“They might remember seeing an unfamiliar car, even if they thought it was just teenagers looking for an uninterrupted cuddle.”
Smiling at his choice of words, Gemma touched his arm briefly as they turned towards the street. “How delicate of you, Superintendent. Where do we find Mr. Brent, then?”
He consulted the map. “This is Pier Street. It should take us right into Manchester Road if we continue along it.”
The council houses they passed as they walked were built of the gray concrete blocks typical of the sixties, but most appeared well-kept. Front doors stood open in the midday heat, and although the bead curtains hanging in most doorways afforded inhabitants a bit of privacy, they allowed cooking odors an easy escape. Gemma sniffed appreciatively at the scent of garlic mingled with spices not quite as familiar.
Some of the tiny front gardens had been paved over entirely, others had a few pots and hanging baskets or revealed a small attempt at a plot of flowers, but the garden of the flat they approached would have made a garden center green with envy. Every inch of the eight-foot square was filled with something blooming, and as they came nearer Gemma saw that one would have to squeeze through a gate held ajar by a mass of purple clematis.
She checked the number over its door. “Mr. Brent, I believe.”
“The inspector said something about his prize flowers.”
“An understatement.” No bead curtain covered this
doorway, and as they brushed their way down the narrow path, the smell of roasting meat competed with the cloying scent of the flowers. From inside, a telly blared forth the theme from
Grandstand
.
Kincaid tapped on the doorjamb, waited a moment, then called “Hullo!” over the din.
“Just coming,” answered a woman’s voice. She appeared from the rear of the house, wiping her hands on a flowered pinny. “Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see Mr. Brent.”
Grimacing, the woman said, “Hang on a moment while I turn this racket down.”
As she slipped through the sitting room door, they saw a flash of television screen, then the noise stopped.
Returning to them, she nodded. “That’s better. Bloody thing drives me crazy. Now, what did you say you wanted?”
“Mr. Brent,” answered Gemma. “We’re from the police. We’d like to talk to him about this morning.”
The woman’s face instantly creased with concern. “A terrible thing. Dad’s been that upset, it’s taken me the whole morning to get him settled. I had to promise him roast chicken and potatoes, in this heat, and now you want to get him all riled up again.” She was small and wiry, with cropped hair kept black with the help of the dye bottle. Beneath the flowered pinny she wore stretchy trousers and an open-necked tee shirt.
Kincaid smiled. “I’m sorry, Mrs.—”
She touched her hair, then held her hand out to Kincaid. “Hubbard. Brenda Hubbard,
née
Brent. I’ll just—”
“Bren!” a man’s voice called from the back of the house. “Who is it, Bren?”
Brenda hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “It’s the police, Dad. They’ve come to see you.” Stepping back, she led the way into the sitting room.
Gemma instinctively drew in her arms as they entered, for the small room was stuffed so full of things that movement was restricted to a narrow path through its center. The
fringed lamp shades competed with the poppy-sprigged wallpaper, which shouted in turn at what was visible of the bold floral carpet. Souvenir-type knickknacks and family photographs jostled for space on every flat surface, but the photos held the advantage by spilling over onto the walls.
Brenda Hubbard looked back at Gemma, then gestured at the photos. “I tell Dad there’ll be no room for him one of these days, but he can’t bear to part with any of them.”
Pausing, Gemma examined a group of particularly ornate frames atop a bookcase. “School class?” she asked, pointing at the photo in the largest.
Smiling, Brenda said, “Family. There were fourteen of us. Thirteen girls and a boy, the last. Mum was determined, I’ll give her that.” She briefly touched a photo of a faded, sweet-faced woman surrounded by children, then moved on.
The blue plush reclining chair in front of the television provided the room’s sole island of solid color, but it was empty. The glass door to the small, concrete patio stood open, and in the shade of a garden umbrella sat an elderly man in a white plastic patio chair. Beside him, a Patterdale terrier raised its slender black head from its paws at their approach.
“Mr. Brent.” Kincaid held out his warrant card as they followed Brenda onto the patio. Glancing at the dog, which was now sniffing his ankles, he added, “I’m Superintendent Kincaid and this is Ser—”
“Get down, Sheba.” George Brent scolded the dog gently, then scrutinized them with alert blue eyes. “Janice Coppin sent you, did she? I’d not have credited her with that much sense.”
