Kissed a Sad Goodbye (25 page)

“Surely that’s not unusual,” countered Gemma. “Most parents want to think the best of their children—especially if it has to do with sex. On the other hand, Jo Lowell certainly didn’t seem surprised at the suggestion that her sister had cheated on her fiancé.”

“I wonder where Mortimer fell in that spectrum. Did he think Annabelle beyond reproach? If that was the case and he found out about her affair with Gordon Finch, the shock might have driven him to kill her.”

“Or if he was suspicious already and suddenly had his fears proved. But that doesn’t explain the row at the dinner party—and we only have Jo’s word about that—or the fact that he left her in the tunnel with Gordon Finch,” argued Gemma. “And the answering machine messages seem to support his story.”

They had reached Royal Hill and Gemma paused, looking in the window of a cheese shop. In the glass, Kincaid could see the reflection of the police station across the street. “He could easily have killed her, then left messages to give himself an alibi,” he said.

Gemma walked on, swinging her handbag against the skirt of her cotton dress, leaving behind the temptations of white Stilton with ginger and Shropshire blue. “But you could hear the noise of the pub in the background, so it must have been before closing, and the pathologist says Annabelle died after midnight.”

“We’re not going to get anywhere with this until we see Mortimer again,” said Kincaid. “And in the meantime, I’d like to know why Jo Lowell was so reluctant for us to interview her husband.”

“Your curiosity is about to be satisfied.”

They found the bank as easily as Jo had promised, and the clerk at the window directed them back to Martin Lowell’s office.

“Mr. Lowell?” Kincaid tapped on the open door of the small cubicle. “We’re from Scotland Yard—Superintendent Kincaid, Sergeant James.” He showed his identification. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The man at the desk glanced up, a look of irritation marring his handsome face. Dark and clean-cut, he wore the banker’s uniform of white shirt and dark tie, but he’d rolled up his sleeves against the heat. “Scotland Yard? How can I help you? I’m afraid I have a meeting in”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes, so I hope this won’t take long.”

“It’s about your former sister-in-law, Annabelle Hammond,” Kincaid said, adjusting one of the visitors’ chairs for Gemma and taking the other himself. Lowell had neither risen nor offered his hand, and now he made no response to Kincaid’s remark. “Has the Hammonds’ solicitor been in touch with you?”

“Yes, this morning. But I don’t see why this should be any concern of yours.”

“Really?” Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “A murder and an unexpected disposition of property usually merit some interest, Mr. Lowell.”

Martin Lowell smiled for the first time. “Are you suggesting I killed Annabelle for my children’s interest in the
firm, Superintendent … what did you say your name was? You must be quite desperate.”

Kincaid had no doubt that Lowell remembered his name. “Your suggestion, Mr. Lowell, not mine.” He smiled back. “I was merely wondering if you were aware of Annabelle Hammond’s intentions.”

“I’d no idea until the solicitor rang me this morning. I was certainly surprised, but I’m curious as to why you seem to think Annabelle’s leaving her shares to her only niece and nephew an unusual bequest.”

“It was the fact that she designated you as trustee I found odd, since you’re no longer married to her sister.”

Lowell shrugged. “According to the solicitor, she made the will shortly after her mother’s death, and never got round to changing it. And she may have thought me better suited than Jo to look after the children’s financial interests.”

“Will you take an active role in the firm, Mr. Lowell?” asked Gemma.

Martin Lowell’s glance at her was frankly assessing, and Kincaid saw Gemma flush.

“Any other course would be irresponsible, don’t you think, Sergeant?” Lowell smiled, holding her gaze until she looked away. Then he stood, with another obvious look at his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind …”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Lowell,” Kincaid said with mild sarcasm as he rose.

When they reached the street, Kincaid touched Gemma’s shoulder. “What was that all about?”

Gemma scowled. “Who gave Martin Lowell license to think he’s God’s gift to women?”

T
O
G
EMMA
, H
ERON
Q
UAYS LOOKED CHEERFULLY
informal compared with the classic lines of Canary Wharf just to the north, across the middle section of West India Dock. The complex was low-rise, and its slanting roofs, red and purple siding, and white iron balconies made her think of
Swiss chalets gone riot. Janice had told her it was one of the early Docklands projects, and that Lewis Finch had kept an office there since the completion of the first phase in the mid-eighties.

