Necessary as Blood

back. She pushed a button on the other side of the desk and a door slid open, revealing a mirrored lift. ‘Mr Ritchie will meet you on the first floor. My name‘s Melanie, if there‘s anything else I can do to assist you.‘
    Kincaid and Cullen stepped into the lift. When the door closed, Cullen whispered, ‘Does she mean...‘
    ‘I doubt it.‘ Kincaid grinned. ‘And if she did, you couldn‘t afford it.‘
    The doors opened again, soundlessly, and they faced an expansive space. The front of the room was another sitting area with a bar, the back a dining room furnished with long oak refectory tables set with crisp white linen, silver and crystal.
    It was getting late for lunch, but the tables were still well filled, as was the bar. The clientele was mostly male, Kincaid saw, but there were a few women in business attire. Another of Sandra Gilles‘s collages hung over the fireplace in the lounge area, this one depicting what Kincaid thought was Petticoat Lane Market.
    Kincaid noticed several young women dressed in suits identical to Melanie‘s moving among the tables, so he gathered that the charcoal pinstripe must be a uniform of sorts for the club staff. Very classy indeed.
    A man came towards them from the direction of the dining room, hand outstretched. ‘Melanie said you wanted to see me? I‘m Lucas Ritchie.‘ He was tall and fair, with the faintest hint of designer stubble, and was considerably younger than Kincaid had expected. When Kincaid shook the offered hand, he found it surprisingly hard and calloused. It was an interesting contrast to the man‘s impeccable tailoring and a carefully classless London accent. Kincaid thought he recognized Ritchie‘s cologne as the spicy Jo Malone fragrance Gemma had given him the previous Christmas.
    While Cullen shook Ritchie‘s hand, Kincaid produced his warrant card. ‘I‘d like to talk to you about Naz Malik and Sandra Gilles, Mr Ritchie. Is there somewhere—‘
    ‘In my office.‘ As polished as his receptionist, Ritchie hadn‘t blinked. Had he been expecting a visit from the police?
    He led them back into the lift. ‘These are our public rooms,‘ he explained as the lift doors closed. ‘My office is on the next floor, where we have our private. meeting and conference rooms.‘
    They stepped out into a lounge area much like the one below, but smaller and cosier. Ritchie led them down a corridor behind the lounge, passing a number of rooms with conference tables and wall-mounted flat-screen televisions, and several small sitting rooms and private dining rooms. His office was at the very end of the corridor, a small room flooded with light from the single window. It was furnished with a sofa, comfortable chairs and a desk, its surface bare except for an open laptop. Behind the desk hung a painting of a red horse, and although slightly different in composition, it was obviously by the same artist as the painting in Sandra‘s studio. Looking more closely, Kincaid thought the signature was a scrawled ‘LR‘.
    ‘I heard about Naz Malik,‘ said Ritchie as he sat down at the desk. ‘One of the girls who knew Sandra saw it in the paper. But the story said he was found dead in Haggerston Park. Why is Scotland Yard making enquiries? Does this have something to do with Sandra?‘
    Lucas Ritchie was obviously accustomed to being in charge. Kincaid wondered what would shake him. ‘Our evidence suggests that Naz Malik was murdered. We don‘t know whether his death is connected with his wife‘s disappearance. We were hoping you might be able to tell us.‘
    ‘Me?‘ Ritchie raised his sandy eyebrows, but his tone seemed more exasperated than surprised. ‘Don‘t tell me someone‘s dug up that old chestnut about Sandra and me again. I thought that was put well to rest.‘
    ‘Apparently not,‘ Kincaid answered, ‘since Naz mentioned it to a close friend not long before he died.‘
    Ritchie rocked back in his chair, but kept his hands folded in his lap. So far the shift in position was his only display of ruffled composure, as his desk provided none of the usual outlets for fiddling. ‘Naz knew there was nothing to that rumour. Sandra and I had known each other for years. We were at art college together, and I‘d supported her career whenever possible. We were good friends.‘
    ‘Do you have any idea what happened to her?‘ Kincaid asked.
    ‘God, no.‘ Ritchie rocked the chair forward again with such force that it squeaked. ‘Do you think I