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.”
• • •
WHEN THEY ARRIVED BACK AT LIMEHOUSE 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.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” Janice dug among the papers on the desktop until she found a scribbled memo. “You had a message passed on from the Yard. Someone called Ian McClellan is trying to reach you. Says he’s in London and would like to meet with you tonight.”
“Ian McClellan?”
“Here’s the number he left. Is it a lead?”
“A lead?” Kincaid realized he must have sounded idiotic, and shook his head to clear it. He didn’t meet Gemma’s eyes. “No, it’s … personal,” he managed to say, tucking the memo in his pocket.
What the bloody hell was Ian McClellan doing back here now, and what the bloody hell did he want?
AT THE FLAT, KINCAID CHANGED INTO jeans and tee shirt, then tried ringing Kit in Cambridge. After putting him on hold for a moment, Laura Miller came back on the line and said rather apologetically that Kit didn’t want to come to the phone just then. Kincaid heard the concern in her voice, but merely thanked her and said he’d try again later.
Looking through the open balcony door as he rang off, he saw Sid perched on the railing, watching the birds in the Major’s garden with quivering interest. He went out and stroked the cat, finding a brief comfort in the fact that, unlike Kit, Sid always forgave him, no matter how badly he’d neglected him.
In the end, Kincaid chose familiar territory for his meeting with Ian McClellan: the Freemason’s Arms, just across Willow Road from the Heath. The summer sun had begun its long evening slant through the treetops, and Hampstead Heath was filled with Londoners escaping flats stuffy with the day’s heat. People strolled babies in pushchairs, played games of Frisbee and impromptu football, sailed boats on the Pond—and every glimpse of a boy with a dog reminded Kincaid of Kit.
When he reached the pub, he chose a table in the garden. He’d allowed time to get something to eat, but when the waitress brought his basket of chicken, he found he wasn’t hungry. Nursing his pint, he picked desultorily at the chips and thought about Ian McClellan.
Vic’s second husband, a political science fellow at Trinity College, had run off to the south of France the previous year with one of his graduate students. When Vic was murdered, McClellan had come back to England only briefly, and had refused to take Kit back to France with him. Although he admitted he’d long suspected Kit was really Kincaid’s child, McClellan was still the boy’s legal guardian, and he’d grudgingly acquiesced to Kincaid’s temporary arrangements for Kit. Nothing had been heard from him since. Until now.
Glancing up, Kincaid saw McClellan walking across the grass towards him, pint in hand. He looked tan, but thinner than Kincaid remembered; on closer inspection his neatly trimmed brown hair and beard had acquired a liberal peppering of gray. This was the first time Kincaid had seen him divested of his corduroy, leather-elbowed jacket, but even in a short-sleeved cotton shirt he had about him an unmistakable professorial air.
Kincaid stood up to greet him, determined to get this meeting off to a better start than their previous encounters.
There was a moment of awkwardness, then McClellan shook Kincaid’s hand firmly and sat down in the white garden chair. Having settled back and lifted his pint in mute salute, Ian broke the guarded silence. “I expect you’re wondering why I asked to see you.”
Kincaid nodded and sipped at his pint. “It was a surprise.”
“Yes, well … Among other things, I believe I owe you an apology,” Ian said slowly. “I’ve had time to think things through these last few months, and I can see now that my behavior was a bit … irrational. And irresponsible. The whole thing with Jennifer … and then Vic, and meeting you that way …” Sun glinted from Ian’s gold-framed glasses as he looked away for a moment. “Things didn’t work out with Jennifer when I went back to France. To be quite honest, I went right off the rails.” Shrugging, he added, “Not quite what she bargained for, a middle-aged man in the midst of a breakdown. She came back to England to finish her degree.”
“Is that why you came back? To be near her?” Kincaid asked.
Ian shook his head. “No. I’m not that foolish, although you might be surprised to hear it. But my sabbatical was up at the end of the summer, and the book had come to a dead halt, so there didn’t seem much point in staying.…”
Kincaid waited in silence.
“How is he? Kit. Is he … coping? What about school?”
