tell him to bugger off, but standing up to people was never as easy for her as it was for Annabelle.
She’d improved at it, though, in the five years she’d worked for Annabelle Hammond. It simply never occurred to Annabelle that she wouldn’t get what she wanted, whether professionally or personally, and Teresa had often watched with quiet amusement as her boss sailed into a meeting with unsuspecting executives who had not been prepared to take her seriously because she was female. By the time they stopped gaping at her looks, Annabelle would have their signatures on the dotted line.
Although Teresa knew she could never aspire to Annabelle’s flair, she’d worked at her job as the firm’s bookkeeper with a zeal and efficiency no one from her Croyden comprehensive would ever have expected from her —a girl so ordinary that she’d once overheard a teacher describe her as “the girl most likely to disappear.”
After a series of accounting jobs that hadn’t quite fit, she’d started at Hammond’s with little expectation. To her surprise, she’d soaked up the business like a sponge, discovering a talent for organizing as well as figures. She learned she could juggle things in her head, and had even begun to develop a passion for tea that rivaled Annabelle’s. A year ago, Annabelle had promoted her to chief financial officer.
They made a good team. Between them, they had taken Hammond’s Fine Teas from the past into the nineties, and it was only in the past few months, as Annabelle had begun to address the future of the firm, that Teresa had seen her display any doubt or hesitation.
She frowned as she thought of the breakfast Annabelle had organized with Sir Peter Mortimer at the Chili’s in Canary Wharf this morning. Annabelle had not shown up, and it was unthinkable that she would not keep such an appointment. Reg and Teresa had entertained Sir Peter as best they could, but without Annabelle, they had not dared broach the reason for the invitation. And as the day wore on with no word of explanation from her, Teresa felt increasingly worried.
Next door, another thump was followed by the sudden blare of music—the heavy repetitive bass and growling lyrics that made her head ache. With a grimace, she turned and gathered her things from the wooden drying rack. She’d ring Annabelle at home again, and if there was no reply, she’d go to the office in case Annabelle showed up there.
As Teresa glanced down at the car park once more before retreating into the flat, an unmarked white van moved slowly across the tarmac.
WHILE THEY WAITED FOR THE MORTUARY van, Gemma nipped down to the supermarket cafe for a bacon-and-egg roll and a cup of tea, not knowing when she might have another chance to eat. The air-conditioned market provided a welcome refuge from the heat and she looked round with interest as she peeled the cling-film from her roll.
Cavernous and comprehensive, the store was the sort Gemma hadn’t much opportunity to visit, but she assumed it was what the inhabitants of the posh developments expected. It was only when she’d watched the shoppers for a few minutes that she realized most of them were solidly working class. Curious, she quickly finished her sandwich and entered the main part of the store. To her surprise, although the shelves were well-stocked, there was a distinct shortage of gourmet items and a preponderance of white bread.
She bought a packet of ginger-nut biscuits for emergency rations, tucking it in her handbag as she emerged into the glare of the street. The mortuary van was parked unobtrusively at the rear of the car park, its rear doors standing open. She crossed the hot tarmac, and as she reached the path leading up to the Mudchute, she saw that the attendants were attempting to maneuver the stretcher and zipped black body bag through the cubicle of the swinging gate. They were red-faced and sweating, and one swore steadily and inventively. Kincaid stood a few yards up the hill, his hands in his pockets, his lips pressed together in impatience.
The attendants put the stretcher down and looked up at him. “ ’Fraid we’re going to have to upend her, guv,” said the one with the rich vocabulary.
“Just be careful, will you?” Kincaid admonished them, and Gemma heard him mutter something about “buggering up the physical evidence” under his breath.
“We’ll get some straps.”
Gemma took advantage of their descent to the van to slip through the gate and join Kincaid.
“Feeling a bit better?” he asked.
“Much. Where’s the inspector?”
“Limehouse Station, getting things organized. Just our luck they closed the old station here on the Island and the new one’s not finished.”
Looking up at him, Gemma noticed the small spot on his chin he’d missed with the razor that morning, shaving in her cupboard-sized bathroom. She was close enough to smell her soap on his skin and the thought of their shared shower brought a smile to her lips. “Sorry about your Saturday,” she said. “What about Kit?”
“The Major stood in for me.”
“Kit must have been disappointed, just the same.”
“Yes.” Kincaid didn’t meet her eyes.
“How rotten for you.” Gemma knew he hated to let Kit down, and she also suspected that any guilt he felt over failing in his commitment to Kit was strengthened by his guilt over Vic’s death. Although he didn’t talk about it, she’d sensed it gnawing at him the past few months, and she felt it driving a wedge between them.
“Worse for him, poor little beggar.”
Gemma thought of Toby, who accepted her frequent unexpected absences with equanimity because it was all he’d ever known. “He will get used to it, and you’ve not much choice, have you?”
“We’ll have her out of here in a tick, guv,” called out the talkative attendant, returning from the van.
Glancing at Gemma, Kincaid seemed about to reply, then shrugged and turned his attention back to the corpse on the stretcher. Frowning, he said, “If she were dumped here, how did the killer get her into the park? That gate would have made things bloody difficult.”
“I suppose you could get through it with a body over your shoulder, if you were strong enough. But you’d be visible, even at night. There must be other entrances.” Watching the men strap down the body, then hoist the stretcher into an upright position and maneuver it through the gate, Gemma added, “Did you find anything under the body?”
“No. Nor any definite evidence of dragging. But the ground’s hard. It might not have left traces.”
