“How would you know what he needs?” Kincaid’s control was dangerously close to breaking.
“I can’t make amends without starting somewhere, can I? And it doesn’t sound to me as if you’ve any call for making threats or accusations—you’ve made a proper cock-up of things yourself,” Ian added hotly.
They stared at each other, then Kincaid sat back. He took a deep breath. Getting at cross-purposes with McClellan would benefit no one. “All right. I’ll admit that. But I was here, and I want it understood that I’m not bowing out of Kit’s life now.”
Ian gave him a crooked smile. “I’d say the question just now is whether he wants much to do with either of us. I’m going up to Cambridge tomorrow. I’ll open the house, then fetch Kit from the Millers.”
“Give him some time to get used to the idea,” Kincaid countered. “A few days at least. He’s found some security where he is … and he may find going back to the cottage difficult.… You know he won’t leave the dog?”
“I’ll give him a few days, then,” Ian agreed, then grimaced. “And I suppose I can get used to the dog. Anything is possible.”
Watching him, Kincaid felt a tingle of suspicion. It wouldn’t do to take this latest declaration of intent entirely at face value. In his experience with Ian, anything was indeed possible.
• • •
WILLIAM HAMMOND WOKE SUDDENLY, HIS HEART hammering painfully in his chest. For a moment he wondered where he was, then the shapes in the dim room reasserted their familiarity. He lay in the high, old tester bed where he had slept with Isabel, his outstretched hand brushing against the hangings. She had loved the maize-colored satin, but the fabric was faded now, and stained.
The dressing table, there … the nightstand, there … and the pale oblongs on the right were the windows, admitting a faint light from Hyde Vale at the top of the lane. The curtains moved in the breeze and William pulled the duvet up to his chin, shivering.
In his dream it had been ripe summer, green and golden. He and Lewis stood knee-deep in the stream that ran through the bottom of the old pasture, picking watercress for Cook. They were laughing, their nut-brown faces turned up to the sun, but his feet and calves were cold as ice in the clear, running water.…
He had spent so many years forgetting, and yet it might have been yesterday, so real had the experience seemed for those few moments. Now the images began to dissolve, slipping away with the elusiveness of dreams, and William squeezed his eyes tight shut against the slow, leaking tears.
CHAPTER 10 Another favorite haunt of Island children for their outdoor games was Island Gardens, a small park on the riverbank opposite Greenwich, created by the London County Council in 1895.
Eve Hostettler, from
Memories of Childhood
on the Isle of Dogs, 1870–1970
Gemma was awakened from a disjointed, early morning dream by Toby’s voice. Opening her eyes, she made out his small form standing beside her bed, silhouetted by the dim light from the garden windows.
“Mummy, I had a bad dream.”
“Did you, darling?” She sat up, pushing her hair from her face. The pale blue plush carousel horse her son clutched to his chest had lost most of its felt saddle, and its white mane and tail were worn away to stubble, but its black glass eyes were still bright and Toby loved it with fierce loyalty. “Did Horsey have a bad dream, too?” she asked, feeling the soft skin of her son’s neck for signs of fever. “Was it monsters again?”
Toby nodded vigorously, and she made a vow to stop reading him Where the Wild Things Are at bedtime. “Climb in with Mummy, then, lovey, and go back to sleep.” As she tucked him in between her body and the wall, she held her cheek to his for a moment and savored the sweet scent of him. He might look more like a little boy every day, but when he was warm and damp with sleep, he still smelled like a baby.
She lay quietly, listening as his breathing slowed with sleep. But she felt increasingly restless, aware of a nagging sense of disquiet, and after half an hour she slipped out of bed and went to the window. Opening the blinds, she stood for a while, watching the pale light creep across the garden and listening to the birds greet the day with revolting cheerfulness. Her head ached dully, a symptom she assessed as a mild hangover.
Last night, while waiting for Kincaid to ring after his meeting with Ian McClellan, she’d had a glass more than the two glasses of wine she normally considered her limit. But Duncan had not called, and at last she’d given up and crawled into bed, already regretting her overindulgence.
