“What I saw on that video was not a disagreement between strangers,” she replied. “It was an argument between two people who cared enough about each other to be angry. You knew her. Why are you so determined to deny the obvious?”
Taking a last drag on the cigarette, he crushed it out in a small black and white Wedgwood ashtray. With his gaze on the clarinet, he pressed the keys without lifting it to his lips. She waited in silence, and at last his fingers stilled. He looked up at her. “Because whatever there was between Annabelle and me is no one else’s business.”
“It is now. This is a murder investigation.”
“I had nothing to do with her death. And what was between us had nothing to do with her death.”
“Then doesn’t it matter to you how she died?” Gemma demanded. “Someone killed Annabelle Hammond, and it’s my guess it was someone she knew and trusted.”
“Why? What makes you say that? Surely it was some … You said she was found in the park.… How was she …”
Although in her brief experience Gordon Finch had been sparing with words, it was the first time Gemma had seen him at a loss for them. “We’re not releasing the cause of death just yet, but I will tell you that there was little sign of a struggle, and that she does not appear to have been sexually assaulted.” She hesitated, then added, “And her body seemed to have been rather carefully … arranged.”
“Arranged?” He stared at her. “Arranged how?”
She didn’t know if the details would haunt him more than the images conjured up by his imagination, but she knew she’d said too much already and would have to answer to Kincaid for going over the mark. Temporizing, she said, “As if her dignity mattered. She looked very … serene.”
“Annabelle, serene? That’s an oxymoron.” He stood again, lighting another cigarette.
“Why? What was she like, then?”
Frowning, he inhaled until the tip of the cigarette glowed orange-red. “She was … intense. Alive. More so than anyone I’d ever met.” He shook his head. “That sounds absolute rubbish.”
“No. Go on.”
He shifted restlessly. “That’s it. That’s all I can tell you.”
“But—”
“You don’t understand. I knew how she was with me, but nothing else. Nothing.” Going to the window, he pulled aside the lace panel and looked out. The sounds of the heavy equipment from the construction at the Mudchute DLR Station came clearly on the breeze.
When he didn’t continue, she said, “Were you …”
“Lovers?” The word carried an undertone of amusement. “Past tense. I broke things off with her months ago.”
“You broke it off with her?”
He spun round and took a step towards her. “Is that so hard to believe? Do you think I hadn’t any pride? I’d had enough of games.”
“What sort of games?”
“She came to listen to me play, just like you. And one night she came home with me.”
Gemma felt the flush creeping up her chest and throat. Is that what he’d thought the evening she’d stopped and spoken to him about his dog? She wondered if he’d been more encouraging with Annabelle—not that she’d had Annabelle’s motives, of course.… Or if perhaps Annabelle had liked the challenge.
“I should think you’d have been flattered,” she said, aiming at nonchalance as she perched herself gingerly on the arm of the old chair near the bed.
Its fabric was worn, but he’d covered it neatly with a woven purple rug, and for an instant she imagined Annabelle sitting there, framed by the contours of the chair, her hair glowing against the purple backdrop. Gemma smoothed the rug with her fingers, feeling as though she were infringing upon a ghost.
“Flattered?” With a derisive snort, he added, “By the attention of a woman who didn’t tell me her name for weeks? Who made it a point not to tell me where she lived or what she did?” He flicked ash from his cigarette end with a sharp tap of his fingertip.
“But you found out?”
“Only by accident. I’d just got off the train at Island Gardens one day. I looked down from the platform and saw her coming out of the Ferry Street flat. And once I knew her name, it didn’t take too long to make the connection with Hammond’s Teas.”
“You must have wondered why she was so secretive—what she was hiding.”
“The arrangement suited me well enough.”
“Did it?” Gemma shook her head. “I wouldn’t think the hole-and-corner bit suited you at all. Or that you’d like being treated as if she was ashamed of you.”
“All right,” he said sharply, and she knew her remark had stung. “I didn’t like it. But she said she was engaged to someone in the company, and there were reasons she couldn’t break it off.”
“What sort of reasons?”
“She wouldn’t say. I told you, she didn’t talk to me about herself. She only said that much because—” He stopped, scowling, and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray next to the first.
“Because you threatened to call it off,” Gemma finished for him. “Is that it?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Is that what ended things between you?”
“No. I just … got tired of her, that’s all.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and stared out the window.
“When did you learn about your father’s connection with Annabelle?” asked Gemma, trying a different tack.
“I didn’t know there was a connection—and I doubt you do, either. You’re fishing, Sergeant.”
“We have a witness who saw them together as far back as last autumn. And your father left a message on her answering machine the night she died.”
“So?” Gordon challenged, but she thought his face had paled.
“When did you first see Annabelle?”
He lit another cigarette. “I don’t remember.”
“You said she came to listen to you play. You must remember what time of year it was,” Gemma insisted.
“Summer, then. It was hot.”
“And when did you break things off with her?”
“A few months ago. I suppose it was early in the spring.”
Was that why he’d been so taciturn when she’d seen him in Islington? wondered Gemma. The timing fit. “And you’d not seen her again until Friday night?”
