Kissed a Sad Goodbye

by Deborah Crombie

  Subsiding in his seat, Lewis thought the man had a funny sort of accent, all stretched-out and blurry-sounding. But at least they’d be off this bus soon. The twisting and rising and falling of the road was making him feel all-over queer, and he wrestled with the catch on his window until he managed to get a bit more air.

  He tried closing his eyes, but that only made it worse, so he looked at the great, green hump of land rising away to the right.

  Following Lewis’s gaze in his mirror, the driver said, “That’s the north Surrey Downs, lad. Old earth, that is. Feet have walked that way since the Dark Ages.”

  Lewis did not find the thought comforting.

  After a bit they turned off to the left into a lane no wider than the coach. The lane dipped down between thick hedges, curving and turning, and at every bend Lewis gasped in terror and squeezed his eyes shut. Surely they would crash into the hedge, or meet something coming the other way, but the driver seemed unconcerned and eventually Lewis relaxed a little.

  Then the hedges disappeared, and a triangular bit of grass appeared. A few houses were clustered round it, and a ways up the hill on the opposite side rose the steeple of a church. The coach continued past the green and into another narrow lane, but this one had houses either side, and it came to a dead end at a long, low building that bore the legend: Women’s Institute.

  They had arrived.

  • • •

  “KIT SHOULD BE BACK AT THE flat by now.” Kincaid disconnected the mobile phone as he negotiated the entrance to the Blackwall Tunnel.

  He’d left the top down on the Midget, and Gemma held back the strands of hair that had blown loose from her hair grip with one hand while she turned the pages of the map book with the other. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she reassured him without looking up. “The Major will keep an eye on him.” She traced a spot on the A to Z page with her finger. “I think I’ve found the street, but it doesn’t look like much on the map. It’s just above the old center of Greenwich.”

  “Right. I think I can get that far.”

  They were on their way to interview Annabelle Hammond’s sister, having been given her address by Reg Mortimer.

  “Did you find anything on Mortimer?” Gemma asked as they emerged from the tunnel into the evening sunlight. She’d been arranging for a car to run Mortimer home while Kincaid had a word with Janice Coppin.

  “Sod all, at least in the system. Not even a traffic ticket, as it seems our Mr. Mortimer doesn’t drive.” He squinted as he turned west into Trafalgar Road and the low sun blinded him. “What did you think of his story?”

  “Holes you could drive a lorry through,” Gemma responded. “If Annabelle Hammond left her sister’s party because she felt ill, why would Mortimer have left her on her own in the tunnel?”

  “And why not go back when he saw her talking to the busker? Unless … he invented the busker so he wouldn’t seem to be the last person to have seen her alive,” Kincaid mused.

  “In that case, why call attention to himself by reporting her missing?”

  Kincaid shrugged. “We don’t know for sure that it is her. We’re way ahead of ourselves.” Glancing to his left, he saw the beginning of Greenwich Park, its manicured lawns rising up the slope of the hill that housed the Old Royal Observatory. He remembered how crushed he’d been when he’d learned that Greenwich Mean Time was now measured from Deptford. A little bit of childhood romance had died at that moment. “We’ll have to bring the boys here,” he said, pointing. “Tour the Cutty Sark, visit the Observatory. Kit would be interested, don’t you think? And there’s a tea kiosk.”

  “For the bottomless stomach,” Gemma said, smiling. “You’ll turn left just ahead, pass the police station, and turn right on Circus Street, then turn left again on Prior.”

  He followed her directions, winding ever upwards until they came to the tiny unpaved lane with the rather grandiose name of Emerald Crescent. It turned out to be more of a Z than a crescent, a narrow, twisty alley flanked by hedges, back gardens, and a few large, old homes. Just past the final sharp zag to the left they found the address they’d been given for Jo Lowell, Annabelle’s sister.

  Square and symmetrical, with charcoal brickwork and white trim, the house was separated from the lane only by the iron railings that marked the basement entrance. Through the window to the left of the front door they could see a vase of sunflowers on a table.

