Kissed a Sad Goodbye

They had arrived.

•        •        •

“KIT SHOULD BE BACK AT THE flat by now.” Kincaid disconnected the mobile phone as he negotiated the entrance to the Blackwall Tunnel.

He’d left the top down on the Midget, and Gemma held back the strands of hair that had blown loose from her hair grip with one hand while she turned the pages of the map book with the other. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she reassured him without looking up. “The Major will keep an eye on him.” She traced a spot on the A to Z page with her finger. “I think I’ve found the street, but it doesn’t look like much on the map. It’s just above the old center of Greenwich.”

“Right. I think I can get that far.”

They were on their way to interview Annabelle Hammond’s sister, having been given her address by Reg Mortimer.

“Did you find anything on Mortimer?” Gemma asked as they emerged from the tunnel into the evening sunlight. She’d been arranging for a car to run Mortimer home while Kincaid had a word with Janice Coppin.

“Sod all, at least in the system. Not even a traffic ticket, as it seems our Mr. Mortimer doesn’t drive.” He squinted as he turned west into Trafalgar Road and the low sun blinded him. “What did you think of his story?”

“Holes you could drive a lorry through,” Gemma responded. “If Annabelle Hammond left her sister’s party because she felt ill, why would Mortimer have left her on her own in the tunnel?”

“And why not go back when he saw her talking to the busker? Unless … he invented the busker so he wouldn’t seem to be the last person to have seen her alive,” Kincaid mused.

“In that case, why call attention to himself by reporting her missing?”

Kincaid shrugged. “We don’t know for sure that it is her. We’re way ahead of ourselves.” Glancing to his left, he saw the beginning of Greenwich Park, its manicured lawns rising up the slope of the hill that housed the Old Royal Observatory. He remembered how crushed he’d been when he’d learned that Greenwich Mean Time was now measured from Deptford. A little bit of childhood romance had died at that moment. “We’ll have to bring the boys here,” he said, pointing. “Tour the Cutty Sark, visit the Observatory. Kit would be interested, don’t you think? And there’s a tea kiosk.”

“For the bottomless stomach,” Gemma said, smiling. “You’ll turn left just ahead, pass the police station, and turn right on Circus Street, then turn left again on Prior.”

He followed her directions, winding ever upwards until they came to the tiny unpaved lane with the rather grandiose name of Emerald Crescent. It turned out to be more of a Z than a crescent, a narrow, twisty alley flanked by hedges, back gardens, and a few large, old homes. Just past the final sharp zag to the left they found the address they’d been given for Jo Lowell, Annabelle’s sister.

Square and symmetrical, with charcoal brickwork and white trim, the house was separated from the lane only by the iron railings that marked the basement entrance. Through the window to the left of the front door they could see a vase of sunflowers on a table.

Kincaid reversed past the last bend until he found a spot of verge large enough for the car. He killed the Midget’s engine, then climbed out and stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of early evening in the lane. A child shouted, a dog barked, and somewhere dishes clattered. “A peaceful evening,” he said softly as they started walking towards the house.

“Until now.” Gemma moved a bit closer to him, her shoulder brushing against his. “Can’t be helped.”

He looked down at her, appreciative of the implied comfort. She knew how much he hated this part of the job. For a brief moment as they reached the door, he let his hand rest on the small of her back in acknowledgment. Then he pushed the bell.

The chimes echoed, and as a voice called out, “Coming!” the door swung open. The woman who stood before them stared at them with the blank expression reserved for the unexpected caller, then she smiled tentatively. “Can I help you?”

Kincaid smiled back. “Are you Josephine Lowell?”

Her brow creased. “Yes, I’m Jo, but look, if you’re selling something—”

“We’re with the police, Mrs. Lowell.” As Kincaid introduced himself and Gemma, displaying his warrant card, her dark eyes dilated. “What …” She glanced towards the back of the house, where the sounds of children in dispute could be clearly heard.

“We need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Lowell. If we could come in?”

“Oh … of course.” She stepped back. “Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen? I was just putting dinner together and I think things have got a bit out of hand.”

They followed her through a dining room that was painted a soft yellow and accented with the sunflowers they’d seen through the window, then into a comfortable kitchen that looked out on the back garden. A small girl stood on a step stool at the cooker, stirring something in a pan, and an older boy seemed to be trying to wrestle the spoon from her hand. The room smelled of onions, garlic, and spices, overlaid with the sharpness of cooking tomatoes. Spaghetti sauce, Kincaid guessed.

“Give over, Sarah. You’ve got sauce all over the cooker.” The boy made another grab for the spoon but the girl snatched it back and turned with a howl.

“Mummy! I wanna stir!” Tomato sauce dripped from the spoon to the floor in patterns like blood spattering.

“All right, you two, that’s enough.” Jo Lowell removed the spoon from her daughter’s fist as she scooped her off the stool, then swiped the floor with a kitchen towel from the roll on the worktop.

The boy flushed to the roots of his red hair. “I was just trying to help. It’s not my fault she’s made a mess. You always—”

“Harry, please.” Jo Lowell’s exasperation made it clear that this was an oft-played scenario. “Would you take Sarah out into the garden for a few minutes?”