Necessary as Blood

of human intelligence is not — like a painting — flat or square, but like this room it extends out and all around us. The house plots to work its magic to ensure that each visitor goes away with that perception. It may already have begun to happen to you.

Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street:
The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

    Although the sun was far from setting, the neon signs burned over the curry palaces of Brick Lane. Many of the restaurants advertised air-conditioning, but the doors stood open, and the pervasive smell of Indian spices mingled with the dust and petrol fumes of the street.
    Some of the less-prosperous places had touts outside to lure tourists in with practised patter, although Kincaid seriously doubted whether the restaurants ever gave the refunds so persuasively offered.
    Ahmed Azad‘s place, however, was easily picked out by its sleekly modern frontage. The closed front door hinted at real air-conditioning, and the interior Kincaid glimpsed through the window was minimalist, with brick walls, gleaming wooden tables and sculpted leather chairs. There was the barest hint of an Indian theme in the deep orange-red patterned place mats and coordinating linens. The prices posted on the menu in the window were a little high, but not stratospheric, and there were quite a few diners, even at that early hour.
    Sergeant Singh had told him that there would be queues later in the evening, even on a week-night, and that the food wasn‘t ‘half bad‘. He guessed that coming from her, that counted as a compliment. ‘Angla-Bangla, of course,‘ she‘d added, ‘but they do it well, and they manage to sneak in a few more authentic dishes.‘
    Most of the diners, Kincaid saw, were in Western dress, but there were very few women. When he stepped inside, he was met by a blast of cool air, and then by a barrage of aromas that made his mouth water.
    The waiters looked as sophisticated as the interior, all young men dressed in black shirts and trousers. Kincaid wondered if there had been anything about Azad‘s great-nephew that made him stand out from the mix.
    It was not one of the waiters who came forward to greet him, however, but Azad himself, wearing another expensive-looking suit cut for his rotund frame.
    ‘Mr Kincaid,‘ Azad said, shaking his hand. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure? Have you come to sample our cuisine?‘ Although his tone was friendly, his dark eyes were sharply alert.
    ‘I‘ve heard it‘s very good, Mr Azad, but I‘ve just come for a chat, if you have a minute.‘ Kincaid‘s stomach was telling him that it was a long time since he‘d had lunch. But as tempted as he was by the aromas, he didn‘t want to put himself at a disadvantage with Azad by becoming a customer.
    ‘I take it this chat will not require my solicitor‘s presence?‘ The question seemed to be rhetorical, for Azad smiled and motioned him forward. ‘Come into my office. Perhaps you would like to try a chai tea?‘ Without waiting for Kincaid‘s response, he signalled one of the waiters and barked an order in rapid Bengali.
    He led Kincaid through the restaurant and into a small room to one side of the partially open kitchen. The office was clean and utilitarian, but the walls were adorned with fine photographic prints of a lush, green landscape that Kincaid assumed must be Bangladesh.
    By the time Kincaid had taken the chair Azad offered, one of the black-clad waiters appeared with a glass mug of a milky, fragrantly spicy tea.
    ‘You serve alcohol?‘ Kincaid asked, having noticed wine glasses on some of the tables.
    ‘I don‘t drink it, Mr Kincaid, but this is a business.‘ Azad shrugged his padded shoulders. ‘If you want to be successful, you must please the customers.‘
    ‘It seems you have quite the City clientele.‘ Kincaid sipped his tea and found, rather to his surprise, that it wasn‘t as sweet as he‘d expected, and that he liked it.
    ‘They have money to spend, and a little more refined taste than the average tourists, who just want their chicken tikka masala. But why should this be of interest to you, Mr Kincaid?‘
    ‘Because I was wondering what you could tell me about Lucas Ritchie and his club.‘

    Lou Phillips lived in what Gemma guessed was a newer terrace, near the bottom end of Columbia Road, but the buildings were unusually constructed. While the ground-floor flats had little open patios, each pair of first-floor flats seemed to open onto a shared balcony, served by its