Kissed a Sad Goodbye (7 page)

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“T
HERE’S NO POINT SENDING SOMEONE ROUND
the shops in Manchester Road until we get a photo.” Kincaid leaned against the corridor wall outside the incident room at Limehouse Police Station, sipping tepid tea from a polystyrene cup.

“I’ve sent one of the lads to pick up the prints,” said Gemma, adding, “Hope there’s one that will be palatable to the public.” Kincaid couldn’t tell if her grimace reflected the prospect of dealing with hysterical residents or the thought of the nasty liquid in her cup.

He nodded agreement. “The photos should be all right. Her face was remarkably well-preserved.” The afternoon having so far yielded no clues to the woman’s identity, the distribution of photographs to the inquiry team became the logical next step.

Gemma’s empty cup squeaked as she crumpled it. “Will you release a drawing to the media?”

During the course of the afternoon, they had set the routine of investigation in motion; the first round of house-to-house inquiries, concentrated on the supermarket and the streets immediately adjacent to the park; the intensive search for physical evidence, always a race against contamination of the crime scene; the checking of the victim’s description against the Police National Computer’s missing persons reports. But he’d delayed speaking to the media until he’d prepared a formal statement describing the dead woman and asking the public’s help in identifying her or reporting suspicious sightings in the area. “No, not yet. We’ll try the description first, and if that doesn’t produce results, we’ll have the police artist make a sketch.” Finishing his tea, he tossed his cup in the bin and pushed himself away from the wall. “I suppose I’d better face the lions.” He pulled up the knot on the tie he’d rescued from the boot of the car, then ran his fingers through his hair.

Gemma smiled. “You’re quite presentable. They’re waiting in the ante—”

The incident room door swung open and Janice Coppin came out. Although the passing hours had taken their toll on both starched hair and suit, they’d done little to temper the inspector’s prickliness, although Kincaid had found her to be competent and patient with her staff. “There you are,” she said as she saw them. “The duty officer’s just rung from downstairs. There’s a bloke at the window raising holy hell because they won’t let him register a missing person until the twenty-four-hour limit’s up.”

Kincaid heard the intake of Gemma’s breath as she said, “A match?”

Coppin shrugged. “His girlfriend didn’t come home last night. Her name’s Annabelle Hammond, lives just at the end of Island Gardens. And he says she has long, red hair.”

“Bloody poser,” Janice Coppin muttered, jerking her head towards the interview room, where she had sequestered the man who wished to make a missing persons report. “Ought to have his mobile phone surgically implanted in his ear.”

Gemma knew the type all too well. They indulged in the prolonged and very public use of their mobile phones in the trendier cafes and coffeehouses, and this disregard for both cost and manners apparently served as a badge of social status. “Do you think we should take this seriously, then?” she asked.

“Can’t see him as a practical joker,” Janice answered reluctantly. “And his distress seems genuine enough. It’s just that he fancies himself a bit.” With a dark look at Kincaid as he came through the door at the end of the corridor, she added in Gemma’s ear, “But I imagine you’re used to that.”

Before Gemma could come up with a retort, however, Kincaid joined them. “I postponed the media a bit longer,
until we see what this chap has to say. Have you told him anything?”

Janice shook her head. “Just that someone will speak to him. And I sent one of the constables in with a cuppa.”

“Right. Then let’s not get the wind up with an abundance of police presence. Why don’t you run a check on—what’s his name, Inspector?”

“Reginald Mortimer.” Janice articulated each syllable distinctly, crinkling her nose as if she found it distasteful.

“Run a check on Mr. Mortimer, then, Inspector, while Gemma and I have a word with him.”

“Sir—”

Kincaid stopped, hand on the doorknob.

Janice hesitated, then shrugged. “Never mind.” As she turned away, Gemma saw her glance at her watch.

It was the time of day when domestic arrangements needed adjusting if you weren’t going to get home, and as Gemma followed Kincaid into the interview room, she wondered when she’d have a chance to check on Toby. She told herself, as she often did, that her frequent absences would only make her son stronger and more independent, but the argument never quite convinced her.

