Janice shook her head. “Just that someone will speak to him. And I sent one of the constables in with a cuppa.”
“Right. Then let’s not get the wind up with an abundance of police presence. Why don’t you run a check on— what’s his name, Inspector?”
“Reginald Mortimer.” Janice articulated each syllable distinctly, crinkling her nose as if she found it distasteful.
“Run a check on Mr. Mortimer, then, Inspector, while Gemma and I have a word with him.”
“Sir—”
Kincaid stopped, hand on the doorknob.
Janice hesitated, then shrugged. “Never mind.” As she turned away, Gemma saw her glance at her watch.
It was the time of day when domestic arrangements needed adjusting if you weren’t going to get home, and as Gemma followed Kincaid into the interview room, she wondered when she’d have a chance to check on Toby. She told herself, as she often did, that her frequent absences would only make her son stronger and more independent, but the argument never quite convinced her.
The interview room was larger than most, with a frosted-glass window on the corridor side, but it was still stuffy with the remainder of the day’s heat. It contained the usual laminate table in an unsightly orange and a half- dozen mismatched chairs of dubious heritage.
The man sitting on the far side of the table looked up at them and started to rise, his expression anxious. As Kincaid stepped forward with an introduction, Gemma studied Reginald Mortimer. Janice had been right. Mortimer wore sharply creased khaki trousers and the knit shirt with designer logo required of a yuppie. Thrown over the back of the chair was a nubby linen jacket; the most expensive of mobile phones peeped from the inside breast pocket.
Of slightly above average height and slender build, he had wide gray-blue eyes and shiny brown hair that flopped over his brow with a slight wave. She wondered if Kincaid would notice the man’s physical resemblance to him.
Reg Mortimer smiled as he shook Kincaid’s hand, and the likeness lessened. His features, she decided, were all just a bit too delicate, and he looked nearer her age than Kincaid’s. He smelled slightly of alcohol and nerves.
“I’m sure this is all a mistake. You must think me a dreadful ass,” he said. His voice was pitched higher than she found pleasing, and no doubt it was his fruity, upper-class accent that had set Janice’s teeth on edge.
“Sergeant James,” Gemma said, pressing his damp palm with her own as she settled into a chair and took a pen and notebook from her bag. “Can we get you some more tea?”
“No, I’m fine, really.” Reg Mortimer shook his head and she saw his eyes dart towards the tape-recording equipment. “Look, I never meant to make such a fuss. I got a bit carried away in the heat of things, then when your sergeant chap on the front desk didn’t seem inclined to be cooperative …”
If he’d had a drink to steady his nerves, he didn’t appear to be drunk. Gemma heard no slurring in his speech, and his eyes tracked steadily as he looked at them.
“Don’t let the equipment put you off, Mr. Mortimer.” Kincaid waved a hand at the tape recorder as he sat down. “This is all quite unofficial—we just needed a quiet place to have a chat.” He smiled and pulled his chair a bit closer to the table, as if to emphasize the informality of the interview.
“Never been in a police station before.” Mortimer’s attempt at insouciance didn’t quite come off.
“They don’t rank high on the list of pleasant work environments, complete with mod cons. Now, Mr. Mortimer,” Kincaid continued, and Gemma felt tension rise at his change of tone. “Something must have worried you quite a bit to bring you here. Why don’t you tell us about it.”
Looking from Gemma to Kincaid, Reg Mortimer began hesitantly, “It’s my fiancee, Annabelle … Annabelle Hammond. She didn’t come home last night.”
“Do you and Miss Hammond live together, then?” Kincaid asked.
“No. No, we don’t.” Reg Mortimer’s answer seemed reluctant. “Annabelle has a flat just opposite the Island Gardens DLR Station. On Ferry Street.”
Kincaid crossed his ankle over his knee and adjusted his trouser cuff. “So you can’t be sure she didn’t return home?”
“Well, no, I can’t be positive, but I’ve checked quite thoroughly.”
“Could Miss Hammond have decided to go away for the weekend without telling you?”
Mortimer shook his head, stirring the lock of hair that fell forward on his brow. “It wasn’t like that. We were together last night. We’d been to a party in Greenwich, at her sister Jo’s. But Annabelle wanted to leave—”
“What time was this, Mr. Mortimer?”
“Half past nine-ish, I think, but—”
“A bit early for leaving a party, wasn’t it?” Kincaid raised a doubtful eyebrow.
“Annabelle wasn’t … wasn’t feeling well,” Mortimer said, reaching for his tea. It would be cold and scummy by now, Gemma thought, only appealing as a distraction.
“Mr. Mortimer.” She chose her words carefully. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps Annabelle made an excuse, because she had other plans?”
“I’m sure she didn’t.” He met her eyes. “We were going for a drink, after. We started back through the foot tunnel—we’d walked to her sister’s—when … Well, it was all very odd.…” He faltered.
With a glance at Kincaid, Gemma continued the questioning. “What was odd, Mr. Mortimer?”
Frowning, he rubbed his palms against his knees. “The lifts were closed, so we took the stairs down to the
