Necessary as Blood

at a few familiar faces but not stopping to chat, and hoping that she wouldn‘t have the bad luck to encounter her erstwhile blind date, Quentin.
    She slipped into her father‘s glass-fronted office suite, glad to see that his uber-efficient personal assistant, Maeve, had gone as well. There could not be any major breaking news — or a juicy scandal — to keep the Chronicle‘s owner late at his desk.
    No one had questioned her right to be here — no one would dare question Ivan Talbot‘s only child. This had been her world through childhood, the humming heart of the great newspaper, with its adrenaline yo-yo of breaking stories and frantic deadlines, countered by the desperate tedium of filling space on dead-news days.
    This could be her world, still, if she chose, and her father had never given up hoping that she would give up this silly policing idea and put her talents to proper use. But even if she started as a junior reporter, she would always be the boss‘s daughter, and she would never believe that she stood on her own merits.
    The skills she‘d absorbed by osmosis, however, often proved extremely useful. Availing herself of Maeve‘s desk and computer station, she accessed the system, typed in the paper‘s internal password and began to search.
    An hour later she sat back, not certain if she was more satisfied or puzzled, and rang Gemma.

    Gemma was picking up bits of Lego from the sitting-room floor when her mobile buzzed. Recognizing the number, she tried tucking the phone between ear and shoulder as she tossed what she thought was a dinosaur — Toby having decided that pirates would most definitely encounter dinosaurs — towards the toy basket at one end of the sofa. The basket at the other end held dog toys, and she often wondered how the dogs managed to tell which assortment was which. If anyone transgressed, it was more likely to be Toby.
    ‘Melody?‘ she said. ‘Hang on.‘ Transferring the phone to her hand, she threw a questionable stuffed teddy into the dog basket, then wandered into the dining room and sat down on the piano bench. ‘Okay, sorry about that. What‘s up?‘
    She listened, idly picking out one note, then another, on the keyboard, a frown beginning to crease her forehead. ‘Ahmed Azad? You‘re certain?‘
    Duncan came in, a bottled beer in hand, an eyebrow raised in query. He‘d been in the study, rereading the reports on Naz Malik. His mood, touchy since the warning-off passed down from Narcotics, had improved since Gemma had told him that the Gilles brothers had borrowed a van on the afternoon and evening of Naz‘s death, and he‘d been looking for any mention or sighting of a van.
    ‘Yeah, I‘ll tell him,‘ Gemma said, glancing at Duncan. ‘Thanks. I‘ll see you tomorrow.‘
    As she ended the call, Duncan pulled a chair up beside the piano bench. ‘It‘s too hot for wine.‘ He waved the beer bottle, displaying the already-forming condensation. ‘Want one?‘ When she shook her head, he asked, ‘Who was that? And what‘s this about Azad?‘
    The office door opened just as Melody clicked her phone closed and her father came in, his tan face split in a grin.
    ‘Melody, darling. George said you were here. Why didn‘t you ring me? I‘d have stayed and taken you to dinner.‘
    ‘Just doing a bit of research, Dad. No fuss.‘
    ‘Is it a case?‘ He came round to stand behind her before she had a chance to blank the computer screen. She couldn‘t fault his reporter‘s instincts. "‘Bangladeshi businessman protests vandalism by white toughs; criticizes the Met‘s failure to take action,‘‘‘ he read. ‘Don‘t tell me you‘re looking into your own organizational failures.‘
    Melody ignored the barb. ‘No, Dad. I was just curious about this guy. I saw him today at a club in Spitalfields. A very posh club with no name, managed by a man named Lucas Ritchie.‘
    Ivan looked thoughtful. ‘I know a place like that in Notting Hill. Four-hundred-pound bottles of wine, and beautiful, but unattainable, hostesses.‘
    Melody swivelled to look up at her dad. ‘So what does Mum think about you going to these places?‘
    He gave her the shark grin. ‘Oh, I‘ve taken her with me once or twice. These sorts of clubs represent the evolution of places like Annabel‘s and Mark‘s Club — at Annabel‘s and Mark‘s, only the elite can get in, but at these new places only the elite even know about them. The anonymity is part of the pull.‘
    ‘The Secret