The interview room was larger than most, with a frosted-glass window on the corridor side, but it was still stuffy with the remainder of the day’s heat. It contained the usual laminate table in an unsightly orange and a half-dozen mismatched chairs of dubious heritage.

The man sitting on the far side of the table looked up at them and started to rise, his expression anxious. As Kincaid stepped forward with an introduction, Gemma studied Reginald Mortimer. Janice had been right. Mortimer wore sharply creased khaki trousers and the knit shirt with designer logo required of a yuppie. Thrown over the back of the chair was a nubby linen jacket; the most expensive of mobile phones peeped from the inside breast pocket.

Of slightly above average height and slender build, he had wide gray-blue eyes and shiny brown hair that
flopped over his brow with a slight wave. She wondered if Kincaid would notice the man’s physical resemblance to him.

Reg Mortimer smiled as he shook Kincaid’s hand, and the likeness lessened. His features, she decided, were all just a bit too delicate, and he looked nearer her age than Kincaid’s. He smelled slightly of alcohol and nerves.

“I’m sure this is all a mistake. You must think me a dreadful ass,” he said. His voice was pitched higher than she found pleasing, and no doubt it was his fruity, upper-class accent that had set Janice’s teeth on edge.

“Sergeant James,” Gemma said, pressing his damp palm with her own as she settled into a chair and took a pen and notebook from her bag. “Can we get you some more tea?”

“No, I’m fine, really.” Reg Mortimer shook his head and she saw his eyes dart towards the tape-recording equipment. “Look, I never meant to make such a fuss. I got a bit carried away in the heat of things, then when your sergeant chap on the front desk didn’t seem inclined to be cooperative …”

If he’d had a drink to steady his nerves, he didn’t appear to be drunk. Gemma heard no slurring in his speech, and his eyes tracked steadily as he looked at them.

“Don’t let the equipment put you off, Mr. Mortimer.” Kincaid waved a hand at the tape recorder as he sat down. “This is all quite unofficial—we just needed a quiet place to have a chat.” He smiled and pulled his chair a bit closer to the table, as if to emphasize the informality of the interview.

“Never been in a police station before.” Mortimer’s attempt at insouciance didn’t quite come off.

“They don’t rank high on the list of pleasant work environments, complete with mod cons. Now, Mr. Mortimer,” Kincaid continued, and Gemma felt tension rise at his change of tone. “Something must have worried you quite a bit to bring you here. Why don’t you tell us about it.”

Looking from Gemma to Kincaid, Reg Mortimer began
hesitantly, “It’s my fiancée, Annabelle … Annabelle Hammond. She didn’t come home last night.”

“Do you and Miss Hammond live together, then?” Kincaid asked.

“No. No, we don’t.” Reg Mortimer’s answer seemed reluctant. “Annabelle has a flat just opposite the Island Gardens DLR Station. On Ferry Street.”

Kincaid crossed his ankle over his knee and adjusted his trouser cuff. “So you can’t be sure she didn’t return home?”

“Well, no, I can’t be positive, but I’ve checked quite thoroughly.”

“Could Miss Hammond have decided to go away for the weekend without telling you?”

Mortimer shook his head, stirring the lock of hair that fell forward on his brow. “It wasn’t like that. We were together last night. We’d been to a party in Greenwich, at her sister Jo’s. But Annabelle wanted to leave—”

“What time was this, Mr. Mortimer?”

“Half past nine-ish, I think, but—”

“A bit early for leaving a party, wasn’t it?” Kincaid raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“Annabelle wasn’t … wasn’t feeling well,” Mortimer said, reaching for his tea. It would be cold and scummy by now, Gemma thought, only appealing as a distraction.

“Mr. Mortimer.” She chose her words carefully. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps Annabelle made an excuse, because she had other plans?”

“I’m sure she didn’t.” He met her eyes. “We were going for a drink, after. We started back through the foot tunnel—we’d walked to her sister’s—when … Well, it was all very odd.…” He faltered.

With a glance at Kincaid, Gemma continued the questioning. “What was odd, Mr. Mortimer?”