Surely Kincaid wasn’t still cross with her over the business with Gordon Finch, she thought as she moved from the window to her tiny cupboard of a kitchen, where she filled the kettle. It was unlike him to hold a grudge, either personal or professional, but since Vic’s death his moods and his temper had been unpredictable.
The kettle whistled as she finished grinding the handful of coffee beans she’d taken from the fridge, and as she poured the hot water into the cafetière, she thought about Annabelle Hammond. What secret had she possessed that had compelled others to accept life on her terms? It had been more than beauty, that much was becoming clear, and for an instant Gemma wished she could have known her—could have judged for herself whether she was saint or sinner.
AN HOUR LATER, AS SHE LISTENED to Toby singing happily over his cornflakes, she dressed carefully—camel trousers, a white cotton tee shirt under an olive linen blazer—determined today to present a professional front to the world, hot or not.
Although the morning had brought a small respite from yesterday’s temperatures, the humidity had risen with the thin covering of cloud that spilled across the sky like curdled milk. As she drove towards the East End, she felt the moisture clinging to her skin and wondered if sheer willpower could keep her from wilting before the day had even begun.
Kincaid was there before her, leaning against the Rover he’d parked across the street from Hammond’s. He smiled when he saw her and straightened, running a hand through his already wind-ruffled hair. “We might get some rain,” he said by way of a greeting when she’d parked the Escort and joined him. “A break in the heat.”
“Are you all right?” she asked, studying him. His good cheer seemed a bit manufactured, and he was not usually given to talking about the weather.
He looked back at her guilelessly, his eyes as blue today as the denim shirt he wore. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You didn’t ring. What did Ian—”
“I thought you’d be asleep.” He looked away, leaning down to brush dust from the car’s bonnet off his trousers. “And to be quite honest, I suppose I needed some time to sort things through.” Glancing up at her, he added, “McClellan says he’s here to stay. He’s moving back to the Cambridge house. And he wants Kit with him.”
“But …” Gemma tried to make sense of this. “After months of wanting nothing to do with him? Just like that? What did you say?”
“What could I say?” He gave her a lopsided smile. “You know the situation as well as I do.”
Gemma searched for a reply, but everything that came to mind seemed both trite and facile. Finally, she touched his arm. “I’m sorry things are difficult just now. If there’s anything I can do …”
“We could talk tonight, if the gods are willing.” He took her elbow, guiding her towards Hammond’s front door. “In the meantime, the guv’nor wants to see me midmorning, and I’d like to be able to tell him we’ve made some progress on this case. Let’s hope we find Reg Mortimer cooperative.”
The first thing Gemma noticed as they entered the warehouse was the distinct aroma of tea; the second was the low hum of activity that had been absent on Sunday. As Kincaid spoke to the receptionist at her desk near the door, Gemma cocked her head, trying to sort out the sounds. From upstairs came the grumble of machinery and the occasional thump, and from the open doors of the loading bays drifted the sound of a radio. The ringing of a telephone punctuated the faint murmur of voices, but the atmosphere seemed subdued.
<
br /> A balding man in a crisp green apron moved about the tasting table. He must be Mac, the tea taster Teresa had mentioned, thought Gemma, but before she could speak to him, the receptionist directed them up the stairs and along the catwalk.
As they passed the open door of the first large office, they saw Teresa Robbins seated at one of the two desks, telephone held to her ear. She glanced up, startled, and lifted one hand in an awkward gesture that stopped short of a wave.
Reg Mortimer awaited them in the office next door, rising from a neat desk to greet them. He wore a pale pink shirt and coordinated tie, but the flattering shade did little for skin made sallow by exhaustion. Gemma was shocked by how much his appearance had changed since she’d seen him three days ago. Guilt? Or grief?
“You’ve been rather elusive, Mr. Mortimer,” Kincaid began as they sat down.
