Kissed a Sad Goodbye

by Deborah Crombie

  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.”

  For a moment longer Reg Mortimer stared at them, the only change the draining of color from his face. Then the handle of the tea mug he still held snapped cleanly off. He looked down at the shard of cheap pottery in his hand, as if he couldn’t quite work out where it had come from.

  “If you could make a formal state—”

  “Since when?” Mortimer demanded.

  “Sometime last night. I’m afraid we can’t be more definite than—”

  “How?”

  “Mr. Mortimer, we’re not sure of anything yet. If you could just give us her sister’s name and—”

  “I want to see her.”

  “I’m afraid it’s customary for a family member to make the identification,” Gemma said gently. “If you could just—”

  “Surely you won’t make Jo …” His voice broke.

  “It’s procedure, Mr. Mortimer. I’m—”

  “I don’t think I can bear not knowing.”

  Although she understood his plea, Gemma shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Mortimer rose unsteadily to his feet. “Then I think I’d like to go home.”

  Kincaid pushed back his chair. “We’ll arrange it. But if this busker was the last person to see Annabelle, we’ll need to talk to him. Had you seen him before? Can you describe him?”

  For a moment, Gemma thought Mortimer hadn’t heard, but he wiped a trembling hand across his mouth and seemed to make an effort to collect himself. “The street musician? I’d never seen him before. And I didn’t really look when I passed him in the tunnel.… But when I looked back …” He closed his eyes, frowning, then gripped the back of his chair for support as he swayed a little. “He was tall.…
I remember Annabelle was looking up at him. Short hair … fairish. Military clothes.”

  “What instrument did he play?” Gemma asked.

  Reg Mortimer opened his eyes. “I remember I thought it a bit unusual. The clarinet.”

  KIT STOOD IN THE CENTER OF Kincaid’s sitting room, watching the millions of sparkling, dancing dust motes illuminated by the late afternoon sun that blazed in through the open balcony doors. Having placed his holdall at the end of the sofa, he’d unzipped it and taken out one of his natural history books, placing it carefully on the coffee table so that he’d feel like he belonged here. He’d only spent the night in the flat once before—usually Duncan came to Cambridge and took him out somewhere, or he stayed with the Cavendishes in the big house while Duncan stayed with Gemma—and he had so looked forward to this weekend, just the two of them on their own.

  Sid, Kincaid’s black cat, lay curled on a patch of sunlit carpet, eyes slitted in contentment. Kneeling, Kit ran his fingers through the cat’s silky fur and scratched behind his ears. He felt the vibration of the cat’s purr travel through his fingers and up his arm until it seemed as if it were reverberating inside his brain. The contact made him miss Tess with an almost physical pang.

  Cats were all right, he supposed—he’d never had one, never had a dog for that matter until Tess had come into his life—but there was nothing like a dog for making you feel less lonely.

  He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. He wouldn’t bloody cry, not even here on his own, though these days he fought a constant battle against the tears that seemed to hover behind his eyelids, waiting to pounce on him at the most humiliating moment.

  This morning had been a near thing when Duncan told him he’d have to go to work—it made him flush just thinking about the way his eyes had filled and his voice had quavered. But things hadn’t turned out as badly as he’d expected. He had liked the Major, rather to his surprise, because the old man hadn’t fussed over him—hadn’t patted him or said “poor boy” or looked at him in that pitying adult way. An adventure, the Major had called it as they set off on the tube to Wimbledon, and Kit had done his best to master his disappointment. But even though the tennis had been glorious, it hadn’t been the same without Duncan. It just wasn’t bloody fair.

  Since the Major had left him here and gone down to his own flat, Kit had poked about at his leisure, examining books and CDs and the photos on the walls. He’d tried the telly remote control, zapping through the channels, but there was no Sky TV and he flicked it off in disgust. For a while he’d stood on the balcony, looking down into the bright blooms of the Major’s garden, but he’d come in again when the emptiness of it began to make him feel queer.

  His face felt stretched and hot from sunburn and he realized suddenly that he was thirsty. Wandering into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and stared at the contents. A carton of orange juice, a pint of milk past its sell-by date, a cola, and two cans of lager. For a moment Kit was tempted—he was nearly twelve, after all, and he ought to take advantage of being on his own to do something grown-up—but there were only two beers and Duncan was sure to notice if one went missing. With a shrug he chose the cola, popping the top and tossing the ring into the rubbish bin. He rummaged idly through the kitchen drawers as he drank, thinking that if he found a fag he’d try that instead, but then he remembered he’d never seen Duncan smoke.

  Why hadn’t Duncan rung him like he’d promised? Where was he now? It must be a murder—that’s what he did, after all, even though he didn’t like to talk about it. Kit tried to imagine a body, riddled with bullets like the ones in the videos he liked, but he couldn’t erase the one image he didn’t want to see—his mum lying so still on the kitchen floor in their cottage.

  Throwing the empty cola can into the bin, he glanced at the clock—almost seven. He’d refused the Major’s invitation to come down to his basement flat for baked beans on toast and a game of cards, but he supposed he could change his mind. Anything was better than staying here on his own.