  Kincaid reversed past the last bend until he found a spot of verge large enough for the car. He killed the Midget’s engine, then climbed out and stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of early evening in the lane. A child shouted, a dog barked, and somewhere dishes clattered. “A peaceful evening,” he said softly as they started walking towards the house.

  “Until now.” Gemma moved a bit closer to him, her shoulder brushing against his. “Can’t be helped.”

  He looked down at her, appreciative of the implied comfort. She knew how much he hated this part of the job. For a brief moment as they reached the door, he let his hand rest on the small of her back in acknowledgment. Then he pushed the bell.

  The chimes echoed, and as a voice called out, “Coming!” the door swung open. The woman who stood before them stared at them with the blank expression reserved for the unexpected caller, then she smiled tentatively. “Can I help you?”

  Kincaid smiled back. “Are you Josephine Lowell?”

  Her brow creased. “Yes, I’m Jo, but look, if you’re selling something—”

  “We’re with the police, Mrs. Lowell.” As Kincaid introduced himself and Gemma, displaying his warrant card, her dark eyes dilated. “What …” She glanced towards the back of the house, where the sounds of children in dispute could be clearly heard.

  “We need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Lowell. If we could come in?”

  “Oh … of course.” She stepped back. “Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen? I was just putting dinner together and I think things have got a bit out of hand.”

  They followed her through a dining room that was painted a soft yellow and accented with the sunflowers they’d seen through the window, then into a comfortable kitchen that looked out on the back garden. A small girl stood on a step stool at the cooker, stirring something in a pan, and an older boy seemed to be trying to wrestle the spoon from her hand. The room smelled of onions, garlic, and spices, overlaid with the sharpness of cooking tomatoes. Spaghetti sauce, Kincaid guessed.

  “Give over, Sarah. You’ve got sauce all over the cooker.” The boy made another grab for the spoon but the girl snatched it back and turned with a howl.

  “Mummy! I wanna stir!” Tomato sauce dripped from the spoon to the floor in patterns like blood spattering.

  “All right, you two, that’s enough.” Jo Lowell removed the spoon from her daughter’s fist as she scooped her off the stool, then swiped the floor with a kitchen towel from the roll on the worktop.

  The boy flushed to the roots of his red hair. “I was just trying to help. It’s not my fault she’s made a mess. You always—”

  “Harry, please.” Jo Lowell’s exasperation made it clear that this was an oft-played scenario. “Would you take Sarah out into the garden for a few minutes?”

  As if alerted by something in his mother’s voice, the boy turned and really looked at them for the first time. “But—”

  “Harry.” Jo’s tone was firm.

  With a last glance at them, he capitulated. “Okay, okay.” Taking his sister by the hand, he said as he led her towards the door, “Come on, Sarah. I’ll let you bat.”

  Gemma smiled as the garden door banged after them. “A great sacrifice, bowling to your little sister.”

  Jo shook her head. “Harry’s life seems to be full of trials these days. But you don’t want to hear about that. Please sit down.” She gestured towards the breakfast alcove to the left of the back door, then turned to the cooker. Steam billowed from a large pot behind the saucepan. “Let me just turn these things off.” As she adjusted the knobs, the
gas flames dwindled to blue, then sputtered out. She turned and leaned against the cooker, arms folded across her chest. “Can I get you something?”

  “No, we’re fine, thanks,” Kincaid said, studying Jo Lowell as he pulled out a chair for Gemma. A smudge of tomato sauce adorned her tee shirt, and her jeans were stained with splotches of paint; a cotton scarf held her dark auburn hair back in a careless ponytail. She wore no makeup and her skin was slightly freckled. He thought she looked a bit too thin, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well. Although attractive, she bore little obvious resemblance to the dead woman in Mudchute Park. But then there was the boy’s hair.… He seated himself so that he could see out the large window into the garden. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions about your sister.”

  “My sister?” Her surprise seemed so genuine that he wondered what she had been expecting.

  “Her fiancé, Reginald Mortimer, has made a missing persons report. He said he’d rung you?”

