Vindaloo Vin’s curry house was just around the corner from the Rio cinema in Dalston. Gemma arrived a few minutes before six that evening, and as she pushed through the glass-fronted door, her eyes adjusted to the dim light.
“Welcome,” the hostess said as she reached for a menu. “How many in your party, please?”
Gemma saw Dominic, sitting as promised at their favourite booth in the back. “He’s already here. No need for a menu,” she added, “I’m not staying long. Thanks.”
She walked briskly through the half-empty restaurant and stopped at the booth.
Dominic set down his bottle of Cobra and half rose.
“Gemma! Babes, you came! I knew you would.”
“Don’t count your chickens, Dom,” she said with a sniff as she removed her coat and slid into the booth opposite him. “I can leave again just as easily. It all depends on what you have to say.”
“Are you hungry?” he enquired. “Fancy a beer?”
She looked up at the waiter who’d materialized. “A glass of white, please. Now,” Gemma said as she leaned forward with the gleam of combat in her eye, “talk.”
And he did. Haltingly at first, then with increasing urgency, he told her about Christa, and her ex-boyfriend Tony, and his drugs involvement with the Bombers.
“He beat the crap out of her, Gemma. That’s why she cancelled some of her concerts. He told her that if she asked him any more questions, the next time, he’d kill her.”
Gemma lowered her wine glass in shock. “Oh, my God.”
“So do you see why I had to get her out of there?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m glad you were there to help her. But…the press are saying she was overwhelmed by her sudden fame, that it was too much, too soon. It isn’t that at all, is it?”
“No. Well, maybe a bit. Christa really is overwhelmed by it all. But mainly –” he leaned forward “– it’s because this Tony bloke’s a real loose cannon.”
On his way home, Devon Matthews turned off the A4 and headed to Whitechapel to the Royal London hospital. He wanted to have a look in on Deepa Shaw and see if there’d been a change in her condition, or if she remembered anything more about the shooter.
Poor woman. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time…
As he got out of the lift and made his way to Reception, he saw a slim young woman in capris and sandals leaning over the desk with her back to him.
“…my mum, she was admitted recently,” she was saying in a low voice. “Shaw. Mrs Deepa Shaw.”
“Christa?” Devon said as he approached her. He thrust out his hand as she looked up. “DS Matthews. You must be Mrs Shaw’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes, he noted irrelevantly as his hand enclosed hers, were a clear, turquoise blue. “Has there been any change?” he asked.
“Yes. She’s stable now. They’re moving her out of the ICU in the morning.”
“Good. Perhaps then I can ask her a few questions, and learn a bit more about what happened.”
“What did happen? Dr Abrams said she was the victim of a random street shooting.”
“That’s right. We think the men who robbed the local cash and carry were members of a Turkish gang. The Bombers. They’ve got a stronghold on your mum’s neighbourhood. Mainly drugs trafficking – heroin – and protection rackets.”
Christa shook her head. “I’ve told her a thousand times to move out of there, I’ve even offered to buy her another house in a safer neighbourhood, but she won’t listen. She’s says it’s her home and she won’t be run out.”
He smiled slightly. “Stubborn, is she?”
“You’ve no idea.”
She looked exhausted, he couldn’t help noticing, with smudges under her eyes; and her clothes looked as if she’d slept in them. Even so, she had a rare and striking beauty. Although obviously Anglo, her skin had the slight, dusky warmth of India, and her eyes lent her face an exotic quality.
He’d seen her photograph on the cover of countless tabloids; who hadn’t, what with her meteoric rise to fame and her equally abrupt disappearance? But the photos didn’t begin to do her justice.
“You’re staring at me,” she accused.
“I am? Sorry.” He shrugged. “Habit, I suppose. Studying faces. Trying to see beyond what someone wants me to see.”
She lifted one brow. “And what do you see when you look at me, detective?”
I see someone I’d like to know better, he almost said, but didn’t. “I see someone in need of a cup of coffee and a stale sandwich from the hospital cafeteria,” he replied instead.
“Care to join me? I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“How,” Christa asked dryly as she re-shouldered her handbag, “can I possibly resist an invitation like that?”
