Necessary as Blood

it, a painting of a red horse. The desk surface held more sketches, notebooks, a jumble of Post-its, and the usual assortment of pens, pencils and elastic bands. Gemma reached out, pulled back. She‘d been careful, except for the light switches, not to disturb, not to leave prints, and again, this was beyond her remit.
    She turned once more, to the back wall. It was covered in corkboard and festooned with drawings, both Sandra‘s and Charlotte‘s, and — eureka for Gemma — photos. This was why there were no posed, tidily framed family portraits in the rest of the house. The photos were here, drawing-pinned, overlapping, candid — a family captured in the day-to-day act of living.
    There were more shots of Naz and Charlotte than of Sandra, an indication that Sandra was the primary photographer. Gemma studied a photo of Naz with Charlotte on his lap, recognizing the setting as the kitchen sofa.
    Tim had given her a description: Nasir Malik, forty years old (Tim assumed, as they were at uni together), medium height, medium build (a bit thin these days, since Sandra‘s disappearance, Tim had added), dark hair and eyes, deep olive complexion, glasses.
    What Tim had not conveyed was the slight professorial air, the seriousness of the gaze through the wire-framed specs, the unexpected charm and warmth of the smile.
    Gemma rubbed at the hair that had risen on her arms. She had ruled out obvious evidence of foul play, or a visible suicide note.
    What she had found was the certainty that Naz Malik had not given up hope of his wife‘s return.

Chapter Six

Breakfast after a morning at the market would be a salt-beef sandwich with mustard on rye from the Beigel Bake at the top of the street.

Rachel Lichtenstein, On Brick Lane

    The kitchen had grown dark while Gemma was upstairs. She flicked on the lights, and then, feeling exposed, closed the heavy inside shutters over the street windows. The French doors at the back still stood open to the garden, and when some capricious current moved the heavy air, she smelled garlic and spices and the hot, prickly aroma of frying oil.
    Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she‘d only nibbled for lunch, having expected to have tea with Hazel, and that had been hours ago. Hazel had left Alia‘s samosas on the worktop, the baking pan covered with aluminium foil. Gemma lifted the foil and took one, feeling she was trespassing, but she certainly didn‘t want to go digging round in the fridge.
    It was good, she thought as she tasted the potato mixture, but would be better warm. She looked round for a microwave and realized there wasn‘t one. The cooker and the fridge seemed the kitchen‘s only concessions to mod cons. Studying the room more carefully, she saw that the great Welsh dresser just fitted beneath the low ceiling, and she wondered if it had been part of the original kitchen furnishings. The hearth, too, was enormous, and she guessed it had been the working fireplace when the kitchen had been the dark, subterranean heart of the house.
    The kitchen was still the heart of the house. She gazed at one of Charlotte‘s drawings, stuck haphazardly on the fridge door. Now she could see their faces, Naz and Sandra, here in this room with their child.
    She finished the samosa and wiped her fingers on an embroidered tea towel. It was enough to keep her hunger from distracting her, and she had things to do. Sitting at the table, she searched in her handbag for a notepad and pen and took out her phone.
    First, she called Mile End Hospital, then the Royal London, identifying herself. Neither reported a casualty fitting Naz Malik‘s description. Gemma wasn‘t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
    Next, she rang Bethnal Green Police Station, working her way through the phone-tree options until she got a real live person, a duty officer who identified herself as Sergeant Singh. From her voice, Gemma imagined her as young, slight and pretty, but she spoke with a competent briskness.
    ‘I‘d like to speak to the detective investigating the disappearance of Sandra Gilles,‘ said Gemma, having offered her credentials. ‘It would have been in May.‘
    ‘Oh, right. Weird one, that.‘ The sergeant‘s tone was conversational. Gemma wondered if Bethnal Green was quiet at dinnertime on a Saturday night. ‘Inspector Weller handled that, but he‘s not available this weekend.‘
    ‘Surely you‘ve got a mobile number, or some other contact where he can be reached.‘
    ‘Um, no,