  Jo gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Yes, he did, but I just assumed Annabelle was still narked with him and had made herself temporarily unavailable.”

  “Then this has happened before?”

  “Well, no, it’s just that last night …”

  Before Jo’s hesitation could develop into real caution, Gemma interposed. “What happened last night?”

  “They were here—Reg must have told you—and I think they had a bit of a row. That’s Annabelle’s way if she’s cross with you—she cuts you off for a bit.”

  “Is that why they left? Because they’d had a row?”

  “Why do you want to know?” asked Jo Lowell. “Look, I think you’d better tell me what’s going—”

  “Have you any idea what the row was about?” Kincaid said, not yet willing to be deflected.

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Shifting her stance against the cooker, Jo clasped her hands together.

  “This was a dinner party?” prompted Gemma. “Celebrating anything in particular?”

  Through the open door, they could hear Harry’s continuous grumbling and Sarah’s high, strident voice making the occasional response. Jo glanced out the window over the sink, then said, “No, it’s just that my husband and I are divorced, and this was my first attempt at entertaining on my own.”

  “Must have put quite a damper on your party, your sister and her fiancé having a row,” Gemma said sympathetically.

  “It was a bit uncomfortable,” Jo admitted, frowning.

  “I understand they work together. It must be awkward there, as well, if they don’t get on.”

  Jo shrugged. “I’d say they get along better than most—they’ve had long enough to work out their differences.”

  “They’ve known each other a long time, then?” Kincaid asked.

  “Since we were children. Our parents were friends. In fact, it was Father who encouraged Annabelle to take Reg on.”

  “In the professional sense, you mean, not the personal?”

  “Father’s always had dynastic ambitions for Annabelle, and Reg fits the bill quite nicely all round. A merger of the Hammonds with the Mortimers would almost make up for not having a son in the firm.”

  “What’s so special about the Mortimers?” asked Gemma.

  “Sir Peter—Reg’s father—is rather a big cheese in restaurants and hotels, that sort of thing. I’m quite fond of him, actually. Annabelle could do worse in the way of a father-in-law.” Frowning, Jo added, “What is this all about? Surely you’re not taking this missing persons thing seriously?”

  “Mrs. Lowell, have you seen or heard from your sister since she left your house last night?” He knew he was slipping into policespeak, but, like the ceremonial and familiar language of funerals, it had its uses.

  Jo stared at him. “No, but there’s nothing unusual about that. Sometimes we don’t talk for weeks. What—”

  “Mrs. Lowell, I think you should sit down.”

  She came slowly, unwillingly, to the table, slipping into a chair without taking her eyes from them. Her expression was anxious. “What’s happened? Is Annabelle all right?”

  He looked out the window at the tableau formed by the two children on the green square of lawn. Sarah Lowell stood with her back to them, bat raised, and as her brother threw the ball the sun glinted from his hair.

  If they were wrong, Jo Lowell would endure the trip to the morgue for nothing. And if they were right, he wished he could preserve for her this moment untouched by loss, bound by the sound of the children’s laughter on the evening air.

  KINCAID HAD SENT GEMMA HOME AFTER their return from the morgue. They’d not make any further progress on the case tonight, and he’d only to tidy up the tag ends of the paperwork at Limehouse Station. Or so he’d insisted, but the truth of the matter was that he’d needed a bit of time on his own to sort out his impressions of the day.

  Jo Lowell’s quiet identification of her sister’s body had been harder to take than tears. His condolences had sounded stiff and intrusive even to himself, and he’d had her driven home without attempting to question her further.

  Now that they had put a name to the face, the investigation would move into the sifting of evidence and the tracing of every connection with Annabelle Hammond. The constable dispatched to the Greenwich Foot Tunnel had found no sign of the busker described by Reg Mortimer, but from the beginning Kincaid had had his doubts about the story’s authenticity. It was just too bloody convenient, and he’d begun to suspect that Reg Mortimer had a great capacity for inventiveness.

