy.” Gemma hesitated, not wanting to break the rapport she felt she’d established with Sandra’s friend, but she knew she had to ask. “There were rumors when Sandra disappeared that she might have been—that there was another man—”

“Bollocks!” He stood. “I don’t know who started it, but I heard those whispers when Sandra disappeared. It was crap then, and it’s crap now. No one who really knew Sandra would have believed it for a minute, and it made life a misery for Naz.”

“I’m sorry.” Gemma stood up as well. It was obvious she’d worn out her welcome. “Thank you, Mr. Blakely. But tell me one more thing. Would you be willing to see Charlotte raised by Gail Gilles?”

Blakely took a breath, then let it out slowly. “No. Not if I can bloody help it.”

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.”