“Have I?” Mortimer smiled cordially enough. “There’s been a good deal to see to—and to clean up.” He ran the side of his hand across the polished surface of his desk. “Your lads don’t exactly tidy up after themselves.”
“Not part of their job description,” Kincaid said, giving the office an interested glance.
Gemma saw no evidence that the forensic team had left traces behind, but she found the room’s mixture of furnishings rather odd. The large, contemporary desk was of mirror-gloss ebony, the accompanying executive’s chair black leather, while the straight-backed wooden visitors’ chairs she and Kincaid occupied were likely older than Mortimer and had never been more than utilitarian. The chairs’ ambiance was echoed in the scarred, wooden filing cabinets flanking the open, uncurtained window behind the desk, and atop one of the cabinets, a black-enameled fan oscillated with a gentle whirring.
After the fan, Gemma almost expected a Bakelite, rotary-dial phone on the desk, but a glimpse of the state-of-the-art unit tucked away behind Reg’s Rolodex booted her swiftly back into the current decade.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Kincaid told Mortimer, “I see you’ve managed to update things a bit in the old building. Was this Annabelle’s office?”
“No. Annabelle shared the one next door. It’s been hard on Teresa, the last few days. The constant reminder … I don’t think I could bear …” Mortimer shook his head. “We’ve always been short of office space here—that’s one of the problems with this drafty old pile of brick. That and the damp,” he added absently, and Gemma had the impression he was talking on autopilot while his mind was somewhere else entirely.
“There are just a few things we’d like to go over with you, Mr. Mortimer,” Kincaid said. “Were you aware that Annabelle had left her shares in the company to Harry and Sarah Lowell, naming their father as trustee?”
Gemma pulled her notebook unobtrusively from her bag as she watched Mortimer’s response. Although he didn’t quite mask a grimace, he answered readily enough, and she thought he must have been prepared.
“I’d no idea until yesterday. Teresa and I are meeting with the solicitor this afternoon, to see if there is anything that can be done.”
“So you share Jo Lowell’s opinion that her ex-husband is likely to be difficult?”
“I’ve nothing against Martin Lowell personally. But we would be concerned at the idea of anyone without direct experience of the business controlling a large block of voting shares. I’m sure you can understand that,” Mortimer said smoothly.
Gemma looked up from her notes. “Don’t you find it odd that your fiancée didn’t share something as important as the disposition of her assets with you?”
Mortimer tilted his chair back a bit and reangled the pen on his blotter. “Annabelle was rather obsessive about her privacy. And in any case, I’m sure it’s not something she thought would be necessary to discuss,” he added, his expression bleak.
“Perhaps she meant to wait until you were married, then sign them over to you,” Gemma suggested.
“Trying to predict what Annabelle might have done seems a particularly fruitless exercise.”
Spotting her opening, Gemma said, “Had Annabelle changed her mind about your engagement? Is that what your argument was about on Friday evening?”
Mortimer paled visibly. “What—what are you talking about? Of course she hadn’t changed her mind. I’ve told you—she wasn’t feeling well.”
“That’s funny,” Kincaid said, picking it up. “Jo Lowell says the two of you had a row, and that you waited for Annabelle in the lane, not even saying good night to your hostess. I don’t believe you’d have behaved so rudely unless you’d had a disagreement.”
Mortimer glanced from Kincaid to Gemma. “It sounds so utterly stupid now.” His eyes filled with tears and he brushed at them with the back of his hand. “And there’s no taking any of it back, the things we said.…”
“Everyone has stupid rows,” said Gemma, very deliberately not looking at Kincaid. “And if we’re lucky we get to make them up. Don’t let this grow out of proportion because you didn’t.”
A faint color rose in Reg’s cheeks. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Annabelle was furious because she thought Jo was flirting with me.… I told you it was idiotic.”
“Was Jo flirting with you?” Kincaid asked. “Was there something going on between you?”
“No, of course not. Annabelle was just very out of sorts.” Reg looked away, moving his shoulders in an embarrassed shrug. “Maybe I took a bit more notice of Jo than usual, just because Annabelle was being so bloody. And Jo seemed to be enjoying the attention, but that was all. It was silly, I know, but sometimes when you’ve known one another a long time, you seem to fall back into the way you behaved as children.”