Brenda Hubbard gave an exasperated shake of her head. “Dad, that’s not a nice thing to say and you know it.” With a look at Gemma and Kincaid, she added apologetically, “Janice was at school with our Georgie, and Dad took against her over some silly thing that no one else even remembers.”
“Your mum remembered. And it wasn’t a silly thing to our Georgie—she stood him up for the Settlement Dance.” Having made his point to his daughter, George Brent held out his hand to Kincaid. His grip was strong, and the arms and shoulders revealed by his cotton vest still showed muscular definition.
Kincaid pulled over two more plastic patio chairs. “Do you mind if we sit down, Mr. Brent?”
“Oh, forgive my manners.” Brenda Hubbard sounded a bit flustered as she helped them arrange the chairs. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Or some orange squash?”
“Squash would be lovely,” said Gemma, as much to remove the distraction of bickering with his daughter from Mr. Brent as to quench a genuine thirst.
As Brenda disappeared into the kitchen, Kincaid began again. “Mr. Brent, we don’t want to upset you, but we need you to tell us about what happened this morning.”
“Whoever said I was upset?” Brent gave a dark glance towards the house. “Load of bollocks,” he added under his breath, but as he spoke he reached down and buried his fingers in the dog’s rough coat.
“It’s not every day you find a dead body, Mr. Brent,” Gemma said gently. “It would upset anyone.”
Brent looked away. Gemma saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, and the spasm clenching the hand still resting in the dog’s fur. “Beautiful. She was so beautiful. I thought she was sleeping, like a fairy princess.”
Returning with their drinks, Brenda served them without interrupting, then pulled another plastic chair into the shade and sat down.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Mr. Brent,” suggested Kincaid. “You took your dog to the park?”
“You’d had your breakfast, hadn’t you, Dad?” prompted Brenda. “You always take Sheba for her run after breakfast.”
“That’s right. Right round the park we go, every morning and every evening. Keeps us fit, doesn’t it, girl?” He stroked the dog’s head; the animal’s tail thumped.
“What time was this, Mr. Brent?”
“A bit later than usual, on account of helping Mrs. Singh next door with her telly. About half past eight, I’d say, and already hot as blazes.”
Gemma sipped her drink, then asked, “Did you take your usual route?”
“We always go the same way, don’t we, girl?” said Brent, and Sheba’s tail moved again in assent. “Up from the bottom of Stebondale Street, into the park at the Rope Walk, across and up the other side.” He shook his head. “Bloody construction mucking things about. Can’t hear yourself think.”
“That’s along East Ferry Road?” asked Kincaid.
“Farm Road, we always called it. There were still farms round about when I was a boy, though you’d not think it now. I remember when we lived in Glengall Road, before the bombings—”
“Mr. Brent,” Kincaid interrupted gently. “Tell us what happened next.”
George Brent took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and rubbed it slowly across the polished dome of his head as he watched Sheba, now happily digging in a patch of the small flower bed at the edge of the patio. “You’re a right devil, aren’t you, girl?” he said softly, then met Kincaid’s eyes. “Most mornings I stop at the ASDA for a cuppa, meet my old mates, you know, though Harry Thurgar for one is getting a bit past it … but I was too late this morning, so we went on along the top.”
His gaze strayed again, back to the dog. “I let her off the lead—she’s always after rabbits, or what she thinks is rabbits. Then I heard her whining, and when I caught up to her …”
At the word “rabbits” Sheba sat back on her haunches and cocked her head expectantly, then moved to her master’s side. Her long, elegant profile made Gemma think of
the paintings of dogs on Egyptian friezes. Hadn’t the Egyptians believed that dogs followed their masters to the underworld?
“Did you touch the body, Mr. Brent?” she asked.
“No, I … Well, maybe I did, just a bit, to see if …”
“But you didn’t move her?”
Brent shook his head. “All I could think then was to get help, I don’t know why. Ran to the ASDA, silly bugger; too old to run like I used to. Used the phone to ring 999.”
“You waited for the police?” asked Kincaid.
“Didn’t know they’d send Janice Coppin, did I?” Brent scowled and Sheba responded with a low humming in her throat. “Treated me like a child, or a dimwit. She’s no better than she should be, that woman, and her husband’s a no-account—”
“Dad, that’s enough,” said Brenda. “And Bill’s her ex-husband now, you know that.” She looked at Kincaid and Gemma. “If that’s all …”
“Just a couple of questions more, Mrs. Hubbard.” Kincaid turned back to her father. “Had you ever seen the woman before, Mr. Brent?”
