Kissed a Sad Goodbye (47 page)

“Lewis’s car?” asked Gemma, thinking she remembered seeing it in the car park at Heron Quays.

Kincaid nodded, meeting her eyes. “Careful.”

They dashed through the pelting rain to the warehouse. The door stood open a few inches. Kincaid eased inside and Gemma followed, coming to a halt beside him in the shadowy interior.

They heard the voices immediately, coming from the open door of Annabelle and Teresa’s office high above them. Gemma felt Kincaid touch her arm, lightly, then move away towards the staircase. She followed as quietly as she could, cursing the fact that she’d worn slick-soled shoes.

Halfway up, she found she could distinguish the voices—Lewis’s; Gordon’s; and, though less familiar to
her, William’s—if not quite make out the words. Then, as they neared the top, she heard Lewis shout, “Gordon, don’t be a bloody fool! Give it to me.”

There was the sound of a scuffle, then the smack of something hard hitting the floorboards.

Gemma skidded to a halt inches from Kincaid and peered through the doorway. Gordon and Lewis Finch were locked together as if frozen in the midst of a dance, Lewis’s hand clamped round Gordon’s wrist, Gordon’s fingers splayed, empty. Their eyes were fixed on the opposite side of the room, where William Hammond stooped and straightened again, a gun in his hand.

He held it awkwardly, staring at it as if not quite certain what it was. Then he looked up at them, and Gemma saw in his faded blue eyes not surprise, but a grief so bleak it made her bones feel cold.

He lifted the gun. Before Gemma or Kincaid could react, Lewis shouted, “William, no!” and lunged towards him.

But William Hammond touched the barrel of the revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger.

“He loved her,” Gemma said slowly. She sat in Janice’s office at Limehouse Station, drinking revolting coffee from the machine. “Annabelle was the child of his dreams, the one who would carry on for him, fulfill his ambitions. How hard it must have been for her, living up to that.”

Janice said, “And he couldn’t bear for her to destroy his image of her—”

“Or his own image. William Hammond spent fifty years living a lie so thoroughly that he even convinced himself.”

A week had passed, and they were still sorting out the details of the case. Lewis Finch had made a detailed statement, as had Gordon, and it seemed to Gemma that their shared loss might go a long way towards healing the rift between them.

“And Lewis?” said Janice. “He was responsible for Edwina Burne-Jones’s and the tutor’s deaths as well. Will he be prosecuted?”

“Unlikely, I should think. There’s no evidence, except for Lewis’s own statement, and I doubt the Crown Prosecution
Service would waste their time.” Softly, Gemma added, “I have a feeling Lewis Finch has paid enough.”

Janice nodded. “I was wrong about Reg Mortimer,” she said wryly, making a face as she sipped at her coffee. “And it seems I was wrong about George Brent, too. He did know something. When I told him what happened, he remembered that the night Annabelle was killed, he’d stepped outside sometime after midnight to see his lady friend home. He saw a car come slowly up Seyssel Street and turn right into Manchester Road, and he knew the driver’s face—although he’d never actually met him, he’d seen him many times over the years.”

“William Hammond?”

“He must have had his car at the warehouse when Annabelle arrived unexpectedly, and that’s the way he would have gone, taking Annabelle’s body to the park. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t turn himself in when he realized he’d killed her.”

“I suppose even then he couldn’t face the truth of what he’d done to Annabelle—or to Edwina. But it destroyed him.” Gemma thought of the way he had left his daughter’s body, so lovingly arranged … and she thought of Jo Lowell, bereft now of mother, sister, and father, burdened with the terrible knowledge of what her father had done. But she thought Jo, like Annabelle, had taken her strength from their mother, and that she would be all right.

“There’s one good thing to come out of this, maybe,” Janice said a bit hesitantly. When Gemma looked at her, she went on with a little smile, “George Brent’s son’s been round to see me. He was an old beau, before I met Bill.”

“And?” asked Gemma, grinning.

“We have a proper dinner date. Tonight. He’s a nice enough bloke,” Janice added, defensively.

“I’m sure he is,” said Gemma, and surprised Janice by giving her a quick hug before collecting her things and saying goodbye.