  T HE COACHES THAT WOULD TAKE THE children to the railway station waited at the curb in front of Cubitt Town School. Parents clustered round them, straining for a last glimpse of sons and daughters as the children were marshaled into untidy queues by the teachers. Many of the mothers were weeping, and the sight of his mum’s tear-streaked face caused Lewis almost as much embarrassment as the paper name tag pinned to the breast of his jumper. He felt like a bloody parcel, and a parcel without a destination at that, for they hadn’t been told where they were going. Many of the children had been bundled into winter coats and stank of sweat and damp wool; some of the smaller ones had already been sick from the heat and excitement.

  The queue shifted suddenly as the children in the front began boarding the first bus, and a gasping moan rose from all the parents at once. Little Simon Goss’s mum burst into sobs, arms outstretched as she begged them not to take her baby. As Lewis turned away in mortification, he glimpsed his father at the back of the crowd. Their eyes met: he saw that his father’s were filled with tears.

  Swallowing hard, Lewis lifted his hand in a wave; then the momentum of the queue overtook him, carrying him along until he was pushed and shoved up the steps of the bus. He clambered over bodies until he managed to secure a seat at the nearside window, and from there he watched as the remainder of the children were loaded. Finally they were ready, and he lifted his hand once more to his parents as the bus rumbled into life.

  Then they were moving, and he felt excitement fizz in his chest—in spite of the uncertainty, in spite of the fact that his suitcase lacked many of the items on the required list, in spite of the humiliating name tag and the gas mask in its cardboard box banging against his chest. Yet as the bus began its lumbering turn into Manchester Road, he twisted round in his seat for one last look at the life he was leaving behind.

  At first, as the coach rumbled and belched its way down the Commercial Road and then over the Tower Bridge, he thought they might be going to Waterloo. At home, he had a worn and treasured map of London, and if he closed his eyes he could see the placement of the great railway stations as easily as if he held it in front of him. Paddington, King’s Cross, Euston, Marylebone, Victoria, St. Pancras, Waterloo. The trains left each station in a different direction, so that when he learned their point of departure, he’d have some idea of their final destination.

  But as they continued south into Lambeth, he knew they’d left Waterloo behind, and soon they were crossing the Thames again over the Lambeth Bridge. Victoria. They were going to Victoria, then, and from there—south.…

  Giddily, he stared up into the station’s vaulted arches as he was herded across the concourse to join the queues of strangely silent children snaking down the platforms. Steam hissed and swirled round the trains; the only sounds were the shouts of the porters and conductors and the echoing of whistles in the cavernous space.

  In spite of the teachers’ efforts at order, the boarding of the train entailed much pushing and shoving as the children scrambled for seats next to windows and friends. Lewis’s carriage was packed with several classes, but still he managed to secure a window seat, and taking pity on little Simon Goss, he squeezed the boy in beside him. There was a wait, then a great roar from the children as a guard waved a green flag and the train began to move.

  As they chugged out into the sunlight, sandwiches were pulled from paper wrappers and chocolate bars were opened. The silent apprehension of the queues gave way to holiday chatter and absently Lewis ate the bread and drippings his mother had given him, his face pressed to the glass. The suburbs seemed to go on forever—Clapham … Wandsworth … Balham.… Splotches of green began to spring up between the clusters of buildings. Then the splotches spread together until it was the clumps of houses that stood out, dark patches against the green of the rising hills.

  The children grew quiet again, absorbing the strangeness of the countryside, and the temperature continued to rise. When the train ground to a halt, a moan of
tension ran through the car and Lewis felt a wave of nausea. They waited, whispering, but soon the train began to move again.

  As the heat grew and the children became more anxious, the special treats eaten by many inevitably came back up. To make matters worse, it was soon discovered that the train had no toilets. Lewis tried pinching his nose to block the stench, but it only made his thirst worse. Simon Goss had gone to sleep, slumped against Lewis’s numb shoulder. The younger children who weren’t sleeping grizzled for their mothers, a continuous keening of misery.

  The train slowed once more. Lewis opened eyes he had squeezed shut against the glare. His eyelids felt sticky. Licking his parched lips, he squinted at the station sign as the train squealed and shuddered to a stop. Dorking. Wherever that was. He closed his eyes again and leaned his head against the window, wondering if he’d dozed and dreamed that they were doomed to stay on this train forever.

  The sound of an engine roused him. He looked out, blinking. A green coach pulled up to the station, then another, and another. Men shouted commands and the buses were maneuvered into position beside the platform. Lewis felt his heart thud as the children woke and a stir ran through the car.

  The loading of the buses went smoothly, as most of the children were too hungry and exhausted to cause any trouble. Lewis’s class was put with another, and as their coach pulled away from the station, the children clutched their parcels and stared out at the red-bricked buildings of the high street. But they soon left the town behind, and the road ran west into wooded, rolling hills and the afternoon sun.

  Lewis had found himself near the front of the coach, and to quell the panic rising in his chest at the sight of all that openness, he spoke to the driver. “Where are we, mister?”

  The driver, a thin man with a leathery face and wispy hair, glanced back at him and smiled. “Surrey, lad.”

  That didn’t mean anything to Lewis. He tried again. “How far is it? Where are we going, mister?”

  Another flick of the man’s eyes in the mirror and he replied, “Ten miles or so. Not far. You’ll see.”