The bedroom at her dad’s was smaller, Jools reflected as she dropped her rucksack and suitcase down just inside the door, but she surveyed it with satisfaction just the same. There was a window with a cushioned window seat overlooking the tiny back garden, shelves for her books, a narrow bed and matching dresser, and a closet already crammed with her stuff. What more did a girl need?
Jools sat cross-legged on the bed and dialled Adesh. “Hi, it’s me. What’s up?”
“Hi, Jools. Not much – just getting ready for dinner.”
She heard the sound of conversation in the background. “Oh. Company?”
“Yeah.” He offered nothing further.
“I’m back at Dad’s. Can you believe it – he’s convinced mum to let me stay for the summer. I’m glad to get away…living with mum was such a joy-suck.”
“I can imagine.”
“What’s wrong, Desh?” Jools asked. “You sound a bit off. You in a bad mood?”
“No.” He spoke sharply. “I’m fine. I told you, we have company for dinner.” He covered the phone. “Yeah, Mum, I’ll be right there.”
“Well, I won’t keep you.” A note of hurt crept into her voice. “I thought you’d be happy for me, that’s all.”
“I am happy for you, Jools.”
“Yeah. Of course.” She hesitated. “You can come and visit me here, you know.”
“Sure.” But they both knew he probably wouldn’t.
“Well,” Adesh said, “it’s time for dinner. I have to go.”
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Jools asked suddenly. “It’s Chara, and her parents. You’re all having dinner together.”
“Yeah, but it’s no big deal. It’s only dinner.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Jools. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“After Chara leaves?” she retorted, stung. “I’ll save you the trouble. Don’t bother.” She rang off and flung the phone down.
There was a knock on her door, and she looked up. “Dad.”
“Hey.” He smiled and glanced at the bags she’d dropped by the door. “Is everything all right? All settled in?”
She nodded and managed a smile. “Except for unpacking my stuff, yeah.”
“Well – if there’s anything you need – toothpaste, towels, et cetera – let me know.”
“Thanks. I will.” She hesitated. “And thanks for convincing Mum to let me stay here. It’s good to get out of there.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I hope you like it. Jools,” he added, his expression serious, “I know your mum’s not the easiest person to live with, but she does love you. Try and remember that.”
She let out a sigh. “I know, but…it’s such a buzzkill, being around her. She’s always in a mood, or working, or faffing around with Marcus, pretending to be Ms Perfect Mum to impress him. It’s nauseating.”
“I’m sure it is. Just try to shrug it off, and be polite to Marcus.”
“I am. Mostly.” She grinned.
Oliver smiled. “So what’s it like, then, hanging round the house with a celebrity chef? Does he whip up gourmet dinners with chocolate soufflé or flambéed cherries for afters? Swear and throw knives in the kitchen?”
“No. And the swearing and throwing knives bit? That would be Mum.”
He laughed. “She never was much of a cook.” He paused, and his smile faded. “Jools, you know Felicity will be here this weekend.”
She eyed him. “Oh. Right.”
“I just want – I hope that you and she get on. Felicity’s very sweet and she wants you to like her. You needn’t be best friends, but I do hope you can manage to be civil. That’s all I really ask of you if you stay here.”
Civil, Jools thought disparagingly, and only just managed not to roll her eyes. Civil, to the interloper who’s taken my dad away, and filled his flat with revolting lime throw pillows and boxes of tampons and cartons of soya milk?
But, “Of course we’ll get on,” Jools assured him. “I like Miss Brightley – I mean, Felicity. She’s a good teacher. She almost makes Latin bearable. So don’t worry, we’ll get on together. I promise.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” Although he didn’t look completely convinced, his smile returned. “Well – I’ll leave you to it. Don’t stay up too late, you’ve school tomorrow.”
“I won’t. I think I’ll study for a bit. With everything going on, I haven’t touched my homework.” She reached down for her rucksack. “Williams is giving us a test tomorrow and I’m not remotely ready.”
“Goodnight, then. See you in the morning.”
“G’night, Dad.”
And as he closed the door and left, Jools took out her history text and flipped resignedly to page 357.
“‘World War Two,’” she murmured, and chewed on the end of her pencil as she began to read. “‘The Conflict Begins.” She smirked. “How very appropriate.”