Kissed a Sad Goodbye

open and the edges of the drapes moved fitfully in the night air.

Green velvet; her mother’s choice. If Jo stood near them she thought she could smell the pipe tobacco her father had smoked when they were children. It had been Annabelle who had bullied him into giving it up. She’d claimed it made her feel sick, that she couldn’t bear to be in the room with him when he smoked; then she’d administered the coup de grace by refusing for weeks to kiss him good night. As a power play it had been brilliant, a harbinger of things to come.

Jo’s hand jerked at the sound of a car coming up the lane and the brandy sloshed over the lip of the glass. She held her breath. How could she possibly do this? What preparation had she in her thirty-four years that would allow her to tell her father this terrible thing? For a brief moment she hoped that Reg Mortimer had phoned his parents, and that Peter and Helena had told him; then she cursed herself for a coward. Gravel crunched as the car turned into the drive. She heard the gears shift as it began to climb.

Carefully, she set the glass on the end table and rose. Her limbs felt awkward, uncoordinated as a toddler’s, and once she had managed to unfold herself from the depths of the chair, she stood rooted to the spot. The car door slammed and a moment later she heard her father’s key in the door she had left unlocked.

The door swung open. “Jo?”

She found her voice. “In here, Dad.”

“Good. I could have sworn I’d locked the door, and I’d hate to think I was becoming an absentminded old dodderer.” Coming into the sitting room, he offered his cheek for a kiss. He wore the light gray summer suit that set off his silver hair. In his late sixties, William Hammond was still a handsome man, and since Isabel’s death he’d had a time of it fighting off what Annabelle called “the widows’ club.”

Had called, Jo reminded herself. She swallowed. “Dad—”

“Peter and Helena send their regards. I see you’ve got a drink already. I think I’ll join you in a nightcap. Didn’t want to overdo and drive; you know how touchy they are these—”

“Dad.” Jo touched his arm. Her hand was shaking. “I need you to sit down.”

William peered at her face. “Are you feeling all right, Jo?”

“Dad, please.” She saw his expression of mild concern turn to alarm.

“What is it, Jo? Are the children all right?”

“They’re fine. It’s—”

“Is it Martin?”

“Dad, please.” She pressed her hand against his chest so that he was forced to retreat a step. When the backs of his legs hit the edge of the sofa, he sat involuntarily. Jo dropped to her knees before him. “Dad, it’s Annabelle. She’s dead.”

“What?” He stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Annabelle’s dead.” Annabelle’s dead. The phrase echoed in Jo’s head like a children’s nursery rhyme.

William drew his brows together. “Don’t be silly, Jo. Whatever is the matter with you?”

Jo reached out and grasped his hands in hers. The skin on his knuckles felt like silk under her fingers. “The police came to my house. Reg reported her missing because she didn’t come home last night.”

“But surely they’ve just had a tiff of some sort—”

“That’s what I thought when he phoned me this afternoon. But the police found her body. I know. I saw it.”

“No …” The muscles in William’s face began to sag with shock, like modeling clay held too close to a flame. He shook his head rigidly. “There must be some mistake, Jo. Annabelle can’t be dead. Not Annabelle …”

Not Annabelle. Never your precious Annabelle. “Daddy, I’m so sorry.” As she squeezed her father’s hands, she felt the enormity of it overwhelm her. Annabelle had always been there, to love and to hate. However would she manage without her?

CHAPTER 5Isle of Dogs, the intended site [of the West India Docks], was then a lonely, boggy waste used for the pasturing of cattle. It was said to have only two inhabitants: one drove the cattle off the marshes and the other operated the ferry to Greenwich.

      Theo Barker, from       Dockland

When Kincaid’s alarm blared, he was sleeping with his pillow over his head. It was already full daylight at six o’clock, and when he emerged from his cocoon, the air from the open window smelled fresh and clean. That made him a bit less reluctant to roll out of bed, though it didn’t quite compensate for having to get up at such an ungodly hour on a summer Sunday morning. The postmortem on Annabelle Hammond was scheduled for eight o’clock, and he’d arranged last night to meet Gemma at the Yard beforehand and go together from there.

Although he showered and shaved as quietly as he could, when he tiptoed into the sitting room on his way to the door, Kit stirred and opened his eyes.

“What time is it?” Kit asked sleepily, propping himself up on his elbow. “Did you just get home?”

“It’s half past six in the morning, and I’ve been home but I have to go out again.” Kincaid bent down to stroke Sid, who had abandoned Kit and was rubbing madly about his ankles, purring. “I was going to leave you a note.”

Kit threw off the blanket and sat up. “Can I go with you?”

“Sorry, sport. It’s work.”

“But it’s Sunday.”

Kincaid sighed. “I know. But that doesn’t matter when there’s a case on.”

“It’s a murder, isn’t it?” Kit stared at him, wide awake now.