Kincaid thought of those first weeks, when Laura had found Kit clutching Tess every morning, crying, terrified to leave the dog long enough to go to school—certain something would happen to her while he was away.
“He’s managed to finish out the term, at least. The school has tried to make things as normal as possible for him, under the circumstances.
“But that’s what’s on the surface—underneath, I don’t know. He has nightmares. He’s had difficulty eating, but that’s a bit better lately.” Kincaid paused, then added, “And he won’t talk about his mother. Not even to Hazel Cavendish, who could probably squeeze confidences out of a rock.”
“Is there any word on the trial?”
“The Crown Prosecution Service is still gathering evidence. There’s no date as yet.”
“And no resolution for Kit,” Ian murmured. “Is her killer—”
“On remand, enjoying Her Majesty’s hospitality. That’s something, at least.” Kincaid swatted at a late flying wasp that had landed on his glass. Dusk had settled on the garden with a cloak of cool air. The waitress came by, lighting the citronella candle on their table and bestowing a match-bright smile on them in the process. She wore a halter top and shorts no longer than her bar apron, and Kincaid noticed that Ian gave her an automatic smile. McClellan might have come to his senses over the latest affair, but old habits obviously died hard.
“There’s something else,” Kincaid said. “We’re neither of us Kit’s favorite people just now.”
“Neither of us? I know he has reason enough to be angry with me, but why you?”
Having plunged in, Kincaid had no option but to continue. “I told him I was sure I was his father. Last night, as a matter of fact.”
“You told him?” McClellan repeated, drawing his brows together. “You cautioned me not to speak to him about it. You said to give him time—”
“I thought I had. And we were facing making a change in his living arrangements—he can’t stay with the Millers indefinitely.”
Ian pushed his glasses up on his nose, a signal of agitation Kincaid remembered from their previous meetings. “How did he take it?”
Kincaid shoved his cold food to one side. “He doesn’t want to believe it. He feels betrayed. And now you’ve come back. Why are you here?”
“Eugenia’s been sending me threatening letters. I thought you should know.”
“Threatening what? To spread more misery about in the world?” After Vic’s death, Kincaid’s dealings with his former mother-in-law had been acrimonious in the extreme, and promised no improvement. Kit had run away rather than stay in her care, and Eugenia was not likely to forgive Kincaid his part in making other
arrangements for the grandson she considered as property.
“She’s been a bit vague.” Ian’s smile held little humor. “First it was suing for grandparents’ right to visitation. Lately, she’s been leaning towards accusing me of legal abandonment and suing for custody herself.”
“Dear God,” Kincaid breathed, horrified at the thought.
“I don’t think she has a leg to stand on as far as custody goes, but she might have a case for visitation. I’ve had a word with my solicitor.”
The few chips Kincaid had eaten might have been lead in his stomach. “Kit ran away the last time he was forced to stay with her—that can’t be allowed to happen again.” Swallowing, he continued, “But there’s no point talking about Eugenia without knowing what exactly you mean to do about Kit.”
Ian studied his glass as he spoke. “The Grantchester house hasn’t sold. I thought I’d take it off the market for the time being, until I get myself sorted out.”
“You mean to live there?”
“For the time being. And I want Kit with me. I’ve a good deal of making up to do.”
Kincaid pondered this in silence, then said, “You know I’ve no legal say in any arrangements you make for Kit. But if you abandon him again, I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure you never have another chance.”
Ian met his eyes without flinching. “I want what’s best for Kit, and I think it’s this.”
“What will you tell him about me?” Kincaid asked, his resentment rising.
“That it doesn’t matter who his biological father is—he’s still my son.”
“And where does that leave me, now that you’ve suddenly become the ideal parent?” Kincaid couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. He’d spent months trying to repair some of the damage McClellan had done, and now the bastard thought he could come back like the prodigal son.
“Look, Duncan.” Ian leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and Kincaid realized it was the first time he had used his Christian name. “I’m not trying to shut you out of Kit’s life. He needs both of us—”
Kissed a Sad Goodbye Page 20