like unexplored territory and it was possible to survive financially in the area on very little.
—Rachel Lichtenstein, On Brick Lane
Dr. Kaleem had released the body and ordered it to be sent to the mortuary at the London. “I’ll see how soon I can get him into my schedule,” he told Weller as they walked back towards the street.
“You can put any old ladies eaten by cats in the cooler for a bit,” Weller told him, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I do have my priorities, Inspector, thanks very much,” Kaleem retorted. “I’ll ring you as soon as I have a prelim.” Then he flashed Gemma a brilliant smile and jogged across Audrey Street. He slipped through the police cordon, bag swinging, and disappeared from view.
“You two know each other well?” Gemma asked Weller, wondering at the barbed familiarity of the exchange.
“Snotty-nosed little Bangladeshi from a council estate,” saidWeller, gazing after him. “I used to sort out the kids who bullied him when I was on area patrol. Gave him ideas above his station.” This was uttered fondly, and with the closest thing to a smile Gemma had seen. “Who’d have thought he’d end up a bloody forensic pathologist? His father beat the crap out of him if he caught him with a book, and his mum never learned to speak English. Rashid practically lived in the Whitechapel Library—the Idea Store, they call it now,” he added with a snort of disapproval, “and put himself through medical school driving a minicab. Bet his old man’s turning in his grave.”
“Why didn’t his father want him to read?”
“Strict Muslim. Thought anything other than the Koran would corrupt the boy. Right bastard, old Mr. Kaleem. I suspect the missus gave thanks to Allah when he died. Heart attack. Keeled over right in the middle of his dinner.” Weller stuffed his hands in his already baggy pockets and shrugged. “Rashid was surprisingly cut up.”
Gemma wondered if it had been Weller who’d informed Kaleem that his father had died. Then the enormity of what she had to do struck her. “Oh, lord. I’ve got to tell Tim. And we’ll have to ring social services. There’s no one for Naz Malik’s little girl to go home to.”
Weller had said he’d follow Gemma in his own car, leaving Gemma grateful for a few minutes alone. Her Escort had been parked in the sun, and she swore as the driver’s seat scorched the backs of her thighs through her jeans. She rolled down the windows and started the car. Hot air blasted from the vents into her already-burning face as she carefully reversed and turned the car round.
She debated ringing Kincaid, but didn’t want to talk without pulling over, and DI Weller, in an old white BMW that looked as rumpled as Weller himself, stayed right on her tail.
All too soon she’d reached Islington, and still she had no idea how to break the news to Tim. Death notification was always difficult,but telling a friend was so much worse…She realized that the last time she’d had to break such news to someone she knew well, it had been Hazel.
It felt odd now, pulling up in front of the detached house in the leafy square, rather than turning into the side road and parking in front of the garage that had been her flat. Last night, in a hurry to get home, she had handed Tim the keys at the door. She hadn’t actually been in the house since Hazel had moved out. Although they had kept up with Tim, he had come to them, or they had occasionally met him out for a drink or a meal.
Then, to her surprise, she saw Hazel’s car parked in front as well, and after yesterday’s tensions she wasn’t sure if her friend’s presence would be a help or a hindrance.
Weller found a spot nearby and got out of the BMW, closing the door as carefully as if it had been the newest model. He looked tired, and she realized he must have driven back from Shropshire that morning. Perhaps his rumpled look was more circumstantial than habitual.
When he reached her, he
—Rachel Lichtenstein, On Brick Lane
Dr. Kaleem had released the body and ordered it to be sent to the mortuary at the London. “I’ll see how soon I can get him into my schedule,” he told Weller as they walked back towards the street.
“You can put any old ladies eaten by cats in the cooler for a bit,” Weller told him, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I do have my priorities, Inspector, thanks very much,” Kaleem retorted. “I’ll ring you as soon as I have a prelim.” Then he flashed Gemma a brilliant smile and jogged across Audrey Street. He slipped through the police cordon, bag swinging, and disappeared from view.
“You two know each other well?” Gemma asked Weller, wondering at the barbed familiarity of the exchange.
“Snotty-nosed little Bangladeshi from a council estate,” saidWeller, gazing after him. “I used to sort out the kids who bullied him when I was on area patrol. Gave him ideas above his station.” This was uttered fondly, and with the closest thing to a smile Gemma had seen. “Who’d have thought he’d end up a bloody forensic pathologist? His father beat the crap out of him if he caught him with a book, and his mum never learned to speak English. Rashid practically lived in the Whitechapel Library—the Idea Store, they call it now,” he added with a snort of disapproval, “and put himself through medical school driving a minicab. Bet his old man’s turning in his grave.”
“Why didn’t his father want him to read?”
“Strict Muslim. Thought anything other than the Koran would corrupt the boy. Right bastard, old Mr. Kaleem. I suspect the missus gave thanks to Allah when he died. Heart attack. Keeled over right in the middle of his dinner.” Weller stuffed his hands in his already baggy pockets and shrugged. “Rashid was surprisingly cut up.”
Gemma wondered if it had been Weller who’d informed Kaleem that his father had died. Then the enormity of what she had to do struck her. “Oh, lord. I’ve got to tell Tim. And we’ll have to ring social services. There’s no one for Naz Malik’s little girl to go home to.”
Weller had said he’d follow Gemma in his own car, leaving Gemma grateful for a few minutes alone. Her Escort had been parked in the sun, and she swore as the driver’s seat scorched the backs of her thighs through her jeans. She rolled down the windows and started the car. Hot air blasted from the vents into her already-burning face as she carefully reversed and turned the car round.
She debated ringing Kincaid, but didn’t want to talk without pulling over, and DI Weller, in an old white BMW that looked as rumpled as Weller himself, stayed right on her tail.
All too soon she’d reached Islington, and still she had no idea how to break the news to Tim. Death notification was always difficult,but telling a friend was so much worse…She realized that the last time she’d had to break such news to someone she knew well, it had been Hazel.
It felt odd now, pulling up in front of the detached house in the leafy square, rather than turning into the side road and parking in front of the garage that had been her flat. Last night, in a hurry to get home, she had handed Tim the keys at the door. She hadn’t actually been in the house since Hazel had moved out. Although they had kept up with Tim, he had come to them, or they had occasionally met him out for a drink or a meal.
Then, to her surprise, she saw Hazel’s car parked in front as well, and after yesterday’s tensions she wasn’t sure if her friend’s presence would be a help or a hindrance.
Weller found a spot nearby and got out of the BMW, closing the door as carefully as if it had been the newest model. He looked tired, and she realized he must have driven back from Shropshire that morning. Perhaps his rumpled look was more circumstantial than habitual.
When he reached her, he
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