“Seeing and speaking are two different things. I’d seen her around—the Island’s a small place—but I hadn’t spoken to her.”
A current of air lifted a sheet of music from the stand and sent it drifting lazily towards Gemma. Bending to catch it, she turned it right side up. “It is Mozart you were playing. I thought it must be.”
Gordon looked surprised. “You were listening?”
“I couldn’t help hearing. And I remember you playing it before.”
“In Islington.” He squinted against the smoke rising from his cigarette as he studied her. “You like music, then? Do you play?”
She heard the quickening of interest in his voice, free for the first time of mockery or caution. “No, I …” She hesitated, unwilling to part with her secret. But this was the first chance she’d seen of breaking through his defenses. Shaking her head, she left the chair and wandered over to the kitchen table. She turned to face him again, her handbag clutched against her midriff like a shield. Perhaps he wouldn’t think her daft. “No. I don’t play. But I … I want to learn the piano. I’ve started lessons.”
He ground out his cigarette and came across to her, pulling one of the kitchen chairs away from the table until he could flip it round and straddle it. “Why?”
Gemma laughed. “You sound like my teacher. Why does everyone want to know why? I’m not silly enough to think I’m going to become a great pianist, if that’s what you think. It’s just that music makes me feel …”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know. Connected with myself, somehow.” She smiled, as if making light of it would protect her from ridicule, but he merely nodded as if it made perfect sense. “What about you?” she a
sked. “You’re good—I know that much. Why do you do this?” Her gesture took in the small flat, the clarinet, the signs of a meager existence.
“I like my life.”
“But you could play in an orchestra, a band—”
“Oh, right. Sit in a monkey suit in a concert hall, or play in some poncey restaurant where no one listens to you?”
“But surely the money would be—”
“I make enough as it is. And nobody tells me when to go to work, or when to go home. Nobody owns me. I could pack up tomorrow and go anywhere, free as a bird.”
Gemma stared at him. She was close enough to notice that his eyes were a clear, pure gray. “Then why don’t you?”
The question hung in the silence between them. After a moment, she said, “That freedom is an illusion, isn’t it? We all have ties, obligations. Even you, as much as you try to deny it. Is that why you broke things off with Annabelle? You were afraid she’d get too close?”
“No, I—”
“She wanted something from you, in the tunnel. What was it?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Good question. I asked her that often enough.”
As if unsettled by the tension in their voices, Sam raised his head and whined. Gordon knelt beside him, putting a comforting hand on the dog’s head.
Gemma moved a step closer. “What did she ask you that night?”
“To reconsider. She wanted me to … to go back to the way things were.”
“And you refused her?”
He continued stroking the dog.
“Did you change your mind, go after her?”
“Do you think I killed her?”
Gemma hesitated, thinking of the shock she’d sensed when they told him of Annabelle’s death. “No,” she said slowly. “No, I don’t. But that’s my personal opinion, not a professional clean bill of health. And if I’m wrong about you, my head’s on the block.”
Standing up, Gordon faced her. “Why did you come here on your own? On the strength of that video, you could’ve had me hauled in to the station.”
Gemma touched the pages on the music stand with the tip of her finger. “I don’t know,” she answered. “I felt she meant something to you, in spite of what you said.”
Gordon hesitated, then said, “For what it’s worth, I regretted turning her away so … abruptly. She’d never asked for anything before … or given me reason to think I was more to her than a bit of rebellion on the side.” He shook his head. “But it was so unexpected … and it wasn’t until afterwards I realized she’d been crying.”
“Do you know why?”
“I came straight back to the flat—I suppose I thought she might come here.” He looked away, and the muscle in his jaw flexed. “But she didn’t. I never had a chance to ask her.”
• • •
KINCAID SAT AT A TABLE NEAR the door in the pub just down the street from Hammond’s; Gemma had agreed to meet him for lunch. Smoke filled the air in spite of the open doors, VH1 blared from two televisions mounted near the ceiling, and the menu offered prepackaged pub food.
Frowning, he sipped at his pint, wondering if he and Gemma had miscommunicated about the time or place. Her tardiness had not improved his temper, already frayed by an interview with his guv’nor. Chief Superintendent Childs had expressed himself as not at all happy with their progress on the case, notwithstanding Kincaid’s reminder that it had only been two days and they’d had very little to go on.
He’d just about made up his mind to place his order, hoping a meal would improve his perspective, when he spotted Gemma standing in the doorway. She saw him and smiled, then threaded her way through the tables to him.
“Guv.” She looked flushed from the sun, and a damp tendril of hair clung to her cheek.
“What’ll you have?” he asked as she sat down.
“Mmmm … a lemonade would be nice. Something with a bit of ice.”
“Shall I order the food as well? Fish and chips?”
“Make it two, then,” she said, fanning herself with the menu.
When he returned with her drink, he said, “Did you get Toby settled? How is he?”
“I just rang Hazel from the car. She says he’s fine now, just a bit of the sniffles.” Gemma drained half her glass, then sat back, looking much restored. Touching his arm, she said, “Duncan, about Kit … Hazel said you told him—”
He shook his head. After a night spent tossing and turning, just the thought of talking about it made him feel drained. “It’s a proper cock-up. I wasn’t naive enough to expect to be welcomed with open arms. But I hadn’t thought he’d take it so hard.” He shrugged, making light of it. He couldn’t tell her the worst part.
