“Of course not, Mr. Brent,” Kincaid reassured him as Gemma stood. “And we do appreciate your time.”
As they turned to go George Brent called after them, “You tell that Janice she’s a silly cow. Our Georgie would never have left her on her own with a pack of rotten kids.”
REG MORTIMER SELDOM DRANK. A SOCIAL pint occasionally, or a glass or two of wine with dinner, but urgings to more than that he usually fended off with a smile and an offhand remark about keeping fit. Reg could never bring himself to admit the truth— that it made him ill, revoltingly, nauseatingly, childishly ill.
His hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips—Jack Daniel’s because he found the sweetness of the Bourbon easier to stomach than the tangy bite of Scotch. Could one call this medicinal? The half glass he’d drunk had done nothing to still the panic fluttering beneath his breastbone. Nor had it helped him decide what he ought to do.
Turning, he glanced at the phone in the corner, then again at the thinning crowd in the bar. At lunchtime people came in the Henry Addington at Canary Wharf to see and be seen, though this being Saturday the men had traded their business suits for carefully pressed Levi’s and khakis, and in this heat the women wore shorts and bright sundresses. Beyond the windows in the pub’s curved marble front wall, the sun blazed, making a molten sheet of the water, muting even the reds and purples of the buildings at Heron Quays across the dock.
Lunchtime was easing into afternoon, and there was still no sign of Annabelle. It had been a thin chance, coming here, where they often met on a Saturday, but he had rung her flat until the phone seemed glued to his ear. Then he’d gone round and pounded on her door, and he’d done the same at the warehouse.
Not that Annabelle ever made a habit of instant availability—he sometimes thought she enjoyed putting him off, teasing him. But she always returned calls, and although he suspected she was still angry with him, he couldn’t imagine Annabelle missing a meeting as important as this morning’s for personal reasons.
Of course, he’d lost his temper last night—he’d be the first to admit it, if she would only give him a chance—but the fact that the party at Jo’s had turned into a fiasco hadn’t been his fault.
Despite the heat in the bar, Reg shivered. He thought of what he had revealed to Annabelle last night, spurred by jealousy, and of what he had kept from her. He had driven her away, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. Not now, with so much at stake. But how could he repair the damage he’d done?
And why hadn’t Annabelle turned up this morning? As hard as he and Teresa had tried to smooth things over at breakfast, his father hadn’t been fooled for a minute. Sir Peter’s support was crucial—they all knew that—but what Annabelle and Teresa didn’t know was how desperately Reg needed things to work out the way they’d planned.
He’d phone Annabelle again. Surely she would answer—it had been an hour since he’d last rung, plenty of time for her to have returned home. Perhaps she had even been trying to ring him. Yet even as he stood, a bit unsteadily, a wave of dread coursed through him, as certain as the nausea that followed.
• • •
“THERE’S NO POINT SENDING SOMEONE ROUND the shops in Manchester Road until we get a photo.” Kincaid leaned against the corridor wall outside the incident room at Limehouse Police Station, sipping tepid tea from a polystyrene cup.
“I’ve sent one of the lads to pick up the prints,” said Gemma, adding, “Hope there’s one that will be palatable to the public.” Kincaid couldn’t tell if her grimace reflected the prospect of dealing with hysterical residents or the thought of the nasty liquid in her cup.
He nodded agreement. “The photos should be all right. Her face was remarkably well-preserved.” The afternoon having so far yielded no clues to the woman’s identity, the distribution of photographs to the inquiry team became the logical next step.
Gemma’s empty cup squeaked as she crumpled it. “Will you release a drawing to the media?”
During the course of the afternoon, they had set the routine of investigation in motion; the first round of house-to-house inquiries, concentrated on the supermarket and the streets immediately adjacent to the park; the intensive search for physical evidence, always a race against contamination of the crime scene; the checking of the victim’s description against the Police National Computer’s missing persons reports. But he’d delayed speaking to the media until he’d prepared a formal statement describing the dead woman and asking the public’s help in identifying her or reporting suspicious sightings in the area. “No, not yet. We’ll try the description first, and if that doesn’t produce results, we’ll have the police artist make a sketch.” Finishing his tea, he tossed his cup in the bin and pushed himself away from the wall. “I suppose I’d better face the lions.” He pulled up the knot on the tie he’d rescued from the boot of the car, then ran his fingers through his hair.
Gemma smiled. “You’re quite presentable. They’re waiting in the ante—”
The incident room door swung open and Janice Coppin came out. Although the passing hours had taken their toll on both starched hair and suit, they’d done little to temper the inspector’s prickliness, although Kincaid had found her to be competent and patient with her staff. “There you are,” she said as she saw them. “The duty officer’s just rung from downstairs. There’s a bloke at the window raising holy hell because they won’t let him register a missing person until the twenty-four-hour limit’s up.”
Kincaid heard the intake of Gemma’s breath as she said, “A match?”
Coppin shrugged. “His girlfriend didn’t come home last night. Her name’s Annabelle Hammond, lives just at the end of Island Gardens. And he says she has long, red hair.”
CHAPTER 4
“Bloody poser,” Janice Coppin muttered, jerking her head towards the interview room, where she had sequestered the man who wished to make a missing persons report. “Ought to have his mobile phone surgically implanted in his ear.”
Gemma knew the type all too well. They indulged in the prolonged and very public use of their mobile phones in the trendier cafes and coffeehouses, and this disregard for both cost and manners apparently served as a badge of social status. “Do you think we should take this seriously, then?” she asked.
“Can’t see him as a practical joker,” Janice answered reluctantly. “And his distress seems genuine enough. It’s just that he fancies himself a bit.” With a dark look at Kincaid as he came through the door at the end of the corridor, she added in Gemma’s ear, “But I imagine you’re used to that.”
Before Gemma could come up with a retort, however, Kincaid joined them. “I postponed the media a bit longer, until we see what this chap has to say. Have you told him anything?”
