Teresa shook her head vehemently. “Not Reg and Annabelle. They agreed about things, they wanted the same things for the company. And Reg … Reg worshiped Annabelle.”
Kincaid thought he detected a hint of wistfulness in Teresa’s voice. Had it been difficult for her, always on the outside, looking in? “When was the wedding to be?” he asked.
“The wedding?” Again Teresa gave them a surprised look, as if the question hadn’t occurred to her. “They’d not set a date. Not an official one, anyway.”
“And how long had they been engaged?”
Teresa frowned. “Coming up on two years, I think.”
“Not much reason to delay a wedding these days—both of them independent, with their families’ approval—”
“But they couldn’t have just an ordinary wedding. They had social obligations, and I doubt Annabelle wanted to spare the time from work just now to plan the sort of affair expected of them.” Teresa put forth this theory with great seriousness, as if determined to convince herself.
“Were you and Annabelle close?” asked Gemma. “Would she have confided in you if she’d got cold feet?”
“I … I don’t know.” Teresa lifted her chin defiantly. “Look, I don’t understand why you’re asking all these questions. Jo said that Annabelle was killed in the park, attacked by some pervert. What can that possibly have to do with us, or Hammond’s?”
“Annabelle was found in the park. We don’t know that she was killed there,” said Kincaid. “Can you tell us why she might have been wandering round the Mudchute alone, after dark? In her party clothes and high heels?”
“No, that’s daft. But …” Shadows from the slowly revolving ceiling fans flickered across Teresa’s face, and Kincaid saw the irises of her pale blue eyes dilate like speading ink. “You can’t think here.…” She folded her arms beneath her breasts and looked round as if seeing the warehouse for the first time.
“Did Annabelle tell you what she meant to do on Friday evening?” Kincaid asked.
“They were going to her sister’s. She and Reg. The party had been planned for weeks.”
“And she didn’t contact you later in the evening?”
“Why should she have rung me?” Teresa sounded baffled.
“What if she were worried about something?”
“Annabelle wasn’t the sort to worry,” Teresa replied sharply. “And she wasn’t in the habit of ringing me in the evenings, or of coming back here.”
“Would there have been anyone here on Friday night? Do you run a night shift?”
“We don’t make the tea, Superintendent. We blend and package it, and our production and shipping staff work five-day weeks. The equipment’s upstairs, if you’d like to see, but this is the heart of the business.” She gestured at the large table in the room’s center, and Kincaid sensed her relief at treading familiar ground.
One side of the table’s length held ranks of worn, tin tea caddies and plain foil bags; the other a neat row of rectangular, white porcelain dishes filled with mounds of loose tea, and another row of identical, white porcelain bowls. Gemma touched a finger to the tea in the last dish. “It smells good. What is all this?”
“The tasting table.” Teresa glanced at them and Kincaid thought they must have looked blank, for she frowned and continued, “We don’t sell just any tea. First it must be blended, and Hammond’s has been famous for its blends for a hundred and twenty-five years. We buy the tea at auction—mainly from India and Sri Lanka, but since the late seventies China has opened up to us again, and some tea is exported from Africa and even South America.”
“Sri Lanka—that used to be Ceylon?” Gemma moved round the table studying the tin caddies. “Some of these say Ceylon.”
“Teas from Sri Lanka are known as Ceylon teas in the trade. But in Sri Lanka alone there are over two thousand different tea gardens—those are the estates on which tea is grown—and each estate has a number of different pluckings, or harvests, a year, depending on its altitude. And the tea from each of those pluckings can vary in taste and quality.” Teresa lifted her hands, palms up, in a gesture that indicated the complications of the task.
Kincaid had never thought beyond a vague vision of India or China when he plopped a tea bag in his morning cup. “It’s exponential, then?” he asked.