“I … I’m not certain.” Mopping his head again with the handkerchief, George Brent seemed suddenly to age, as if his uncertainty weighed heavily.
“You don’t have to be sure.” Gemma smiled to put him at ease. “Just tell us where you think you
might
have seen her.”
Brent said hesitantly, “At the shops, just along the road. That hair, so lovely … but I never quite saw her face.”
“Recently, Mr. Brent?”
Gemma heard the hint of excitement in Kincaid’s deliberate drawl.
Brent shook his head. “No, I … My memory’s not what it used to be. I think it was nearer the spring, maybe Easter. I’m sorry,” he added, as if he’d seen the disappointment in their faces, but Gemma had the distinct feeling that the old man hadn’t told them everything he knew.
Kincaid rose. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Brent. And we’re going to let you have your lunch now. There’s just one more thing. You said you walked Sheba yesterday evening—did you go the same way?”
“Have to put her on the lead to stop her, wouldn’t I? Like a clockwork dog round that path, she is.” Brent chuckled at his own wit.
“What time was this?”
“Nine o’clock news was just coming on. Hate to miss the news, but it’s too dark after.”
“And you’re sure the body wasn’t there?”
Brent bristled. “I’d have seen her, wouldn’t I, even in the dusk. I’m not bloody blind.”
“Of course not, Mr. Brent,” Kincaid reassured him as Gemma stood. “And we do appreciate your time.”
As they turned to go George Brent called after them, “You tell that Janice she’s a silly cow. Our Georgie would never have left her on her own with a pack of rotten kids.”
R
EG
M
ORTIMER SELDOM DRANK
. A
SOCIAL
pint occasionally, or a glass or two of wine with dinner, but urgings to more than that he usually fended off with a smile and an offhand remark about keeping fit. Reg could never bring himself to admit the truth—that it made him ill, revoltingly, nauseatingly, childishly ill.
His hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips—Jack Daniel’s because he found the sweetness of the Bourbon easier to stomach than the tangy bite of Scotch. Could one call this medicinal? The half glass he’d drunk had done nothing to still the panic fluttering beneath his breastbone. Nor had it helped him decide what he ought to do.
Turning, he glanced at the phone in the corner, then again at the thinning crowd in the bar. At lunchtime people came in the Henry Addington at Canary Wharf to see and be seen, though this being Saturday the men had traded their business suits for carefully pressed Levi’s and khakis, and in this heat the women wore shorts and bright
sundresses. Beyond the windows in the pub’s curved marble front wall, the sun blazed, making a molten sheet of the water, muting even the reds and purples of the buildings at Heron Quays across the dock.
Lunchtime was easing into afternoon, and there was still no sign of Annabelle. It had been a thin chance, coming here, where they often met on a Saturday, but he had rung her flat until the phone seemed glued to his ear. Then he’d gone round and pounded on her door, and he’d done the same at the warehouse.
Not that Annabelle ever made a habit of instant availability—he sometimes thought she enjoyed putting him off, teasing him. But she always returned calls, and although he suspected she was still angry with him, he couldn’t imagine Annabelle missing a meeting as important as this morning’s for personal reasons.
Of course, he’d lost his temper last night—he’d be the first to admit it, if she would only give him a chance—but the fact that the party at Jo’s had turned into a fiasco hadn’t been his fault.
Despite the heat in the bar, Reg shivered. He thought of what he had revealed to Annabelle last night, spurred by jealousy, and of what he had kept from her. He had driven her away, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. Not now, with so much at stake. But how could he repair the damage he’d done?
And why hadn’t Annabelle turned up this morning? As hard as he and Teresa had tried to smooth things over at breakfast, his father hadn’t been fooled for a minute. Sir Peter’s support was crucial—they all knew that—but what Annabelle and Teresa didn’t know was how desperately Reg needed things to work out the way they’d planned.
He’d phone Annabelle again. Surely she would answer—it had been an hour since he’d last rung, plenty of time for her to have returned home. Perhaps she had even been trying to ring him. Yet even as he stood, a bit unsteadily, a wave of dread coursed through him, as certain as the nausea that followed.