Necessary as Blood

sympathetic.‘
    Gemma glanced at Hazel, taken aback by the bitter tone, but Hazel went on, ‘I‘m really not sure why he rang, except that he knew you were visiting and wanted your advice.‘
    Afraid any comment would open a conversational minefield, Gemma went back to her map. ‘When you reach Whitechapel, you‘d better take Commercial Street. I think Brick Lane is one way in the other direction.‘
    The Saturday traffic was light and they made good time, turning away from the river at Tower Hill. Soon the stark spire of Christ Church Spitalfields rose before them, and opposite, the dark brick facade of the old Spitalfields Market, surmounted by its new glass arcade.
    Gemma had come to Spitalfields and to Petticoat Lane Market with her parents a few times as a child, and she had once been to Brick Lane on a Sunday with Rob, her ex-husband. She‘d been a newly minted detective constable then, and Rob had bought cheap cigarettes and liquor that she‘d been sure were smuggled or stolen. The street had smelled of rotting garbage, the buildings had struck her as dirty and squalid, and even by the standards of her Leyton upbringing the crowd had seemed raucous and unfriendly. She and Rob had ended up having a row, and he‘d called her — not for the first time — a self-righteous cow and she‘d called him, well, she didn‘t like to think about it. All in all, it had not been an experience she had wanted to repeat.
    ‘Turn right just after the church,‘ she told Hazel.
    ‘Hawksmoor, isn‘t it?‘ Hazel glanced up through the windscreen. ‘Impressive, but not exactly your warm and fuzzy neighbourhood sanctuary.‘
    Gemma had to admit that the angular silhouette of the church seemed a bit forbidding, and the proportions a bit odd, as if the spire carried too much weight.
    As they turned right, she saw the short stretch of Fournier Street, its darkly severe houses anchored by the church and the crumbling facade of a pub at the top end, while the bottom end provided a perfect frame for the Bangla City supermarket on the opposite side of Brick Lane.
    ‘There‘s Tim‘s car,‘ Hazel said tightly, as if her ill feelings extended to the battered Volvo. She found a small space nearby for the Golf, and when she had manoeuvred into it, she and Gemma got out, checking the house numbers against the scribbled address.
    ‘It‘s this one.‘ Gemma looked up at a house set in the terrace on the north side of the street. Although adjoining, each house was set off from its neighbours by slight differences in the architectural detailing and its state of repair. This house looked well tended, its brown brick contrasting with trim-work and wrought-iron railings painted a soft green.
    The front door was offset, so that the ground floor had only two windows to one side, while the first and second floors had three windows across. The top floor was recessed, so that Gemma just glimpsed light glinting from what looked like loft or studio windows. The front door sported a hooded canopy supported by ornate brackets, also painted pale green, and the arched shape of the canopy was echoed in the slightly arched brickwork above the windows.
    Before they could ring the bell, the door opened and Tim bounded down the steps, taking Gemma‘s hand and giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks for coming.‘ He was tall, with unruly hair and a beard that had always seemed to Gemma to add to his air of rather puppyish awkwardness. But he had an endearing earnestness about him as well, and Gemma wondered if it was this that generated confidence in his patients.
    ‘Hazel.‘ He turned to his wife, belatedly, for she had already mounted the steps. ‘Thanks. I—‘
    ‘Any word from your friend?‘ Hazel asked.
    ‘No. I‘ve kept Alia until you arrived. I thought Gemma would want to talk to her. Alia is Charlotte‘s nanny,‘ he hastened to explain, ushering them into the entrance hall.
    The space was dominated by a polished oak staircase, spiralling dizzyingly upwards in symmetrical right-angled turns. But the grandeur of the staircase was offset by the iron boot-rack near the door, festooned with pairs of polka-dot wellies in varying sizes, and a jumble of hats. A bicycle stood beside it, a helmet hanging by its chinstrap on the handlebars.
    The walls were painted the same warm green as the exterior trim, and through an open doorway Gemma glimpsed a comfortable-looking sitting room.
    ‘Charlotte is your friend‘s little girl?‘ Gemma