Necessary as Blood

the mention of his rank.
    ‘A superintendent,‘ said Azad with evident approval. ‘It is very fitting that Nasir Malik should have a superintendent to investigate this crime, you know. This is a lawless country, Mr Kincaid. Such a thing would never have happened in Bangladesh.‘
    ‘What exactly do you think happened to Naz Malik, Mr Azad?‘ Kincaid asked, knowing that the cause of death was still speculative even within the investigating team.
    But Azad said smoothly, ‘He was found dead in the park. I assumed he was set on by youths. These young people have no respect, and some of them, I am sorry to say, are Bangladeshi.‘ He shook his head with the regretful exasperation suited to a fond uncle. ‘Nasir was a good man, in spite of the questionable wisdom of some of his choices.‘
    Weller cocked his head like a large, rumpled bird. ‘Choices?‘
    Azad shrugged. ‘I mean no offence, Inspector, but Nasir married a white woman. Marriage is difficult enough without racial and cultural differences.‘
    ‘Malik spent most of his life here,‘ said Weller. ‘He seemed very English to me.‘
    ‘Did you know Sandra Gilles, Mr Azad?‘ asked Kincaid.
    ‘Of course I knew Sandra. Everyone in and around Brick Lane knew Sandra. She often called into my restaurant.‘
    ‘You didn‘t like her?‘
    Azad looked irritated. ‘I said nothing about liking, Mr Kincaid. It was simply a matter of what is appropriate. And she brought shame on Nasir.‘
    ‘Shame? How?‘
    ‘A man must be able to keep a wife, Mr Kincaid.‘
    ‘So you think Sandra Gilles left Naz voluntarily, Mr Azad?‘
    Azad shrugged again, less patiently. ‘It seems that is the most likely thing to have happened.‘
    ‘Why is that, when you immediately assumed that Naz had been killed by a gang?‘
    ‘Because you have found poor Nasir, but not Sandra,‘ Azad said, as if his logic were irrefutable.
    ‘Perhaps she went to the same place as your nephew — or was it great-nephew?‘ suggested Weller, lazily.
    The pouches of flesh under Azad‘s eyes tightened, and although he didn‘t move, there was a sudden tension in his posture. ‘This has been very pleasant, Mr Weller, but if you are going to discuss my personal business, I‘d think I‘d prefer that my lawyer be present.‘
    ‘That would be Miss Phillips, then?‘ said Weller. ‘It must be rather inconvenient for you, losing one of your lawyers just as your case is coming to trial. And I can‘t help but wonder,‘ he added, ‘how comfortable you feel with a woman as your sole representative.‘
    Smiling, Azad stood. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for your condolences on the loss of my friend. If you will ring Ms Phillips in the morning, I‘m sure we can agree on a mutually convenient time to continue our discussion. Now, let me show you out.‘

    Having decided that she would go home and check on the boys before resolving what to do next about Hazel, Gemma walked into a quiet house redolent of the smell of baking.
    Neither boys nor dogs came to greet her. There was no blare of the telly, no murmur of voices. There was, however, she realized as she stood and listened, a soft clanking of dishes coming from the kitchen.
    ‘Anybody home?‘ she called, setting her bag on the hall bench.
    ‘In here,‘ replied a familiar voice. Wesley Howard came out of the kitchen, holding a blue pottery bowl in the crook of one arm and a spatula in his other hand. He had a streak of something white across his nose, and a broad smile on his face.
    Wesley, Betty Howard‘s youngest child and only son, acted as part-time nanny to the boys, and Gemma had felt a special connection with the young man since the day she‘d met him.
    ‘Wes,‘ he said, delighted. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you had to work tonight. And where is everyone?‘
    ‘The boys are walking the dogs. Toby and the mutts were bouncing off the walls — it was like Arsenal versus Man United in here. And I‘m borrowing your oven.‘ Wesley put the spatula in the bowl and wiped his fingers on the tea towel tucked into the waist of his jeans. He wore an orange T-shirt emblazoned with the words Peace, Love and Reggae, and had tied his dreadlocks back with a royal-blue bandanna. Like his mother, he embraced colour. ‘Tusday is our slow night at the café, he added. ‘I don‘t have to be in for a while yet.‘
    ‘What are you making? It smells heavenly.‘ Gemma sniffed again, following him as he headed back into the kitchen. She had a