•        •        •

D
URING LAST
F
RIDAY’S STORM, LIGHTNING HAD
struck the DLR tracks, but the damage had been repaired and Gemma had taken the tube and then the train out to Limehouse.

The storm had brought a week of clear skies and mild weather as well, and as Gemma boarded the DLR at Westferry, she looked forward to her walk home alone from the Angel tube stop. All week she had been plagued by a sort of melancholy that not even the thought of tomorrow’s piano lesson had relieved, and although she knew she was indulging it, she couldn’t seem to shake it off.

She had tried to put Gordon Finch from her mind—it had been an impossible relationship from the beginning, she knew that. But still she had this nagging sense of opportunities missed, of doors not opened, and when she emerged from the Angel and saw that the music shop across Pentonville Road was still open, she went in.

She browsed for a bit, looking over simple arrangements that she thought she might be able to learn to play, but in the end she bought what she knew she had come in for—the sheet music for Rodgers and Hart’s “Where or When.” Tomorrow, she’d ask Wendy if she could work towards learning it.

Tucking the music a bit guiltily into her bag as she left the shop, she walked back to the Liverpool Road, past the Sainsbury’s where she’d first seen Gordon, turning into Richmond Avenue for the last few blocks before she reached Thornhill Gardens.

Suddenly, she stopped, listening, thinking at first she was imagining the notes of the clarinet, faint on the clear air. Then she saw him, sitting on a swing in the empty school yard, clarinet in hand. He stood and came towards her.

“I took a chance,” he said.

“But how—”

“I used to watch the way you walked home. I wanted to know about you.”

“But you—” She shook her head. He had never seemed to notice her at all.

“I’ve seen your son, too. How old is he?”

“He’s three,” said Gemma, bemused. “His name’s Toby. Gordon, about your dad—how is he?”

“He’s gone to Surrey—something about laying ghosts. But that’s not why I wanted to see you,” he added quickly. “I think we have some unfinished business, you and I … and …” He looked away, rubbing his fingers absently over the keys of the clarinet. “And it seems to me that the past has done enough damage, that we shouldn’t let what’s happened chart our course.”

Gemma met his eyes then, and what she saw there made her throat tighten with emotion. Gordon Finch would never say he was lonely, would never admit to needing anyone, and she knew the effort it must have taken him to come here.

But she also saw something else. He had put before her the choice she’d never expected to have the option of making. Reaching up, she kissed him on the lips, then stepped back and looked at him. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry.” And before she could change her mind, she turned and walked away.

T
HERE WAS NO ANSWER WHEN
T
ERESA
rang Reg Mortimer’s bell, but when she tried the door it swung open.

“Reg?” she called softly as she stepped inside and looked round. The sitting room was a maze of cardboard boxes, some sealed, some still standing open, and the bare walls made the flat feel even more abandoned.

She had called out again when she saw him, sitting in a chair on the little round balcony, huddled into a shapeless old cardigan even though it was quite warm.

When she went out to him, he said, “I will miss the view,” as if continuing a conversation.

“Where are you going?”

“To my parents’ for a bit. Until I can find a job, get back on my feet. The removal men come tomorrow.”

“I want to talk to you.” She moved between him and the river, so that he had to look at her. “About Hammond’s.”

“Teresa, I—”

“No, listen to me. I thought about leaving, too. I didn’t know if I could go on, with everything that’s happened.… But there’s Jo to consider now. She needs me. And I … I don’t think I can do it without you,” she finished hurriedly. How could she say things any more clearly and still retain a shred of pride?

Reg looked past her, frowning. “I’ve told you, you don’t give yourself enough credit, Teresa. You’ll be fine.”

“All right, I’ll give myself credit,” she said on a rush of anger. “I may be fine, but you’re not. You’re—you’re a mess, Reg. Look at you.”

He seemed to take her command seriously, picking at his shabby cardigan, but when he looked up and met her eyes for the first time, she saw a trace of amusement in his. “I was cold.”

“You know what I meant.”

“The funny thing is, I was so afraid of failure, afraid of losing Annabelle. And now that there’s nothing to fear, it’s rather peaceful. I’m not sure I want to put myself in jeopardy again.”