“Theoretically, yes—in reality, no.” Teresa tucked a strand of straight blonde hair behind her ear and rubbed at the sweat beading her forehead. Although it was cooler in the warehouse than outside, it still felt like a tropical hothouse. “We’ve a history of dealing with certain gardens, and we tend to look for their produce. Annabelle … Annabelle visited some of the gardens in Ceylon and in India after university, but she wanted to go to China for their honeymoon.…” Teresa’s eyes filled with tears. Sniffing, she tugged a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and blew her nose. “Sorry. I just can’t … Some of our buyers didn’t take Annabelle seriously at first. It’s traditionally a male-dominated business, and I suppose they thought she was dabbling until she found something better to do.
“But the truth of it was that she loved tea. She’d been fascinated by every step in the process of manufacturing tea since she was a child, and she wanted to experience it firsthand.”
“And for that she had to go to China or India?” asked Kincaid.
“Yes. All tea is processed right after picking, on the estate where it’s grown. It has to be withered and rolled and dried within hours, or it loses its freshness. And the degree of fermentation must be perfect—if it’s overfermented the tea will taste flat; if it’s underfermented it can go moldy once it’s packed for shipping. The tasting and blending we do here is only the very last stage.” Her gesture took in the chests and the tasting table and the smooth boards of the old warehouse floor, polished from long use to a satiny sheen.
“Was Annabelle in charge of the tasting?”
“No, that’s Mac—Mr. MacDougal. Tea merchants have professional tasters, and Mac’s one of the best in the business. But Annabelle’s … Annabelle was very good, and some of the blends she and Mac created have increased our market share considerably. I simply don’t know how we’ll manage without her.” Teresa’s voice threatened to break and she pressed her lips together in an effort at control. She turned away and led them to racks of shelving against the far wall. “This new design is only part of Annabelle’s vision.”
Kincaid saw that the shelves held round tins bearing the familiar Hammond’s logo. The tins were an unusual shape, tall and thin, and of a striking cobalt blue and russet design, with the logo embossed in gold. He remembered seeing them in some of the more expensive gourmet shops, and at Harrods.
“They’re lovely,” said Gemma, turning a tin so that she could see the design all the way round.
“She chose the colors to please William—her father—after his favorite tea service. She—” Teresa closed her eyes. Shaking her head, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Come sit down.” Gently, Gemma took her by the elbow and led her to the brightly cushioned grouping of rattan chairs positioned near the tasting table. “Let me get you some water.”
“No, I’m fine, really,” Teresa protested, but she sank gratefully into a chair, shivering as if she were cold. “It’s just … I’m still not sure I’ve taken it in.”
Gemma sat beside her. “I think Mr. Mortimer said that Annabelle had assumed the running of the business from her father?”
“His wife was very ill, you know. Cancer. Then after she died, he wasn’t well himself for some time. From the shock, I suppose. Otherwise he’d never have given up control to anyone.”
“Could Mr. Hammond not step in again?”
Teresa’s brow creased in a worried frown. “It’s been five years since William was directly involved with the day-to-day running of the business, although he drops in at odd times of the day and night. I think he can’t bear to let it go altogether.”
“Then with his experience—”
“It�
�s more complicated than that. Annabelle was taking the company in directions William didn’t approve—”
“But if you’ve been successful, surely he’d want to continue as Annabelle intended.”
“No, you don’t understand. To William, it’s tradition that’s important. Even though his great-grandfather began the business as a gamble on the new tea estates in Ceylon, he can’t see that it was risk-taking that put Hammond’s on its feet in the first place. He wants things done the way they’ve always been—”
“Such as?” Kincaid asked, intrigued.
Sighing, Teresa sat back in her chair. “I don’t know where to start. Tea bags, for one. Until recently, Hammond’s has never sold tea in bags—there’s simply no comparison between our teas and the low-quality blends that are used in most mass-produced tea bags. But Annabelle was convinced that you could put fine tea in a bag, and that if you suffered some loss of quality in the processing, you made up for it by introducing consumers to better teas. A taste for tea needs developing, like a taste for wine, and Annabelle was sure we could switch the customer from bags to loose tea eventually.
