“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 asked. “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.”
• • •
K
INCAID 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 between 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?”
“It seems Reg Mortimer
was
telling the truth, at least to a point, about what happened here.” Gemma moved closer to Kincaid, allowing a cyclist walking his bike to pass.
Bicycles Strictly Prohibited
signs had been plainly posted at the tunnel entrance. “Annabelle stopped and spoke to Gordon Finch, and Mortimer was nowhere to be seen. She seemed to be arguing with Finch, but he didn’t respond. Then she walked away, and a few minutes later he packed up and left.”
“Did he meet her afterwards?”
“He says he went straight home. I’ve asked Janice to send someone round this evening to check with his landlady.”
Glancing at Gemma, he thought she looked pale, but he didn’t know if it was due to the cold light reflecting from the white tiles or the thought of the weight of the river above them.
They walked in silence as they neared the flat stretch of the tunnel, and the echoing music resolved itself into a very bad vocal rendition of “Bad Moon Rising,” accompanied by abysmally played guitar. Wincing, Kincaid commented, “I should think people would pay this bloke
not
to play. If Gordon Finch is anywhere near this untalented, Annabelle might have been trying to persuade him to give it up.”
“He’s—” Gemma stopped, giving him a look he couldn’t read. Ducking her head, she fished in her handbag and tossed a fifty-pence piece into the busker’s case as they passed. “I’m sure that wasn’t the case.”
“Did Finch admit to knowing about Annabelle and his father?”
“He says he’d no idea. And we can’t be sure she was having an affair with Lewis Finch, just because she was seen with him.”
“Right,” Kincaid said sarcastically, a little amused at Gemma’s determination to think the best of Annabelle Hammond.
They were climbing now, nearing the Greenwich end of the tunnel, and Gemma’s pace had increased enough that Kincaid had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her. The music had faded until it came to them in intermittent, if still discordant, waves.
The tunnel’s end came into view, with clearly visible daylight filtering down the stairwell beside the lift. Gemma bypassed the lift doors. “Let’s take the stairs. I don’t think I can bear being closed up another minute.”