“I’m not Annabelle,” Teresa said softly, and for the first time, she was glad.

“No.” He said it with a sort of wonder that made Teresa’s pulse spring with hope. “You’re not.”

B
RAVING THE
F
RIDAY AFTERNOON TRAFFIC ON
his way back from Cambridge, Kincaid fought to hold the Midget on course as a lorry roared past him on the motorway and the little car shook and rattled in its tailwind. He really must do something about the damned old thing, he thought, swearing. But he had promised Kit he’d keep it, and he was learning not to take such promises lightly.

Ian had rung him earlier in the week, asking him to
come to Cambridge at the earliest opportunity. Since Ian had brought Kit back to the Grantchester cottage, the boy had been silent and unresponsive, spending all his time down by the river with the dog.

That was where Kincaid had found him, stretched out on his stomach on the damp bank under the chestnut trees, making holes in the mud with a stick.

“I used to do that,” Kincaid said, sitting down beside him and scratching Tess behind the ears. “The water will bubble up in them, after a bit.”

Kit gave him a sideways glance and went back to his digging. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I said I would.” Kincaid took a stick and poked a hole himself. “Do you want to come to London next weekend? I’ve a few days off.”

“Are they really off?”

“Yes. I promise.” He would make sure of it, even if it meant tossing his phone and pager in the nearest bin.

“I might,” said Kit, but he dug a little harder.

“What’s up with you and Ian?” Kincaid asked casually, reaching for a flat stone and skimming it across the water. “He’s worried about you.”

Kit pushed himself up to his knees and sat back, staring at the river. After a moment, he said, “I asked him if you were really my dad, and he said he thought you might be—but that it didn’t matter. He says he and I are family, and he wants us to be together.”

Kincaid waited as Kit snapped his stick into pieces and fed them to the current.

When the last piece of wood had lodged in the roots of a chestnut tree, Kit said, “But he left last time.”

“I think,” Kincaid said slowly, “that Ian needs to be with you just now. He’s done some things he knows were wrong, and this is his way of trying to make it up. You could help him.”

Kit gave him a surprised glance. “Me?”

“I think so. And I know he misses your mum, and he needs someone to share that with.”

Sitting back, Kit wrapped one arm round his knees and absently petted the dog with his free hand, but it seemed to Kincaid that there was a receptive quality to the boy’s silence.

After a bit, Kincaid said, “Hungry?” and Kit looked up and smiled.

“Starving.”

Kincaid took him to tea at The Orchard, and they spent an easy hour under the apple trees with the wasps while Kit worked his way through the menu.

When it was time to go, Kincaid walked him back to the cottage and said, “I’ll ring you about next weekend.” Then he offered his hand for their customary high five, and it seemed to him that his son left his palm in his just an instant longer than usual.

H
E FOUND THAT
G
EMMA HAD LEFT
him a note on her door, and another on the Cavendishes’, directing him to the sitting room. Bemused, he followed the trail and found her sitting at Hazel’s upright piano. She wore a crinkly, white cotton dress that ended just above her bare ankles, and she’d pulled her hair back loosely at the nape of her neck with a seashell slide.

“Where are Hazel and Tim and the kids?” he asked, pulling a chair up beside her.

“They went to the pictures. A Friday night treat.”

“You didn’t want to go?”

“I thought I’d be here when you got back. How was it with Kit?”

“All right,” he said, suddenly realizing that perhaps, at least for the time being, it was. “What’s this?” he added, noticing the piano primer standing open on the music rack.

Gemma poised her hands over the keys, then tentatively touched middle C. “I’ve started lessons.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, surprised. “I’d no idea you wanted to play.”

“I thought you might laugh. And … I know it’s silly, but I wanted something in my life that was just mine.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, baffled.

“I know.” Gemma turned to him. “I’ve been thinking about Annabelle Hammond.”

“What has Annabelle to do with this?”

“She lived by other people’s expectations—because she was so beautiful, everyone in her life had their idea of who she was, what they wanted her to be. And what seems tragic to me is that she finally made different choices, her
own
choices, about what mattered to her—but she never got to see where they might have led. Or who she might have become.”