“It was the same with flavorings. There’s a huge market for flavored teas, especially in the States, but William wouldn’t hear of it. Annabelle convinced the board that most tea drinkers start out with flavored teas and move on to appreciating the tea itself, but I’m not sure William ever really accepted the decision. He—”
There was a click of a latch and the front door swung open. Kincaid could make out nothing but the tall silhouette of a man, but Teresa pushed herself up from her chair. “Mr. Hammond. What are you doing here?”
“Teresa, my dear.” Coming forward, he took her outstretched hand and gave it a pat. “Jo shouldn’t have asked you to do this. It’s the family’s responsibility to look after things here.” He turned to Kincaid and Gemma. “I’m William Hammond. How can I help you?”
Gemma would have recognized Hammond from Annabelle’s photos without the introduction, although his expensive dark suit added an austerity to his courtly good looks. She wondered fleetingly how he could bear the suit in this heat, but his palm felt cool against hers as he shook her hand.
Teresa touched his arm, and when he turned back to her, she said, “Mr. Hammond. I’m so sorry—”
“I know you and Annabelle were very close,” William Hammond answered with what seemed an effort. “She depended on you a great deal. As does Reginald. He came to see me this morning—” He broke off. “This is a terrible thing for us all. My daughter said you had some questions, Superintendent. And unless Teresa can be of further help, I think she’d like to go home.”
“That’s fine.” Kincaid directed his reply to Teresa. “We know how to reach you.”
Teresa hesitated for a moment and then, with a nod at Kincaid and Gemma, left.
“Sit down, please.” Hammond took the chair Teresa had vacated and motioned for them to follow suit.
“I know how difficult this must be for you, Mr. Hammond,” Kincaid said, tugging at the knot on his tie. He’d abandoned his jacket in the car midmorning, and Gemma wagered the tie wouldn’t last much longer. He glanced at her, a signal for her to take over.
“Have you any idea why someone would want to harm your daughter, Mr. Hammond?” She clasped her hands over the notebook she cradled unobtrusively in her lap.
He stared at her, his eyes tearing. “Annabelle was so beautiful. You couldn’t begin to understand unless you knew her. No man could have asked for a more perfect daughter.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Hammond,” Gemma said gently. “But we think it’s possible Annabelle may have known her killer. Are you aware of any enemies she might have made through the business? Or of any rifts in her personal life?”
“Of course not. That’s an absurd idea. Everyone loved Annabelle.”
Gemma changed tack. “How did you feel about her engagement to Reginald Mortimer?”
“Her engagement? What has that to do with this?” Hammond drew his brows together impatiently.
“You approved of the engagement?” Gemma pressed.
“Of course. I’ve known the boy since he was an infant. You couldn’t have found a couple more suited to one another, and his family is of the highest quality. His father, Sir Peter, serves on our board as well as being a personal friend. Peter and Helena have taken this very hard.… They looked on Annabelle as a daughter.”
“Reginald and Annabelle got along well, did they?” Kincaid interposed. “No tiffs or rows?”
“As far as I know, they got on extremely well, and if they had any disagreements, they didn’t share them with me.” With a frown, he added, “I hope you haven’t been upsetting Reginald with these sorts of questions. The poor fellow’s had enough to deal with as it is.”
Kincaid allowed a pause to lengthen before he asked, “Mr. Hammond, in your experience, would you say Reg Mortimer is a truthful person?”
“What do you mean by that?” Blue veins stood out on William Hammond’s hands as he clasped them over his knees. “He’s a fine young man. Peter Mortimer and I have known one another since Oxford, and I have the greatest confidence in father and son.”
Confidence enough, wondered Gemma, to marry your daughter off to him, and bring him into your company with no more incentive than friendship? She framed an idea into a question. “You said Sir Peter served on the board. Does that mean he has a financial interest in Hammond’s?”
