Necessary as Blood

corner into Brick Lane and up to the Old Truman Brewery. There was a coffee house at the back, behind the trendy shops and artists‘ studios. Rashid ushered her inside and sat her down on one of the hard wooden benches, saying, ‘Wait here.‘ He disappeared towards the back.
    It was only then, as she sank onto the bench, that Gemma realized just how shaken up she was.
    Good God, what might those two have done to her if Rashid Kaleem hadn‘t come along? She told herself that it had still been daylight, that it had been a residential street, that the Gilles brothers were bullies and had only meant to frighten her, but none of those logical reassurances helped.
    She‘d seen too many knife crimes and muggings; she knew how quickly things could flare out of control and how badly people could be hurt.
    And now she knew how it felt to be a victim.
    The rage that shot through her was so intense it made her feel sick. The pain in her head grew worse. She forced herself to breathe, to focus on something beside the nausea. She gazed out, watching the patterns of sunlight made by the leaves of a tree in a planter, and after a moment she realized that she was looking out into the old brewery yard.
    On the expanse of concrete stood a double-decker bus, an old Routemaster, with tables and umbrellas in front of it, and the name Rootmaster painted cheerfully across its side. The pun made her smile, in spite of her anger and her headache, and then she remembered where she had heard the name before.
    This was where Naz was supposed to have met Sandra and Charlotte that Sunday afternoon, the afternoon Sandra had disappeared. This was where Naz had waited for the wife who had never come.
    Rashid returned, and she tore her gaze from the bus, glancing at the mug he‘d set down on the table before her. She groaned. ‘That‘s not coffee. Don‘t tell me — it‘s hot, sweet tea. I hate sweet tea.‘
    ‘I didn‘t think coffee was a good idea with that bump on your head. You‘ve got enough bruising without a big jolt of caffeine increasing your blood flow. So, tea‘ — he held out his other hand — ‘and ice.‘ He‘d cadged a plastic bag filled with ice cubes and wrapped it in a somewhat bedraggled tea towel. ‘Put this on your head, and drink up. Believe me, they didn‘t like parting with the ice, but I know the owner.‘
    Gemma obeyed, finding that the searing heat of the tea was comforting, and the ice felt good on her pounding head.
    ‘Now,‘ said Rashid as a waitress in shorts and a midriff-baring T-shirt brought him a cup of espresso, ‘tell me about those unsavoury characters.‘
    ‘Unsavoury?‘ Gemma suppressed a slightly hysterical laugh because it hurt her head. And suddenly she realized what a fright she must look, damp and shaky, with a lump on her forehead and water dripping down her face.
    The thought of Kevin and Terry sobered her quickly enough, however, and as she drank a little more of her tea and held the ice pack to her head, she told Rashid as much as she dared about Charlotte, and about her visit to Gail Gilles. She left out any mention of Kincaid and the Narcotics investigation, finishing with, ‘So, you see, I can‘t report them, because if I do I‘ll have to identify myself, and I‘ll be admitting that I visited the grandmother under false pretences.‘
    ‘But you didn‘t actually lie.‘
    ‘No, but I‘m afraid 1 my interference will bugger up the custody issue.‘
    ‘And you don‘t think the caseworker needs to know that those louts threatened you?‘ Rashid‘s dark eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl. ‘This little girl is mixed-race, then? The father was Pakistani, the mother white?‘
    Gemma nodded, not adding the speculation that Sandra‘s father had been at least partly Afro-Caribbean.
    ‘You know those two will use her as a punchbag, if they get their hands on her.‘ Rashid‘s face was hard. ‘And from what you‘re telling me about the family, no amount of oversight is going to keep them from having contact with their mother.‘
    ‘I have been trying to convey that,‘ Gemma said, attempting to keep her frustration in check.
    ‘And the scrawny one is a user,‘ Rashid added. ‘You see it on every Bangladeshi estate. After a while you can‘t miss the signs, whether the kids are white, black or brown. Acne. Twitching. That charming, vacant stare.‘
    ‘Dealers aren‘t usually users, though,‘ said Gemma, thinking about the Narcotics investigation.
    ‘Not if