Necessary as Blood

actually. He‘s gone to his son‘s wedding in Shropshire. Said he‘d throw his mobile in the toilet if anyone rang.‘ The hint of humour was replaced by alertness. ‘That case is months old. Why is it so urgent?‘
    ‘Because Sandra Gilles‘s husband seems to have disappeared this afternoon.‘ Gemma gave her the details. ‘I know it‘s early for an official alert, but under the circumstances I think you can make an exception.‘
    ‘I‘ll pass it along.‘ All levity had disappeared from Singh‘s voice. ‘What about the little girl? Do we need to contact social services?‘
    ‘She‘s with a family friend for tonight.‘ Gemma passed on Tim‘s address and phone number, added her own contact information, then said, ‘Listen, could you leave a message with your Inspector Weller, just in case he checks in? Ask him to ring me at his earliest convenience.‘
    She hung up, knowing she‘d taken all reasonable steps, but feeling restless and dissatisfied. Checking the notes she‘d made while talking to Tim, she rang directory enquiries, trying to track down a personal number for Louise Phillips, Naz Malik‘s law partner. But although it was a common name, she got no matches. Louise Phillips might be ex-directory or might have only a mobile, as was so often the case nowadays.
    A computer search might yield better results, however, and Gemma knew no one more able to follow threads on the Internet than her colleague at Notting Hill, DC Melody Talbot.
    But when she rang Melody‘s mobile, it went to voicemail. Gemma left a brief message, apologizing for disturbing her on a Saturday night. As she hung up, she chided herself for having assumed Melody would be available. Melody was, after all, young and attractive, and the fact that she didn‘t share details of her personal life with Gemma didn‘t mean she didn‘t have one.
    Still, Gemma was curious. Most of her colleagues were only too willing to share their off-duty exploits in excruciating detail. Why not Melody?

    ‘She‘ll have the sautéed foie gras.‘
    ‘No, she won‘t.‘ Melody Talbot gave her father a tight smile. ‘You know I can‘t stand foie gras.‘
    ‘The foie gras is one of the Ivy‘s specialties,‘ Ivan Talbot announced, although Melody wasn‘t sure if the comment was directed towards the attentive waiter, who certainly bloody well knew, or their dinner guest. ‘Let‘s make that four,‘ her father added, steamrolling over her protest, as usual. ‘I should think Quentin is game for a little adventure.‘
    The Quentin in question was the latest victim of Melody‘s father‘s campaign to find her a suitable husband. A junior employee of her father‘s, Quentin Frobisher was tall, sandy-haired, freckled and not actually bad-looking, in the very English way that Melody didn‘t particularly fancy. Not that she would for a moment admit she found him even passable.
    She had met her parents and their guest just outside the Ivy, and on the short trip through the restaurant‘s foyer she had hissed at her father, ‘You said he was an "ordinary chap”. No one named Quentin is an ordinary chap.‘
    Now, she huddled back against the banquette, wishing she were anywhere else on earth. Why had she let her father bully her into this? And what if someone from work saw her?
    Not that any common or garden-variety coppers were likely to be found in one of London‘s most famous and exclusive restaurants on a Saturday night. But although the Ivy reserved a good two-thirds of its bookings for ‘regulars‘, it was not particularly expensive, and anyone with a bit of time and determination could theoretically get a table.
    She herself had been seduced by it tonight. Her parents had brought her here for special occasions since her teens, and she loved it — the distinctive diamonds of multicoloured stained glass over the door, the street lamp shining through the blue crescent moon, the paintings, the grand mural in the dining room, the crisp-starched white tablecloths. And, most of all, the sense of the well-oiled machine ticking away above the unseen chaos of the kitchen below, creating a perfection she seldom experienced in her workaday life.
    That reminder was enough to snap her back to reality. She tugged at the décolleté of her dress and gave another nervous glance round the room. Work — at least, her work — and this sort of play didn‘t mix. God forbid that she should run across some emaciated celeb wannabe snorting coke in the