Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“It’s a goddamned antique,” he muttered to Sam. A sentimental memento—he’d never dreamed of shooting anyone with it. But his father’s Webley Mark IV lay snug in its red felt cradle, clean and oiled, and beside it was an unopened box of .38 cartridges.

KINCAID HAD DRIVEN BACK FROM SURREY slowly, thinking about Irene Burne-Jones and the things she had told him. He doubted Irene had ever loved anyone the way she’d loved Lewis Finch, and he’d found he hadn’t the heart to suggest to her that Lewis might have murdered Annabelle Hammond.

Knowing something now of Lewis Finch’s history, he tried to imagine that Annabelle’s rejection of Lewis that night had been the loss that had tipped him into despair, driving him to murder. But for the first time he had doubts, and he still didn’t understand what had made Lewis so determined to take William Hammond’s property from him.

He was still mulling it over when he pulled into the car park at Limehouse Station and saw Gemma coming out the door. She wore a black, sleeveless dress that just brushed the tops of her knees, but his pleasure at the sight of her faded when he saw her distracted frown. When he called out to her, she looked his way and came to intercept him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Gordon Finch just rang me. He said he was sure his father didn’t kill Annabelle—and then he hung up.”

“Was he ringing from his flat?”

“Probably a call box. He doesn’t have a phone.”

“We’ll try the flat first. Get in.”

She came round the car, and as she buckled herself in, he asked, “Is that all he said?”

“No. Duncan, they were protecting each other—Gordon and Lewis—but neither of them knew it. When Lewis realized Gordon hadn’t killed her, he said he should have known, and that he wasn’t going to ‘let him get away with it again.’ ”

“Let who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think Gordon knew.”

Kincaid’s phone rang as he pulled out into West India Dock Road. He answered, then said to Gemma as he rang off, “That was Janice. Forensics just called. They’ve found a trace amount of hair and blood in a sample taken from one of the tea chests in Annabelle Hammond’s office.”

“So it looks like she was killed at Hammond’s,” Gemma said. “Who would she have met there in the middle of the night?”

“If we assume it was neither of the Finches?” He switched on his wipers as rain spattered the windscreen. “Martin Lowell? If he wouldn’t let her come to his flat, and she wanted to have it out with him?”

“We’ve had Brandy Bannister in again this morning. She hasn’t budged an inch on her statement. It looks as though Lowell’s alibi is good.” Gemma sounded unhappy about it.

Kincaid frowned. “Maybe we should look at this from another angle. Who, besides Annabelle, had access to the warehouse?”

“Reg Mortimer and Teresa, of course, but Mortimer’s the most obvious. He knew Annabelle liked to go there when she was troubled, and he desperately wanted to talk to her.”

“But if he killed her in the warehouse, how did he get her body to the park?” Kincaid asked. “We’re back to square one.” Then, as he shook his head in frustration, he remembered something. “Teresa Robbins said that since his wife died, William Hammond turned up at the warehouse at odd hours, that he couldn’t bear to let go of the business.… What if it wasn’t a case of Annabelle arranging to meet someone, but an accidental encounter.…”

“And you think William might have seen someone?”

“It’s possible,” Kincaid said slowly. “But it’s also possible that it was William who killed her.”

“William Hammond?” Gemma’s voice rose on a note of disbelief. “Her own father? The poor man was devastated—you saw him.”

“I don’t doubt that. But … everything seems to come back to William Hammond and Lewis Finch.” He told her about his interview with Irene Burne-Jones. As he negotiated Westferry Circus and headed south on Westferry Road, thunder boomed and rain began to beat against the roof of the car. “What did Hammond have against Finch? And why was Finch so determined to buy the warehouse when he knew its importance to William Hammond? Something happened in the last few months the three of them were together—William, Lewis, and Irene—that Irene isn’t willing to talk about, even after all these years.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” protested Gemma. “Why would William Hammond kill Annabelle when she’d just made up her mind to call off the deal with Lewis?”

“I don’t know. But if Lewis Finch said he wasn’t going to ‘let him get away with it again,’ what could he have meant but murder? Someone was killed in those last few months those three children were together—the children’s tutor. Irene said it was an accident.…”

“But what if it wasn’t?” said Gemma. She shook her head. “We’re missing too many pieces. Gordon must know something we don’t—”

“And I don’t think it’s very likely we’re going to find him sitting at his flat, waiting for us.” He peered through the windscreen, but the curtain of rain obscured virtually everything. “Ring William Hammond’s house—do you have his number?”