As if alerted by something in his mother’s voice, the boy turned and really looked at them for the first time. “But—”
“Harry.” Jo’s tone was firm.
With a last glance at them, he capitulated. “Okay, okay.” Taking his sister by the hand, he said as he led her towards the door, “Come on, Sarah. I’ll let you bat.”
Gemma smiled as the garden door banged after them. “A great sacrifice, bowling to your little sister.”
Jo shook her head. “Harry’s life seems to be full of trials these days. But you don’t want to hear about that. Please sit down.” She gestured towards the breakfast alcove to the left of the back door, then turned to the cooker. Steam billowed from a large pot behind the saucepan. “Let me just turn these things off.” As she adjusted the knobs, the gas flames dwindled to blue, then sputtered out. She turned and leaned against the cooker, arms folded across her chest. “Can I get you something?”
“No, we’re fine, thanks,” Kincaid said, studying Jo Lowell as he pulled out a chair for Gemma. A smudge of tomato sauce adorned her tee shirt, and her jeans were stained with splotches of paint; a cotton scarf held her dark auburn hair back in a careless ponytail. She wore no makeup and her skin was slightly freckled. He thought she looked a bit too thin, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well. Although attractive, she bore little obvious resemblance to the dead woman in Mudchute Park. But then there was the boy’s hair.… He seated himself so that he could see out the large window into the garden. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions about your sister.”
“My sister?” Her surprise seemed so genuine that he wondered what she had been expecting.
“Her fiance, Reginald Mortimer, has made a missing persons report. He said he’d rung you?”
Jo gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Yes, he did, but I just assumed Annabelle was still narked with him and had made herself temporarily unavailable.”
“Then this has happened before?”
“Well, no, it’s just that last night …”
Before Jo’s hesitation could develop into real caution, Gemma interposed. “What happened last night?”
“They were here—Reg must have told you—and I think they had a bit of a row. That’s Annabelle’s way if she’s cross with you—she cuts you off for a bit.”
“Is that why they left? Because they’d had a row?”
“Why do you want to know?” asked Jo Lowell. “Look, I think you’d better tell me what’s going—”
“Have you any idea what the row was about?” Kincaid said, not yet willing to be deflected.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Shifting her stance against the cooker, Jo clasped her hands together.
“This was a dinner party?” prompted Gemma. “Celebrating anything in particular?”
Through the open door, they could hear Harry’s continuous grumbling and Sarah’s high, strident voice making the occasional response. Jo glanced out the window over the sink, then said, “No, it’s just that my husband and I are divorced, and this was my first attempt at entertaining on my own.”
“Must have put quite a damper on your party, your sister and her fiance having a row,” Gemma said sympathetically.
“It was a bit uncomfortable,” Jo admitted, frowning.
“I understand they work together. It must be awkward there, as well, if they don’t get on.”
Jo shrugged. “I’d say they get along better than most—they’ve had long enough to work out their differences.”
“They’ve known each other a long time, then?” Kincaid asked.
“Since we were children. Our parents were friends. In fact, it was Father who encouraged Annabelle to take Reg on.”
“In the professional sense, you mean, not the personal?”
“Father’s always had dynastic ambitions for Annabelle, and Reg fits the bill quite nicely all round. A merger of the Hammonds with the Mortimers would almost make up for not having a son in the firm.”
“What’s so special about the Mortimers?” asked Gemma.
“Sir Peter—Reg’s father—is rather a big cheese in restaurants and hotels, that sort of thing. I’m quite fond of him, actually. Annabelle could do worse in the way of a father-in-law.” Frowning, Jo added, “What is this all about? Surely you’re not taking this missing persons thing seriously?”
“Mrs. Lowell, have you seen or heard from your sister since she left your house last night?” He knew he was slipping into policespeak, but, like the ceremonial and familiar language of funerals, it had its uses.
Jo stared at him. “No, but there’s nothing unusual about that. Sometimes we don’t talk for weeks. What —”
“Mrs. Lowell, I think you should sit down.”
She came slowly, unwillingly, to the table, slipping into a chair without taking her eyes from them. Her expression was anxious. “What’s happened? Is Annabelle all right?”
He looked out the window at the tableau formed by the two children on the green square of lawn. Sarah Lowell stood with her back to them, bat raised, and as her brother threw the ball the sun glinted from his hair.
If they were wrong, Jo Lowell would endure the trip to the morgue for nothing. And if they were right, he wished he could preserve for her this moment untouched by loss, bound by the sound of the children’s laughter on the evening air.
KINCAID HAD SENT GEMMA HOME AFTER their return from the morgue. They’d not make any further progress on the case tonight, and he’d only to tidy up the tag ends of the paperwork at Limehouse Station. Or so he’d insisted, but the truth of the matter was that he’d needed a bit of time on his own to