“He’s been through such a lot, poor little beggar. I don’t imagine he knows what he feels. What are you going to do now?”
The barmaid arrived at the table and plopped loaded plates down in front of them, followed by serviette-wrapped cutlery and plastic packets of tartar sauce. Without a word, she went back to her tête-à-tête over the bar with a shirtless young man sporting a large and very well-endowed, naked lady tattooed on his arm.
Kincaid poked at his fish with the tip of his fork. “Give him more time, I suppose. Try to behave as ordinarily as possible. And have a talk with Laura Miller—see how she feels about having him through some of the summer hols.”
“Why didn’t you wait last night?” Gemma speared a chip. “We missed you by minutes.”
“I’m sorry. I suddenly realized that I was too knackered to think.”
Gemma gave him a swift glance but didn’t pursue it. “Tell me about Annabelle’s solicitor.”
“A very high-powered lady with an office in Canary Wharf. But she was persuaded to give me the time of day,” he answered, feeling relieved. “It seems Annabelle hadn’t much to leave in the way of material things.” Downing the last of his pint of Tetley’s, he thought for a moment of ordering another, but decided it would only make him groggy in the heat. “Her flat was mortgaged, and bought recently, so there’s very little equity. Her car was leased. Some debts, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“No assets at all, then?”
“I didn’t quite say that. She had her shares in the company, and she left those to Harry and Sarah Lowell. She designated their father, Martin Lowell, as trustee.”
Gemma looked up in surprise. “Not her sister?”
“The solicitor says that since Jo’s divorce, Annabelle had discussed making a change, but hadn’t actually done anything about it.”
“Could Lowell benefit directly from the share income?”
“I imagine that would depend on how tightly the trust is structured. The question is, did Lowell know about the bequest?”
“Annabelle’s death could have been convenient for him, in that case,” said Gemma. Finishing her lemonade, she added, “But we’ve not had the impression so far that Hammond’s Teas was a financial gold mine.”
“Annabelle seemed to live comfortably on her income, but I’d assume she was also paid a salary.”
Gemma pushed her plate aside. “I’d like to know if Jo Lowell was aware of the bequest.”
“Then I suggest we ask her before we interview Martin Lowell. Shall we walk?” he asked, rising.
“I suppose it’s quicker,” said Gemma, but he thought she sounded less than enthusiastic.
As they left the pub and started down Saunders Ness towards the tunnel, she told him about Janice’s interview with George Brent, and the appointment Janice had made for them with Lewis Finch that afternoon.
“I’m impressed with the inspector’s initiative. So there is a connection between Annabelle and Lewis Finch.”
“And between Annabelle and Gordon Finch. Janice found the video footage.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“And I’ve spoken to him. It’s clear from the video that she wanted something from him, and that he refused her. He says he had broken off their relationship, and that she wanted to mend things bet
ween them.”
“Then why did he lie?” They’d reached the tunnel entrance, and as they waited for the lift, Kincaid glanced at her. “You had him brought in?”
“I went round to his flat. I thought he might be more cooperative.”
Kincaid frowned. “On your own?”
“That was the idea—a bit less police presence,” she said defensively. “He’s not the sort who responds well to authority.”
“Gemma, for Christ’s sake—the man could very well have murdered Annabelle Hammond. What were you playing at?”
“What was he going to do—bump me off in his flat in broad daylight, after I’d left word at the station where I’d be?” Gemma’s sarcasm echoed the mulish set of her jaw. “That would be daft, and I don’t think we’re dealing with a lunatic. And besides”—she shot him a defiant glance—“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“That’s beside the point. Just don’t do it again—you might not be so lucky next time. Not to mention the fact that you’ve played hell with protocol.”
“As if you never do,” she muttered.
“Dammit, Gemma, I’m—” He stopped himself. Arguing would only make her more stubborn, he knew, and there was no point turning this into a full-blown row. He’d done enough damage losing his temper the last few days.
The lift doors opened, and as they waited for the disembarking passengers to exit, Kincaid saw that the lift was unusually large and had a uniformed operator. Once inside, he discovered the high-tech counterpart to this rather old-fashioned courtesy: a security camera and monitor, mounted near the ceiling.
They took up positions against the bench in the back as the other passengers crowded in. “If he admitted a relationship with her, I suppose your strategy worked,” he said quietly.
She gave him a wary glance as they continued their descent, as if assessing his change of tone. The camera view shifted from the tunnel to the interior of the lift, and for a moment he saw himself with Gemma beside him. Then the lift sighed to a stop and the doors slid open, disgorging them into the white-tiled dampness of the tunnel.
As they started down the gentle incline, he saw that the condensation from the curving walls had collected into rivulets on the sloping concrete floor. The sounds of voices and footsteps ricocheted eerily round them; from somewhere he heard music. “What exactly did the video show?” he asked. “Did Finch leave with her?”
Kissed a Sad Goodbye Page 17
