Necessary as Blood

involved, he‘s the sort who might be willing to roll over on Alexander to save his own skin. It‘s worth a try, and I want Alexander a lot more than I want Truman, the little tosser.‘
    He glanced at his watch. ‘Doug, let‘s get a car on its way to Hoxton. And then get a team out. Let‘s see if we can find any neighbours at home who might have seen Naz or Sandra. Once we get Alexander out of the way, we‘ll have another team start going through his rubbish. We can do that without a warrant. It‘s Saturday — hopefully he‘ll have left something interesting in the outside bins for next week‘s collection.‘
    He went to Gemma and looked down at her, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘I‘m sorry, love,‘ he said softly. ‘It‘s not quite what I had in mind for our wedding night. I‘ll ring you...‘
    ‘The hell you will.‘ She gave his hand a squeeze and stood up. ‘Betty, Wesley, could one of you stay and look after the kids?‘ Timing back to Duncan, she added, ‘We‘ll spend our wedding night together, one way or the other. I‘m going with you.‘

    Gemma stood in the corridor outside the interview room at Scotland Yard. Kincaid had gone to deal with the arrival of Alexander‘s solicitor, leaving her to stare through the window in the interview-room door. She‘d recognized Alexander instantly from that brief meeting in the hospital ward.
    He looked as sleek and self-satisfied now as he had then, and more annoyed than concerned. And yet this man, she felt quite certain, had callously, remorselessly snuffed out two lives, and put a child‘s future at risk. Charlotte‘s future.
    How many other lives had he ruined? Children taken from their homes and families, raped, kept prisoner, and then... what? Abandoned like rubbish, cast-offs for those who were willing to settle for soiled goods? Or put out on the street, where their only choice would be to earn a living as prostitutes?
    When the uniformed officers arrived, Alexander had been hosting a dinner party for three other men, and the sergeant in charge thought he‘d caught a glimpse of an Asian girl in the kitchen. He hadn‘t been able to go in, but he‘d not allowed Alexander to talk to his guests alone before he‘d ushered him out of the house and into the panda car.
    Alexander had been delivered to the Yard, icily furious and demanding his solicitor.
    But Kincaid‘s plan to play Truman against Alexander had failed. The team sent to Truman‘s house found it dark and shuttered, and although Kincaid had ordered a car to keep an eye on the house in case he returned, Gemma was afraid yesterday‘s visit had frightened the vet into doing a runner.
    If only they‘d realized, yesterday, who the real perpetrator must have been. Now, without Truman‘s corroboration, they might have to let Alexander go before they could convince a magistrate to give them a warrant to search his house and car.
    Their best hope was the team led by Cullen, knocking on doors in Alexander‘s quietly respectable Hoxton Street. Melody had insisted — Gemma thought somewhat to Cullen‘s chagrin — on going along.
    But it was late, getting on for midnight, and Gemma suspected they‘d be more likely to get complaints from the neighbours than cooperation.
    She rubbed her ring against the lapel of her jacket to polish it. The band was the only tangible reminder that the afternoon had not been a dream. She‘d taken the time to change from her lovely dress into jacket and trousers. She didn‘t intend to face Alexander in her wedding finery — and face him she meant to do, no matter how long it took.
    But would she have another chance to speak to him without a solicitor present? She looked up and down the corridor. There was no sign of Kincaid returning. Taking a breath, she opened the door and went in.
    Miles Alexander sat at the table in his bespoke suit, studying his nails. He looked up at the sound of the door, then raised an eyebrow in an expression of mild interest.
    ‘Haven‘t I seen you before?‘ he asked.
    ‘I met you in hospital,‘ said Gemma. ‘My mother had a shunt put in her arm. You were her anaesthetist.‘
    ‘A ginger-haired woman.‘ He smiled, as if pleased by his recollection. ‘Leukaemia. Not a good prognosis, I‘m afraid.‘
    The remark was deliberately, casually cruel.
    Refusing to let him see that the taunt had hit its mark, Gemma smiled back. ‘Do you always have such a good bedside manner, Mr Alexander? Or did you choose your