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curls, made this a likely conclusion, she had to ask.
    ‘No. Her name was Sandra Gilles.‘ Tim used the past tense, Gemma noticed. ‘She grew up in a council flat in Bethnal Green, still has family there. A mother, half-brothers and half-sister. The family disapproved of the marriage, and Naz and Sandra disapproved of them. “Layabouts,” Naz said Sandra called them. Or worse. Sandra wouldn‘t let them have any contact with Charlotte. It infuriated her that they criticized Naz, who had worked his way through school and studied law, when none of them had ever held down a decent job. They weren‘t pleased with Sandra‘s success as an artist, either — said she "gave herself airs”.‘
    ‘She was an artist?‘ Hazel had left her tidying up and slipped into one of the dining-table chairs, looking intrigued in spite of herself.
    ‘Textile collage. Naz helped her through art college — Goldsmiths — when they were first married. She‘d become quite successful: gallery showings, some big commissions. Naz said she loved her work.‘
    ‘Any marital difficulties?‘ Gemma asked.
    ‘No.‘ Tim was vehement. ‘They had everything. They‘d been married almost ten years when Charlotte came along. They‘d almost given up on having a child. They were devoted to each other, and Sandra was a fiercely good mum.‘ The tension in the air had risen again, palpably, with the recitation of uncomfortable parallels. Tim and Hazel had also waited a long time to have a child, and Hazel had been a model mum.
    ‘He told you a lot,‘ Hazel said now, with an edge of sarcasm.
    Tim bristled. ‘Why do you have a problem with that? He had no one else to talk to.‘
    ‘How do you know he didn‘t just tell you what you wanted to hear?‘ Hazel retorted.
    ‘Stop it, both of you,‘ said Gemma, exasperated, even though she knew Hazel was right. What Naz Malik had told Tim might have nothing to do with the truth. Whether grieving or guilty, a sympathetic audience gave one the liberty to paint life as one wished it to have been. And although that in itself might be useful, they needed to move on. ‘Tim, you said the police investigated Naz. They didn‘t find anything?‘
    ‘No. Not a bloody thing.‘ He stared at them, as if daring contradiction.
    ‘Okay.‘ Gemma touched Tim‘s knee, giving credence to his statement. ‘So tell me about the day Sandra disappeared. You said it was in May, in Columbia Road?‘
    ‘She and Charlotte were supposed to meet Naz for a late lunch in Brick Lane. Naz had gone into the office—‘
    ‘On a Sunday?‘
    ‘He was preparing an important case. But they always went out for Sunday lunch together. Naz waited at the restaurant for an hour. Sandra didn‘t answer her phone. Then Sandra‘s friend Roy rang Naz and said Sandra had left Charlotte with him at the market, saying she‘d be gone just a few minutes, but hadn‘t come back. He‘d finished breaking down the stall and didn‘t know what to do.‘
    ‘Breaking down the stall? This friend has a flower stall?‘
    Tim nodded. ‘Roy Blakely. Sandra worked for him on Sundays all through school and art college. She‘d known him since she was a child — he was like a dad to her.‘
    ‘And she didn‘t tell him where she was going?‘
    ‘No. Several people who knew her from the market reported seeing her in Columbia Road, but there was nothing after that. Just nothing. Naz was frantic, but at first not even the police would take him seriously. Then when they did, they searched the house for signs of... of foul play.‘ He swallowed, looking round uneasily, and Gemma imagined the SOCO drill: luminol, prints, any evidence of violence, alien DNA, fibre transfer. What if Sandra had gone back home unexpectedly that day, found her husband there with a lover?
    ‘They questioned everyone Naz knew,‘ Tim went on. ‘His partner, his clients, his neighbours. Naz said no one ever looked at him the same way afterwards.‘
    ‘They were doing their job,‘