Necessary as Blood

reached the house, but the image of Hazel as she‘d been on Sunday — gaunt, unwashed, brittle with rage — unnerved her and she couldn‘t focus on her driving. Pulling off the Caledonian Road, she stopped the car in a quiet street near the canal.
    Although she‘d told Tim not to worry, she hadn‘t reassured herself. Why hadn‘t she called to make sure Hazel was all right? What sort of friend was she?
    The thought of Sandra Gilles and Naz Malik leapt unbidden into her mind — the spectre of meetings not kept and phones not answered, of things gone terribly wrong.
    Switching off the Escort‘s engine, she took her phone from her bag and punched in Hazel‘s number. A gull cried out over the canal, and as the signal connected, she felt the rumble of trains from nearby King‘s Cross, a bone-deep counterpoint to the shrill and persistent ringing of Hazel‘s phone.

Chapter Thirteen

By the early eighteenth century the City‘s ancient walls had burst and the last of the fields had been built over to form London‘s first suburbs. Another natural human desire — for more light, cleaner and fresher air — attracted the City merchants out in the direction of a rural life suggested by other street names around us now, Blossom, Elder and Primrose.

Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street:
The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

    It was an anomaly among the terraced Georgian houses — a high wall, covered with creeping vines and flowers, secured by a heavy wooden gate. Beyond the terrace, the spire of Christ Church seemed to brood over the street, as if reminding its mortal inhabitants not to take life too lightly. A man in skullcap and salwar kameez hurried past, not raising his eyes to theirs.
    Weller pushed the ornate brass bell set into the wall, and from within the compound they heard an answering chime. ‘Welcome to the seraglio,‘ Kincaid murmured.
    ‘Closer than you might think,‘ Weller replied.
    The gate opened a crack and a young Asian woman peered out. She took in their suits with a frightened glance, then started to close the gate again, whispering, ‘Not home, not home‘, but Weller wedged his shoulder in the gap.
    ‘Oh, I think he is home. Tell Mr Azad that Inspector Weller is here to see him.‘
    She flinched away from him, giving Weller the advantage, but didn‘t loosen her grip on the gate. ‘No, Mr Azad not home,‘ she insisted, but she looked more terrified than stubborn.
    Kincaid saw that the gate opened onto a courtyard filled with tubs of plants anchored by an ornate threetiered fountain. Water burbled over the lips of the fountain bowls, and he caught the scent of hot cooking oil and spices. It seemed Ahmed Azad had his bit of paradise, indeed.
    Before the tableau at the gate turned into a shoving match, a man‘s voice said, ‘Leave it, Maha.‘ The gate swung wide, revealing a short, plump man with a wide face and thinning dark hair, the long strands of which were carefully combed over his bald spot.
    The young woman pulled her headscarf a little tighter and hurried back towards the house, but her steps were hampered by her sari.
    ‘To what do we owe the honour, Inspector Weller?‘ asked their host. Azad‘s English was formal and only faintly accented, and he wore Western dress, a crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt loose over tan trousers.
    ‘We‘d just like a word, Mr Azad, if we could come in. It‘s about Naz Malik.‘
    ‘Ah. I have heard the sad news about Nasir Malik. Tragic.‘ Azad‘s eyes narrowed, as if he were considering. ‘Come into the courtyard, then, where we will not disturb my family.‘
    As they passed through the gate, Kincaid saw that wooden benches were set among the potted plants. Beyond the garden stood the house, a square, stucco structure painted a soft pink and sporting several arched doorways. Kincaid caught a glimpse of movement inside, a flash of colour, and heard the murmur of voices not quite masked by the splash of the fountain.
    Near the fountain, a pair of benches faced each other. Azad took one, Weller and Kincaid the other, leaving Cullen in the awkward position of having to choose between sitting next to Azad or standing. He chose the latter, stepping back a little way and looking usefully idle.
    Azad studied Kincaid with dark, intelligent eyes. ‘And your friends, Inspector Weller?‘
    ‘Superintendent Kincaid. Sergeant Cullen.‘ Weller made no mention of Scotland Yard, but Kincaid thought he saw a flicker of calculation in Azad‘s gaze at