As they walked along the waterside, Kincaid said, “I’m curious about William Hammond and the Finches, since Hammond denies having anything against them. Do you suppose Jo misunderstood what her mother said?”

Gemma shrugged. “Maybe he’s just too polite to admit his class prejudices to us.”

“Snobbery hardly constitutes a feud, and Jo Lowell doesn’t seem the type to take it as such,” Kincaid murmured as he opened the door emblazoned with the “Finch, Ltd.” logo Gemma had seen on hoardings round the Island.

She breathed a sigh of relief as they entered the air-conditioned outer office. Outside, the sun glaring off the surface of the Dock had seemed to raise the temperature a good ten degrees.

When Kincaid had given their names, the rather harried-looking receptionist had smiled and led them into the left-hand office.

Gemma saw the view first—of the monumental Canada Tower across the Dock framed foursquare by the plate-glass window—then her attention was captured by the man who came towards them, hand outstretched.

She saw the resemblance at once—not so much in physical similarities, although those were evident, as in presence. Lewis Finch had about him the same sort of intensity that had first drawn her to Gordon, but in Lewis it had been translated into power.

“You’ve just caught me,” said Finch, firmly shaking Kincaid’s hand, then Gemma’s. “Sit down, please. Normally, I’m out on site this time of day, but the officer who phoned said this was urgent?” He was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened slightly at the collar, but that did nothing to detract from the instant impression of the sort of effortless elegance that came with wealth and success. Whatever
advantages this man had been given, thought Gemma, he had put them to superb use.

“What can I do for you, Superintendent?” Finch asked, settling into the chair on the other side of his desk.

“You’re aware of the death of Miss Annabelle Hammond?”

“I … Yes, I just learned of it this morning—I was away over the weekend. It’s a terrible loss,” he said, his voice heavy with regret, and Gemma suddenly realized that not once had Martin Lowell expressed any sorrow over his sister-in-law’s death.

“You knew Miss Hammond well?” Kincaid asked.

“I’m not sure anyone knew Annabelle
well
, Superintendent. She was a very self-contained person. But we’d been friends for the past year or more. We met at a neighborhood meeting.” The recollection made Finch smile.

“And you were … involved during the whole of that time?”

Finch studied Kincaid, and for the first time Gemma detected wariness in his manner. “If by that you mean did we have a sexual relationship, the answer is yes—when we both found it convenient. You have to understand that Annabelle was extremely independent.”

“Tell us about her,” said Gemma. “What was she like?”

When Lewis Finch looked at her, Gemma saw that his eyes were the same clear gray as his son’s. “Annabelle had a talent for getting what she wanted—sometimes ruthlessly so—and she had the rare gift of knowing exactly what that was, at least in the professional sense. She was also intelligent, courageous … impossibly self-absorbed, and in some ways surprisingly loyal.”

“A contradiction?” prompted Gemma.

Finch nodded. “Compellingly so.”

“Were you aware that she was engaged to be married?” asked Kincaid. “I don’t know that her relationship with you constitutes a display of loyalty.”

Finch frowned. “An odd sort of loyalty, perhaps. But in my experience, most people who stray outside a committed relationship justify their behavior by complaining about the injured partner. Annabelle never did that.”

“Mr. Finch,” said Gemma carefully, “were you aware that Annabelle also had a relationship with your son?”

Finch stared at her. “With Gordon? No, I was not.”

“Annabelle Hammond seems to have been fascinated by your family. Have you any idea why?”

“No. She never said anything to give me that impression.”

“And she didn’t tell you that she was aware of your connection with her father?”

“What are you talking about, Superintendent?” Finch’s voice was level, but Gemma felt the tension in the room rise.

“Annabelle knew that you and William Hammond had been evacuated together during the war.”

Finch blinked. “Yes, that’s true. But we’ve had very little contact since.”

“We believe that William Hammond may have warned Annabelle against you, and that she thought it was because of some sort of feud between you. Was there any basis to this?”

“Of course not. And I’m sure that if Annabelle had thought anything of the sort, she’d have spoken to me about it.” He thought for a moment. “I did get the impression from Annabelle that William might have been getting a bit … odd, since his wife’s death. Perhaps he’s started to imagine things?”