“Have you any idea why Annabelle was out of sorts?”
“Not a glimmer. Except that things had been more stressful than usual here lately.” His gesture indicated the warehouse. “She’d been making changes that would have enormous impact on the future of the company—new products, new packaging, new marketing strategies. Now …” Reg slumped back in his chair with a shake of his head. “I don’t know how we’ll carry on without her.”
Gemma thought of the distinctive tins Annabelle had designed, of Teresa Robbins’s animation when she spoke of Annabelle’s plans for pushing Hammond’s into a new niche in the market, of the obvious grief and shock of the company’s employees. Could Hammond’s go on successfully, without Annabelle’s drive and vision? “Was there anyone within the company who stood to gain from her death?” she asked.
“Not that I can see,” Reg answered wearily. “Even Martin Lowell may find those shares more of a liability than an asset, without Annabelle behind them,” he added, and Gemma thought she heard a trace of satisfaction in his voice.
Kincaid studied him for a moment. “Are you sure it was Annabelle who was jealous that night, and not you?”
“What?” Mortimer’s hands, which had been idly rolling the pen back and forth, were suddenly still.
“It seems you’d have had good reason, Reg.” Kincaid sounded sympathetic. “Were you aware that she knew the busker she spoke to in the tunnel? And that she’d been having an affair with him?”
“What?” Mortimer said again. His throat moved as he swallowed convulsively. “That’s not possible. I … How could Annabelle possibly have known this chap, much less … A busker? You must be mistaken.”
Gemma thought of the photos from the Tatler she’d seen on Annabelle’s corkboard—Annabelle and Reg moving graciously from one society party to another, inhabiting a world that had no place for anyone outside its class or social set, unless the contact was made as an official act of charity.
She manufactured a smile. “He’s really quite good. I’d say the entertainment’s a bargain for a few coins tossed in a case.” Too late, she felt Kincaid’s swift, curious glance.
“But he’s not just your ordinary street musician, if that makes you feel any better,” offered Kincaid. “His name is Gordon Finch, and he’s Lewis Finch’s son.”
This time Mortimer simply sta
red.
“Do you know Lewis Finch?”
Mortimer seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. “Of course I know Lewis Finch. Everyone on the Island knows who Lewis Finch is.”
“Including Annabelle?”
“I … I suppose she did—she must have met him at some point.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that she knew the father as well as the son, in the biblical sense? We’re not sure which came first, the chicken or the egg, but it seems quite certain that she had an ongoing relationship with both of them while engaged to you.”
“No!” Reg Mortimer stood, sending his leather chair flying into one of the filing cabinets. “I don’t bloody believe it. I won’t believe it. Can’t you leave me something, for God’s sake?”
When they didn’t answer, he groped for the chair behind him, and sinking back into it, he covered his face with his hands.
• • •
“ALL RIGHT, IT’S JO LOWELL AGAIN,” Kincaid said as they climbed into the Rover. “I’m beginning to feel like a bloody yo-yo.” He’d just enough time for the run to Greenwich before his meeting with Chief Superintendent Childs. “Do you mind walking back through the tunnel?”
“Love to,” Gemma answered as they turned north into Manchester Road.
“Do I detect a smidgen of sarcasm?” As Kincaid looked to the left, he caught a glimpse of George Brent’s front garden, and George himself in a white string vest, deadheading the roses. He waved, but the old man was intent on his work and didn’t look up. “It’s a bit hard to believe that George Brent and Lewis Finch are of the same generation.”
“I suppose George must be a half a dozen years older.” Gemma rolled her window down, grimacing as a hot, gritty wind blasted into the car. “But you’re right. I can’t imagine Annabelle having a go at George.”
“Do you think Reg Mortimer knew?”
“About Annabelle and Lewis, or about Annabelle and Gordon?”
Kissed a Sad Goodbye Page 21
