Necessary as Blood

have believed it for a minute, and it made life a misery for Naz.‘
    ‘I‘m sorry.‘ Gemma stood up as well. It was obvious she‘d worn out her welcome. ‘Thank you, Mr Blakely. But tell me one more thing. Would you be willing to see Charlotte raised by Gail Gilles?‘
    Blakely took a breath, then let it out slowly. ‘No. Not if I can bloody help it.‘

Chapter Fifteen

Being outside and extreme is what Spitalfields is all about. In medieval times the area was occupied by two classic categories of outcasts: the lepers and the insane, and Spitalfields derives its name from the leper hospice, St Mary‘s Spital and the fields on which it stood. The insane were taken out to the gates of St Mary‘s of Bethlehem or ‘Bedlam‘, which occupied the site of what is today Liverpool Street Station.

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

    Kincaid and Cullen found the club in Widegate Street through the process of elimination. The short and very narrow street was anchored at one end by the Kings Stores pub, loomed over at the other by the glass-and-brick hulk of Broadgate. In between, there were offices and a few discreet shops.
    When they hadn‘t turned up either of the Gilles brothers by lunchtime, Kincaid had decided it was time to hunt down Lucas Ritchie and his mysterious club. He‘d grabbed a quick sandwich, then asked Cullen to meet him at Liverpool Street Station. It was only one stop on the Tube from Bethnal Green, and he hadn‘t fancied trying to park in the narrow streets of old Spitalfields.
    Now, it was the entrance without insignia that interested Kincaid. It was an elegant frontage, with brass detailing, a bell and a pass-card slot. When Kincaid examined the building more closely, he saw that the brick was new, but fitted seamlessly into the facades of the older buildings on either side.
    ‘Hmm,‘ he said to Cullen. ‘A bit Diagon Alley. Let‘s see what happens if we ring the bell.‘
    A moment later, a pleasant female voice issued from the tiny speaker beside the bell. ‘Can I help you, sir?‘
    Looking up, Kincaid saw the discreet camera mounted below the sill of the first-floor window. ‘Duncan Kincaid to see Mr Ritchie,‘ he ventured.
    The response was a buzz, followed by a click as the door latch released. Kincaid grinned at Cullen, said, ‘Open, sesame‘ and pushed. Cullen followed, looking as though he might be entering a dragon‘s den.
    They stepped into a reception area that hovered somewhere between warehouse and posh hotel. Brick walls, wooden floors, unornamented windows, industrial-style pendant lighting — but the leather upholstery on the contemporary furniture grouped before the plain fireplace looked butter-soft, the curved reception desk was an exotic-looking wood polished to a mirror shine, and the floral arrangements on the desk and in the sitting area were exquisite — as was the young woman standing behind the curved desk.
    Asian — perhaps Anglo-Chinese — flawlessly groomed and made-up, she wore a crisp white blouse under a perfectly tailored charcoal pinstripe suit. She was breathtaking, but behind the desk hung the collage that Kincaid had seen in the photo in Sandra Gilles‘s studio, and it was this that held him riveted.
    The photo hadn‘t prepared him for the size of the piece, or for the depth of the colours and the intricacy of the design. He thought if he stared long enough, he could fall into it, peeling back the beckoning layers of life and history.
    ‘Sir,‘ said the girl at the desk, bringing him back with a jolt, ‘can I help you? You said you wanted to see Mr Ritchie?‘
    Kincaid smiled and showed his warrant card. ‘Just a quick chat, if you don‘t mind.‘
    Although the girl‘s eyes widened, her smile stayed in place. ‘If you‘ll give me a moment, I‘ll see if he‘s available. Please make yourselves comfortable.‘ She gestured at the sitting area. ‘Can I get you water, or a pot of tea?‘
    When Kincaid declined, she ducked through an unobtrusive door to one side of the desk.
    ‘What is this place?‘ Cullen said when she‘d gone.
    ‘Not your old-fashioned St James‘s gentlemen‘s club, I don‘t think.‘ Kincaid looked round, noticing other artwork now: two wooden sculptures, a contemporary and unidentifiable metal piece, a beautiful pottery vase on a lit display stand. Nothing, however, compared to Sandra Gilles‘s collage. ‘The question is: what‘s on offer?‘
    ‘Sir.‘ The girl was