  Having organized his makeshift desk as best he could, he said good night to the officers still on duty in the incident room and left the station through the side entrance. As he retrieved the Midget from the car park, he heard music and laughter pouring out of the pub next door. The image of Kit waiting alone in the flat squelched the temptation of a pint before it was fully formed, and he climbed in the car and started the engine. Tomorrow he’d pick up an unmarked Rover from the Yard, but tonight he would enjoy the rare treat of driving through the warm darkness with the top down.

  He loved London at night, when the streets had emptied and the lights ran together in a kaleidoscopic blur. As he pulled out into West India Dock Road, he could see to his left the flashing beacon atop Canary Wharf’s Canada Tower. He wondered if Annabelle Hammond had seen it last night as she emerged from the Greenwich Tunnel, and who had been with her.…

  Of course, they couldn’t overlook the possibility that Annabelle had been killed by a stranger, perhaps an attempted rape gone wrong; she might simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But his instincts told him that there was more to it than that. He guessed Annabelle Hammond had been the sort of woman who aroused strong emotions, and that it was this quality in her that had led to her death.

  The drive from Limehouse to Hampstead took him half as long as during the day, and when he reached Carlingford Road he found a parking space near his flat, a miraculous feat at this time of night. The windows of the Major’s basement rooms were dark, so he entered the building and climbed the stairs to his own flat.

  Carefully, he slid his key into the lock and eased open the door. His sitting room was in semidarkness, lit only by the small lamp on the kitchen island and the soundless, flickering images on the telly. Kit lay on the sofa in jeans and tee shirt, sound asleep, one arm outstretched, Sid curled up on his chest. The cat opened green eyes and blinked at Kincaid; the boy didn’t stir.

  As Kincaid stood watching, he had the same odd sensation in his chest that he’d experienced the last time he’d seen Kit sleeping—the day he’d found the boy hiding in the Grantchester cottage after his mother’s death.

  Turning away, he discovered on the kitchen island a covered plate of sandwiches, a glass of milk, and a note in Kit’s small, neat hand.Dear Duncan,We saved you some sandwiches from the picnic. But we (meaning me!!) polished off the cake. The Major wants to take me to Kew Gardens tomorrow, that is if you have to w
ork.PS I fed Sid. He really likes ham sandwiches.PSS The tennis was brilliant! But I wished you were there.

  This missive was signed with a large calligraphic K and embellished with birdlike squiggles.

  Kincaid found a light blanket in the linen cupboard and covered Kit as far as the cat. Then he put the sandwiches and milk in the fridge, quietly poured himself a finger of twelve-year-old Macallan, and carried the note and his drink across the room to the armchair. There he sat for a long time, motionless except for the occasional lifting of his glass, watching the gentle rise and fall of Kit’s breathing.

  AFTER SHE HAD PUT THE CHILDREN to bed, Jo slipped next door and let herself into her father’s house with her key. He had taken Sir Peter and Helena to dinner at the Savoy, but he would be home soon and she had steeled herself to break the news to him then.

  She hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak to the children, not yet, although she knew she’d have to face it in the morning. They’d gone to bed without a fuss, a signal that they sensed something was wrong, but they hadn’t asked. Nor had they questioned her unexplained absence when the police had driven her to the morgue, though Harry had made a token complaint about being sent to the neighbors’ for a while.

  Standing in the hallway, she listened to the sounds of the empty house. The grandfather clock ticked; the floor creaked; from the kitchen came the low hum of the fridge and the intermittent drip of the tap. She had grown up in this house, and to her it seemed a living, breathing entity, as familiar as her own body. It had its own unique smell, and she closed her eyes as she tried to pick out the individual components. Was there the faintest hint of tea rose still, four years after her mother’s death? It had been her mother’s scent, and the house had been filled with the garden’s roses from spring to frost. Did odors linger like ghosts, invisible, yet there for those able to perceive them?

  She gazed up at the portrait of her mother on the landing. The beaded lace veil and headdress Isabel Hammond wore in the portrait hid most of her red-gold hair, but the eyes that looked down at her were Annabelle’s.