“Sometime last night. I’m afraid we can’t be more definite than—”
“How?”
“Mr. Mortimer, we’re not sure of anything yet. If you could just give us her sister’s name and—”
“I want to see her.”
“I’m afraid it’s customary for a family member to make the identification,” Gemma said gently. “If you could just—”
“Surely you won’t make Jo …” His voice broke.
“It’s procedure, Mr. Mortimer. I’m—”
“I don’t think I can bear not knowing.”
Although she understood his plea, Gemma shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
Mortimer rose unsteadily to his feet. “Then I think I’d like to go home.”
Kincaid pushed back his chair. “We’ll arrange it. But if this busker was the last person to see Annabelle, we’ll need to talk to him. Had you seen him before? Can you describe him?”
For a moment, Gemma thought Mortimer hadn’t heard, but he wiped a trembling hand across his mouth and seemed to make an effort to collect himself. “The street musician? I’d never seen him before. And I didn’t really look when I passed him in the tunnel.… But when I looked back …” He closed his eyes, frowning, then gripped the back of his chair for support as he swayed a little. “He was tall.… I remember Annabelle was looking up at him. Short hair … fairish. Military clothes.”
“What instrument did he play?” Gemma asked.
Reg Mortimer opened his eyes. “I remember I thought it a bit unusual. The clarinet.”
KIT STOOD IN THE CENTER OF Kincaid’s sitting room, watching the millions of sparkling, dancing dust motes illuminated by the late afternoon sun that blazed in through the open balcony doors. Having placed his holdall at the end of the sofa, he’d unzipped it and taken out one of his natural history books, placing it carefully on the coffee table so that he’d feel like he belonged here. He’d only spent the night in the flat once before—usually Duncan came to Cambridge and took him out somewhere, or he stayed with the Cavendishes in the big house while Duncan stayed with Gemma—and he had so looked forward to this weekend, just the two of them on their own.
Sid, Kincaid’s black cat, lay curled on a patch of sunlit carpet, eyes slitted in contentment. Kneeling, Kit ran his fingers through the cat’s silky fur and scratched behind his ears. He felt the vibration of the cat’s purr travel through his fingers and up his arm until it seemed as if it were reverberating inside his brain. The contact made him miss Tess with an almost physical pang.
Cats were all right, he supposed—he’d never had one, never had a dog for that matter until Tess had come into his life—but there was nothing like a dog for making you feel less lonely.
He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. He wouldn’t bloody cry, not even here on his own, though these days he fought a constant battle against the tears that seemed to hover behind his eyelids, waiting to pounce on him at the most humiliating moment.
This morning had been a near thing when Duncan told him he’d have to go to work—it made him flush just thinking about the way his eyes had filled and his voice had quavered. But things hadn’t turned out as badly as he’d expected. He had liked the Major, rather to his surprise, because the old man hadn’t fussed over him—hadn’t patted him or said “poor boy” or looked at him in that pitying adult way. An adventure, the Major had called it as they set off on the tube to Wimbledon, and Kit had done his best to master his disappointment. But even though the tennis had been glorious, it hadn’t been the same without Duncan. It just wasn’t bloody fair.
Since the Major had left him here and gone down to his own flat, Kit had poked about at his leisure, examining books and CDs and the photos on the walls. He’d tried the telly remote control, zapping through the channels, but there was no Sky TV and he flicked it off in disgust. For a while he’d stood on the balcony, looking down into the bright blooms of the Major’s garden, but he’d come in again when the emptiness of it began to make him feel queer.
His face felt stretched and hot from sunburn and he realized suddenly that he was thirsty. Wandering into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and stared at the contents. A carton of orange juice, a pint of milk past its sell-by date, a cola, and two cans of lager. For a moment Kit was tempted—he was nearly twelve, after all, and he ought to take advantage of being on his own to do something grown-up—but there were only two beers and Duncan was sure to notice if one went missing. With a shrug he chose the cola, popping the top and tossing the ring into the rubbish bin. He rummaged idly through the kitchen drawers as he drank, thinking that if he found a fag he’d try that instead, but then he remembered he’d never seen Duncan smoke.
Why hadn’t Duncan rung him like he’d promised? Where was he now? It must be a murder—that’s what he did, after all, even though he didn’t like to talk about it. Kit tried to imagine a body, riddled with bullets like the ones in the videos he liked, but he couldn’t erase the one image he didn’t want to see—his mum lying so still on the kitchen floor in their cottage.
Throwing the empty cola can into the bin, he glanced at the clock—almost seven. He’d refused the Major’s invitation to come down to his basement flat for baked beans on toast and a game of cards, but he supposed he could change his mind. Anything was better than staying here on his own.