“He seemed quite competent when we spoke to him. He said you had used those wartime connections to better yourself, and hadn’t given credit where it was due.”

“Did he?”

“Is that not true?”

For a moment, Gemma thought Lewis wouldn’t answer; then he said very quietly, “Edwina Burne-Jones was
a kind and generous woman who took a poor boy from the East End and treated him as if he were capable of accomplishing whatever he wished—but any gratitude I feel towards her is no one else’s business. Not William Hammond’s, and not yours, Superintendent. Now, is that all?”

“One more question, Mr. Finch. When did you last see Annabelle Hammond?”

“We had dinner together several weeks ago. I can’t give you an exact date,” he answered, watching Kincaid, and Gemma felt sure he knew what was coming. He was far too intelligent not to guess they’d heard Annabelle’s answering machine tape.

Kincaid appeared to deliberate for a moment before he said, “What you’ve told us seems to imply that your relationship with Annabelle was rather casual. And yet in the messages you left on her answering machine Friday night, you were quite clearly angry. Can you tell me why?”

“You’ve made an assumption, Superintendent. I never said our relationship was casual, only that it was irregular. Annabelle was sometimes difficult, but she was … unique. I’ve only known one other woman who approached life with such zest, and I—” He shook his head, and Gemma thought she saw a glint of moisture in his gray eyes. “I wasn’t angry on Friday night—I was concerned. Annabelle had left a message at my flat that sounded quite unlike her—something about breaking off her engagement. I wanted to know what had happened.”

“And did she ring you back?”

“No. I waited until after midnight, but I had a very early start the next morning for a meeting in Gloucestershire.”

“Have you anyone who can verify your movements on Friday night, Mr. Finch?”

“I live alone, Superintendent. There’s no one.” Lewis Finch met Gemma’s eyes. “No one at all.”

•        •        •

W
HEN THEY ARRIVED BACK AT
L
IMEHOUSE
Station, they found Janice Coppin sorting through reports in the incident room, looking as though she’d have liked never to see another piece of paper.

“Any luck with the house-to-house?” Kincaid asked, perching himself on the edge of the desk Janice had commandeered.

“Only in the negative sense,” Janice said with a gesture at the paperwork. “No one saw Annabelle Hammond anywhere that night. If she came home again her neighbors didn’t notice, and none of them had much to say about her in any respect. Her neighbors across the little garden, a young German couple, admitted they’d seen her playing croquet with a nice young man, but their English didn’t seem up to a description.”

“Have someone show them a photo of Reg Mortimer, although I think we can assume it was he.” With a glance at Gemma, Kincaid added, “If Gordon Finch is telling the truth, Annabelle never had him to her flat. And I don’t know that anyone would describe Finch as a ‘nice young man,’ even taking language deficiencies into consideration.”

“What about the pub, the Ferry House, where Mortimer says he waited for Annabelle?” asked Gemma.

“That’s the one positive,” said Janice. “From the description we gave him, the barkeep says he knows both Mortimer and Annabelle by sight, and that Mortimer came in alone around ten that evening. He ordered an orange juice, but it was a busy night and the barkeep can’t swear to anything after that.”

“But his impression was—” Kincaid prompted.

“His impression was that he stayed until last call.”

“Could he have killed Annabelle when she came out of the tunnel, dumped her body somewhere, then moved her after the pub closed?”

“Not likely, unless he killed her in her flat. I can’t see leaving a body anywhere outside in that vicinity. Too risky. But it seems Mortimer had good reason to be jealous.”
Kincaid went on to fill Janice in on the afternoon’s interviews.

“A bit of a tomcat, wasn’t she?” mused Janice when he’d finished. “The question is, did Mortimer know what she was up to?”

“I’ve been trying to reach him all afternoon.” Kincaid had rung Hammond’s again from his mobile when they’d left Lewis Finch, but the receptionist said Mr. Mortimer hadn’t returned to the office; nor had there been any answer at Mortimer’s home number. “We know he came into the office this morning, so I doubt he’s scarpered. But he’s first on the list for tomorrow, and I’ve left messages for him to ring us.”