Frowning, he rubbed his palms against his knees. “The lifts were closed, so we took the stairs down to the tunnel level. She was fine then; it was only when we started down
the slope of the tunnel itself that she went very quiet—have you ever been in the tunnel?” He looked at Gemma as he spoke and she shook her head. “It
is
a bit creepy,” he continued. “Cold, and the sound echoes everywhere—but Annabelle never seemed to mind before. But her steps got slower and slower, until after a few yards she stopped and told me to go on, she’d meet me at the Ferry House for a drink in a few minutes.”

“And you left her there?” Kincaid asked. “At the edge of the tunnel?”

Mortimer flushed. “There’s never any point arguing with Annabelle when she makes her mind up about something. But I did try. She said she was all right, she just needed a few minutes on her own. So after a bit I went on. The funny thing is … when I was halfway up the other side I looked back, and I could have sworn I saw her talking to the street musician.”

“There was a busker in the foot tunnel?” Gemma asked, surprised. It seemed an odd place, but then she’d seen them often enough in the tube station tunnels.

“There usually is, in the center of the flat stretch. But I don’t remember seeing this chap before.”

Kincaid uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward a bit, a signal to Gemma that his attention was fully engaged. “Did you go back, then?”

Mortimer wrapped his hands round his cold cup as if for comfort and shook his head. “I wish I had, now.”

“Did you see her again?”

“I waited at the pub for an hour, then I waited outside her flat.”

“You don’t have a key?” Kincaid’s tone indicated skepticism.

“No. Annabelle is adamant about her privacy,” Mortimer answered without defensiveness. “I went back to the tunnel, but there was no sign of either of them. Then I tried the flat again, and rang her from my mobile.”

“And then?”

“I went home. I started phoning again at first light, and I’ve been round to her flat and to the office—we work together—periodically all today. This afternoon I rang her sister, but she hadn’t heard from her, either.”

“Does Miss Hammond make a habit of going off like that?” Kincaid asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Mortimer said dryly. “And she’s certainly never done anything like this before. You think she’s gone off with some bloke for a dirty weekend, and I’m having a fit of the vapors over it, don’t you?” he added, his voice rising.

“Not at all,” said Kincaid. “We’re very interested in what you’ve told us.”

Reg Mortimer’s eyes widened and Gemma heard the quick intake of his breath before he said, “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Just bear with us a bit longer, Mr. Mortimer,” Gemma said gently, in an effort to put him at ease. “We don’t know that anything has happened to your fiancée, but it would be helpful if you could give us a bit more information about Miss Hammond.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Mortimer answered. “Annabelle’s thirty-one. She was thirty-one in January. She’s the managing director of Hammond’s Teas. It’s her family’s business—Annabelle took over from her father five years ago. I handle the marketing side of things. The warehouse is just down the far end of Saunders Ness Road.”

Gemma hadn’t a clue where that might be, but she wrote it down in her notebook. “And what does Annabelle look like?” She saw the tendons flex in Mortimer’s hands as they tightened on the mug. “Height?” she prompted, not wanting to give him any longer to ponder the significance of the questions.

“About like you. And she’s slender, with red hair.” He studied Gemma. “But not like yours—it’s lighter, almost golden, and longer, too.”

“Eyes?”

“Blue.”

“And can you tell us what she was wearing last night?” Gemma asked, eyes on the pen poised over the page of her notebook.

She felt his gaze on her face before he answered softly, “A black jacket. Long, with silvery buttons. And a little black skirt.”

Making a conscious effort not to glance at Kincaid, Gemma wrote deliberately in her notebook. She felt none of the elation she’d expected over an almost certain identification. Until this moment, the anonymous woman had been merely a puzzle; now she had become real, someone with a name, a job, a family, a lover.

Kincaid rested his fingertips on the edge of the table. “Mr. Mortimer, you’ve been very helpful, and we appreciate that.”

Gemma looked up and reluctantly met Reg Mortimer’s eyes, knowing she needed to observe his reaction as Kincaid continued.

“But I’m afraid I have to tell you that the description you’ve given us of Annabelle Hammond matches that of a woman found this morning in Mudchute Park.”

Mortimer’s face was still, expressionless. He licked his lips. “Dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”