Necessary as Blood

navigation while Kincaid drove. ‘Just this side of Bethnal Green Road.‘
    ‘That might make a bit more sense of Malik being found in the park.‘ Following Cullen‘s directions, Kincaid pulled up in front of an undistinguished building in a side street off Warner Place. It was the second house in a rather grimy terrace. Grey-brown brick, blue door and blue trim-work. Lettering over the ground-floor windows read Malik & Phillips, Solicitors, and to one side, a little more discreetly, there was a phone number.
    Kincaid pulled into the kerb and got out. Studying the shop front while waiting for Cullen to come round the car, he peered through a gap in the mini-blinds, and saw nothing but shadows. He pressed the buzzer, and after a moment the door released. He pushed it open and entered a small hallway, Cullen close on his heels. To their left, an open door led into the reception area he‘d glimpsed through the blinds.
    The room was empty, but it looked more inviting from the inside than it had from the window. Comfortably worn brown leather chairs and sofa, a serviceable desk, an industrial-grade Berber carpet, but the room was clean, and the freshly painted cream walls held imaginatively hung canvas reproductions of Banksy street art. An interesting choice for a solicitor, Kincaid thought, the ultimate outlaw artist.
    A female voice called from upstairs. ‘Naz, you forget your keys again? Why the hell didn‘t you ring me—‘ A woman peered down at them from the first-floor landing. ‘Sorry. I thought you were my partner. He‘s late, and the receptionist isn‘t in today. Can I help you? We usually see clients by appointment.‘ The tone was slightly disapproving. She started down the stairs, and as she came into the light cast by the glass transom in the front door, Kincaid saw that she was dark-skinned, and West Indian rather than Asian. She was a little too thin, and wore a navy business suit with a plain white blouse. Her dark hair looked as if it had been straightened, and was pulled back in an unflattering knot. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, he caught the reek of stale cigarette smoke.
    ‘You‘re Louise Phillips?‘ He held out his warrant card. ‘Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen. Scotland Yard.‘
    ‘Scotland Yard?‘ She stared at him. ‘If this is about Azad, you know I can‘t talk to you. Unless‘ — she took a sharp little breath and her eyes widened — ‘is it Sandra? Are you here about Sandra?‘
    So she didn‘t yet know what had happened. Naz Malik‘s death had made a paragraph that morning in one of the tabloids, but it was probably not the sort of paper Louise Phillips read, and Naz‘s death hadn‘t been violent enough to get further mention. ‘Mrs Phillips, is there somewhere we could talk?‘ he asked.
    ‘It‘s Ms ,‘ she corrected. ‘I‘m not married. Not that my marital status should be anyone‘s business.‘ The little speech seemed mechanical, tossed off while she gathered her thoughts. She glanced into the reception area, then shook her head, rejecting it although it looked the obvious spot. ‘Come upstairs, then. I suppose we can talk in my office.‘
    Turning, she led them up the stairs. The cigarette smell intensified as they climbed, and as they entered the first-floor office Kincaid saw why. A plastic pub ashtray held place of honour on the cluttered desk. It was filled with cigarette ends, and one lipstick-smeared specimen had burned to ash in the slotted edge. The room was not much more attractive. Scuffed and untidy, it lacked any of the reception area‘s charm, and in spite of the heat, its two windows were shut.
    Louise Phillips waved an ineffective hand at the fug in the air. ‘Naz is always going on at me, but it‘s my office and I don‘t know why I should have to be politically correct.‘
    Kincaid managed a smile, wondering how much exposure to second-hand smoke it took to contract lung cancer, and sat in one of the metal and faux-leather chairs that fought to occupy the space between boxes stuffed with files. Cullen freed another chair, and Phillips sank down behind her desk with the apparent relief of one returning to charted territory, or at least escaping from a smoke-free zone.
    Are you sure you don‘t want to wait and talk to Naz?‘ she said. ‘Whatever it is — I can‘t imagine why he‘s late. He‘s never late—‘
    ‘Ms Phillips,‘ Kincaid broke in. It was always better to get it over with quickly. ‘We can‘t