Necessary as Blood

friendly.
    ‘Not my team,‘ he said. ‘You must be James, then.‘
    She nodded. ‘Inspector Weller. What‘s going on here?‘
    Weller stepped aside to allow a white-suited crime-scene tech to pass, and Gemma saw that there was a crime-scene van among the marked cars in the street. He gave her an assessing stare and she wished she‘d worn something more professional than jeans, tank top and sandals. ‘How about you tell me what you knew about Naz Malik?‘
    Knew. Past tense. Her heart sank, but she said evenly, ‘It was in my message. Mutual friend rang me, worried that Mr Malik hadn‘t turned up for a meeting. Have you found him?‘
    ‘Did you meet Naz Malik at any time?‘
    ‘No,‘ Gemma said sharply, not liking the feeling of being interrogated. ‘I‘d never heard of him until yesterday. Why—‘
    ‘Seen a photo?‘
    Gemma thought about the house on Fournier Street, empty, and the family photos pinned to Sandra Gilles‘s corkboard. ‘Yes. Yesterday, when I went to the house.‘
    Weller frowned at the cars in the street, seeming barely to hear her. She saw the glint of pale stubble on his jaw, the crinkled pouches of skin beneath his eyes. ‘Still waiting for the damned pathologist,‘ he muttered, then looked back at her, including her in the scowl. ‘Suppose you‘d better have a look, then. I could use a second ID.‘
    He turned and started along the path. It was a gentle incline, lined by blooming shrubs and a brick wall to the right. After a few yards it forked, and Weller followed the left-hand branch.
    The paved walkway narrowed slightly. The vegetation thickened, trees arched overhead, and along the left-hand side primitive-looking waist-high wooden slats provided a barrier. Gemma could see nothing but green ahead and behind. The spot felt as isolated as if it had been plucked out of the heart of the city and set down in alien countryside. An apt metaphor, she thought as the path twisted and she saw the cluster of white-suited SOCOs, looking like space invaders bent over a prize.
    But it was a broken section of fencing they were examining, she saw as she drew closer, and the ground beyond. A white-suited photographer moved in an awkward squat, increasing the surreal quality of the scene.
    And then she was near enough to see the object of their activity — in the undergrowth beyond the broken fence lay a man‘s body, face down, his limbs splayed, like the extrusions on a jigsaw piece.
    The techs moved back when they saw Weller. Eyeing Gemma again, critically, he pulled paper boots and gloves from one of his jacket pockets. While she put them on he said, a little more conversationally, ‘Early-morning jogger. Noticed the broken section of fence, then the shoe.‘ He pointed. ‘When she realized the shoe was attached to a leg, she waded in to investigate. Ballsy of her, but probably buggered up my crime scene.‘
    Recognizing the proprietary tone — she had used it often enough herself — Gemma glanced at him as she finished snapping on the gloves. ‘You said second ID. You were the first?‘
    Weller nodded. ‘Interviewed him a dozen times over his wife‘s disappearance.‘
    ‘What happened? How did he—‘
    ‘Why don‘t you tell me!
    Gemma wasn‘t sure if this was a challenge, or if Weller genuinely wanted her opinion. Looking back at the body, she felt her own reluctance. This seemed uncomfortably personal, but putting it off wasn‘t going to make it any better. The day was warming fast and the flies were gathering — would have been gathering since daybreak — and the smell would ripen quickly in the heat. Her hands had already begun to sweat in the gloves.
    She eased through the gap in the fence and crouched, trying to resist brushing at the flies as she catalogued the details. ‘Clean, well-groomed, male,‘ she observed. ‘A little thin, but not obviously malnourished. The clothes match the description given by Naz Malik‘s nanny — tan trousers and a casual polo shirt.‘ Only his right hand and arm were visible. The left was tucked beneath his body. ‘There are a few minor scratches on the back of his hand, consistent with contact with the undergrowth.‘ She bent closer, this time giving in to the impulse to swat at a fly, looking carefully at the back of the victim‘s dark hair, and at the leaf litter round the edges of the body. ‘No obvious signs of trauma, or of blood seeping from a wound we can‘t see. No smell of alcohol.‘ She looked up at Weller.