Necessary as Blood

that. Maybe Malik‘s death has him worried about his prospects in court.‘
    ‘Will he stay with Louise Phillips?‘ Kincaid asked.
    They had stopped by the ancient horse trough in front of Christ Church. The pedestrian traffic flowed around them as if they were three suited boulders in a stream, while Weller scratched at the stubble on his chin, considering his response. ‘He‘s not the sort to appreciate women in their professional capacity,‘ he said after a moment. ‘But at this point I don‘t think he has much choice, and I suspect that‘s making him unhappy.‘
    ‘According to Louise Phillips, Naz was getting cold feet about Azad‘s case,‘ Kincaid said. ‘Maybe Azad was afraid Naz would complicate things. He was certainly ready to place the blame for Naz‘s death.‘
    ‘Placing blame and being responsible are two entirely different things.‘
    ‘You almost sound as if you like him,‘ said Cullen. ‘No law against it.‘ Weller shrugged and looked at his watch. ‘I‘m off. I‘ll see you two hearties bright and early at the station. Thanks for the drinks.‘ He raised a hand in salute and turned into the crowd.
    ‘Cheeky bastard,‘ muttered Cullen. ‘Who the hell does he think he is?‘
    ‘We‘re on his patch, Doug,‘ Kincaid said. ‘He knows the currents and undertows — he can read things we‘d miss altogether. We need him.‘ He gave a shrug as expressive as Weller‘s. ‘At least for the moment. I suspect that Ahmed Azad isn‘t the only one who knows more than he‘s telling.‘
    ‘You think Weller‘s involved in this somehow?‘
    ‘No. Why would he have called us in if he was?‘ Kincaid shook his head. ‘But there‘s something... I just haven‘t quite put my finger on it yet.‘ He looked round. Shops were closing, passers-by carried bags of shopping, and the front of the church had begun to take on a faint golden glow in the western sun. ‘I‘ve got to go, as well. I‘m going to stop in at Naz Malik‘s house.‘
    ‘I‘ll come with you,‘ offered Cullen.
    ‘No, you go on, Doug. I won‘t stay long. And you should have a look at some more flat adverts.‘ He clapped his sergeant on the shoulder. ‘I don‘t want you to lose your momentum.‘

    Fournier Street was a canyon of shadow. The chimneypots looked starkly uniform in the flat light, marching across the tops of the terraces like rigid, orange soldiers. Kincaid found the house easily in the short row. There was no crime-scene van in the street, and when he tried the door, it was locked. He took out the copied key that Sergeant Singh had given him before he left Bethnal Green, unlocked the door and stepped in.
    The house was shuttered and dim. He fumbled a bit for the switch — in these old houses, the wiring was often exposed and terminated in odd places. In this one, the switch for the entry hall was coupled with the switch for the sitting room, and was just outside the sitting-room door. His fingers came away smudged with black — the fingerprint demons had made their appointed rounds.
    The illumination revealed more black dust: the door knobs and stair rail, the handlebars and crossbars of the bike that stood propped against the wall, the jauntily flower-stickered helmet hanging from one rubber grip.
    He looked into the sitting room, then went downstairs to the kitchen, where he checked to make sure no rubbish had been left in the kitchen bin. As far as he knew, the house had no caretaker, and the odour of rotting garbage could permeate the place quickly. Someone had tidied, however; either Naz Malik‘s nanny or the SOCOs — or Gemma.
    Returning to the ground floor, he stood for a moment, wishing he had seen the house the way Gemma had seen it on Saturday. It would still have had human presence then, a pulse of life and energy. Now it had taken on the too-quiet pall of the uninhabited. The air felt stale, unused, and the fingerprint dust gave the rooms an atmosphere of shabby neglect.
    And as he stood in the stillness, Kincaid realized something else. In spite of the differences in age and architectural style, this house felt very much like their own. There was the same comfortable feel to the mix of contemporary and antique furniture, the splashes of rugs and artwork, the clutter of books and children‘s toys.
    Gemma would have felt very much at home here. Perhaps that had contributed to her attachment to the child.
    He climbed the stairs, looking briefly into the rooms on each landing, finding he