“Naturally he owns a number of shares. I’m sorry, but I really don’t see the point to this, under the circumstances. And I’ve things to attend to—people will be coming by the house to pay their respects.” Although polite, it was a dismissal as firm as the one he’d given Teresa Robbins.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Hammond. You’ve been very kind. We won’t trouble you any further at the moment.” Kincaid rose and Gemma followed his cue, uncomfortably aware of her skirt plastered to the backs of her thighs with perspiration. “Our technicians will need to have a look round, however,” Kincaid added, as if it had just occurred to him. “Perhaps Teresa could arrange that for us?”
“Here? In my building?” William Hammond’s voice faltered. He looked suddenly exhausted, and Gemma thought that for all his appearance of control, he’d reached the limit of his endurance.
“They’ll do their best not to disrupt things,” Kincaid replied soothingly.
Gazing at the dust motes swirling in the bars of sunlight that dissected the air, Gemma realized she had become aware of complex layers of scent—the mustiness of old wood and the nearness of water, mixed with the ripe aroma of tea. The sense-tickling smells, the golden light, and the slow movement of the air under the spinning fans made the warehouse suddenly seem a timeless place, and she wondered what other dramas it had witnessed. She turned to Hammond. “I think Teresa said your great-grandfather started the business? So Hammonds have always been here?”
“I’ve always seen that as rather a special obligation, carrying on the family tradition. And it meant so much to Annabelle.…”
“What will happen now?” asked Gemma. “Will Jo carry on in Annabelle’s place?”
“Jo has her own career, and she’s never had much interest in the business.” Hammond met Gemma’s eyes, and the desolation she saw in his made her flinch. “But I doubt it would matter if she had. No one can possibly replace Annabelle.”
CHAPTER 7 That ‘The Island is not what it was’, is a sentiment with which every Islander over forty would agree … whilst recalling with affectionate regret the days when ‘every door was open’, and ‘everyone knew everyone else’. Such phrases recall a neighbourliness, and a sense of local identity, both of which have been threatened with destruction by almost everything that has happened on the Isle of Dogs since 1939.
Eve Hostettler, from Memories of
Childhood on the Isle of Dogs, 1870–1970
Kincaid slid into the car and gingerly touched the steering wheel, then snatched his fingers back. “Bloody hel
l. I’ll bet you could fry eggs on the dash.”
They had left William Hammond on his own, with his assurances that he just needed a chance to get his bearings, but to Gemma the weight of grief in the warehouse had felt so tangible that even the scorching heat outside was a relief. “It’s a terrible thing to lose a child, even if they’re grown,” she said as she grappled with a seat-belt buckle that seemed molten. “Do you suppose it’s even harder if that child is as perfect as Annabelle Hammond seems to have been?”
“She can’t have been all that perfect, or someone wouldn’t have killed her.”
“Are you saying it was her fault she was murdered?” Gemma retorted, then felt a little embarrassed by her defensiveness.
“Of course not.” Kincaid glanced at her in surprise. “But let’s look at what we’ve got so far.” Starting the car, he pulled it forward into a patch of shade and let it idle, fan running. “Annabelle Hammond was extremely beautiful, which, you have to admit, usually implies some degree of self-absorption. She was headstrong, even going against her father’s wishes in the running of the family business, which leads to the next point—she apparently had a real passion for her job. Passion makes people dangerous.”
Gemma thought of Gordon Finch, wondering if Annabelle’s passion had extended to him. She said, “I suspect she’d got cold feet about marrying Reg Mortimer. Otherwise, why put it off?”
“We keep coming back to Mortimer, don’t we? Why don’t we stop at the Ferry House, see if we can confirm his movements on Friday night.”
Realizing with a start that the afternoon had stretched into early evening, she pulled her phone from her handbag. “It’s getting late. I’d better give Hazel a ring first and check on Toby.”
“Oh, shit.”
“What?” She looked up in alarm, her finger poised over the keypad.
“I completely bloody forgot. I promised to take Kit to the station.” He glanced at his watch as he jammed the car into gear. “And there’s no one else.”
Kissed a Sad Goodbye Page 13
