Necessary as Blood

crying, but silently now, fat tears running down her cheeks as she watched Alia disappear around the corner. ‘You‘d like to play with Holly, wouldn‘t you, love?‘ Gemma coaxed, but Charlotte wept unchecked. Reluctantly, Gemma handed her to Tim, then fetched her things.
    Charlotte looked so small, nestled in Tim‘s arms, but she must have found his familiarity comforting, because when Gemma offered her the green plush elephant, she took it and hugged it against her chest. ‘Will you let Bob play with Holly, too?‘ asked Gemma, and got a solemn nod in response. ‘Good girl.‘
    ‘We‘ll see you later?‘ asked Tim, not looking reassured.
    ‘I‘ll ring beforehand if there‘s any news.‘ Alia had left her keys, so Gemma and Tim had agreed that Gemma would take them to Islington once she‘d had a look round the house.
    Tim nodded, then carried Charlotte to the Volvo, carefully strapping her into Holly‘s oversized safety seat in the back. He got in and drove away without looking back.
    ‘I can stay,‘ said Hazel. ‘I could help you. Then I can run you to Islington to drop off the keys.‘
    Gemma heard the note of entreaty in her friend‘s voice, and was tempted. But the tension between Hazel and Tim was distracting her, and she felt suddenly that she needed to be alone in the house, to concentrate, to get a feel for who these people were and what might have happened.
    ‘I need to make phone calls, and I don‘t know how long that will take.‘ She checked her watch. The first call was personal and urgent — she needed to tell Duncan where she was and what she was doing. ‘You go on,‘ she added to Hazel. ‘I‘ll get the Tube from Liverpool Street when I‘ve finished. I‘m trespassing, really, without Tim or Alia here, and I‘d rather you‘re not guilty by association.‘ She didn‘t say that the house might be a potential crime scene, and the less disturbed it was, the better.
    ‘But I—‘ Hazel left the sentence unfinished, but the silence spoke just as clearly — she didn‘t want to go home.
    Impulsively, Gemma hugged her and kissed her cheek. ‘I‘ll ring you in just a bit. I promise.‘
    When Hazel reached the Golf, she turned back. ‘I‘ve been a bitch, haven‘t I? It‘s just—‘ She shrugged. ‘It doesn‘t matter. I hope Tim‘s friend is all right.‘
    ‘So do I,‘ said Gemma.

    *

    Duncan Kincaid was stretched out on the sitting-room sofa, the Saturday Times scattered across the coffee table and the floor, a dog across his chest, a cat on his feet. The garden doors stood open to let in the slightest breath of early evening, but the air was muggy and Geordie, the cocker spaniel, was making him sweat.
    ‘You‘re taking up too much space, buddy,‘ he said, but he felt too lazy to make the dog move and merely stroked his dark-grey ears. Geordie gave a huge doggy sigh of contentment and settled himself more firmly against Kincaid‘s ribcage.
    That afternoon Kincaid had paid a call on the tenant in his flat in Carlingford Road, and had taken advantage of the visit to Hampstead to take both boys and both dogs to Hampstead Heath.
    There had been method in his madness — a couple of hours of Frisbee throwing, ball chasing, and hunting for imaginary buried treasure had worn everyone out sufficiently to give him a rare bit of Saturday-afternoon peace. The boys were upstairs in their rooms, and the faint thump of bass from Kit‘s iPod speakers provided an oddly comforting counterpoint to the doggy snores.
    When his mobile rang, he stretched towards the coffee table, fumbling for the phone, and dislodged Geordie in the process. ‘Sorry, mates,‘ he said as Sid, their black cat, raised his head and gave a hiss of displeasure at the disturbance.
    Expecting Gemma, he was surprised by the name on the caller ID. Why ring him and not Gemma? A little jolt of dread made him sit up as he answered.
    He listened, made the appropriate responses, and by the time he‘d hung up, the dread had settled in the centre of his chest like a fist.
    When the mobile rang again, he was still sitting with the phone in his hand, staring blankly at the oil painting of a hunting spaniel over the fireplace, a gift to Gemma from his cousin Jack.
    This time it was Gemma, and he took a moment to compose himself before he clicked on, saying brightly, ‘Hello, love.‘
    Before he could go any further, she launched into a complicated story involving a missing friend of Tim Cavendish‘s and, when he