“Martin, listen to me. Annabelle’s dead. She’s been murdered.”
“What?”
“You heard me. They found her body in Mudchute Park yesterday morning.” Jo watched him, wondering how long it had been since she’d seen his face wiped clean of his perpetual disapproval.
Then his lips twisted and he said, “Serves the bitch right.”
“Martin, don’t—”
“What was she doing, shopping her wares in the park? That’s what happens to whores like her. You should have known—”
“You bastard!” Jo’s hand seemed to lift of its own accord. Through a haze of fury she felt the impact of her palm connecting with his cheek; her eyes filled with tears as her skin began to smart. Cradling her injured hand with the other, she stepped back, afraid of retaliation, then realized that Martin was far too aware of the stares of passersby to risk incurring any more attention. She’d made a public spectacle of him, and there was nothing he hated more.
“That was bloody uncalled-for,” he hissed at her. Her handprint stood out white against his flushed cheek. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“I don’t care what sort of villain you’ve chosen to make of her, she was my sister. My sister! How could you—” Swallowing, she looked away, not trusting herself to go on. She gazed at the tea garden, where the interested spectators had gone back to their drinks and conversations, with only an occasional glance towards Martin and her.
“Don’t you ever get tired of playing the martyr, Jo? I should think that even you would have to put some limits on forgiveness—”
“It doesn’t matter what I feel now. I’ve got to tell the children. And I thought you might …”
“Might what? Tell them a little morality tale? Explain to them that this is what happens to tarts and home- wreckers?”
Jo felt her anger drain away as quickly as it had come, and she swayed with exhaustion. It had been a hopeless quest, and now she wanted only to go home, but she couldn’t, not yet. “Promise me you won’t talk to the children about Annabelle. Promise me you won’t say these things to Harry.”
Martin stared at her, the chin she had once thought strong thrust out in obstinate refusal. “Why shouldn’t I tell them the truth? You’ll make a saint of her—”
“At least promise me you won’t see them until they’ve had a chance to absorb it. They’re children, for God’s sake. Can you for once think of someone besides yourself?”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” he said venomously, and she suddenly saw the same endless argument, spiraling down through all the days of her life. And she’d been foolish enough to think that divorce would mean an end to it. She closed her eyes and his voice faded until it was a faint, tinny squawking.
“Jo, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you dare bloody faint on me, do you hear me?” Martin’s fingers bit into her shoulder, pulling her back. “Did you hear me? I said I’d not take them this afternoon. Now go home.”
He released her and, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers, walked away.
KINCAID DID HIS BEST TO JUGGLE a ham salad sandwich as he drove. One hand for steering and one for shifting left none for eating, and as he transferred the sandwich to his right hand while shifting with his left, he had a fleeting fantasy that one day the Yard would put comfort before budget and equip fleet cars with automatic transmissions. Next he’d be dreaming of air-conditioning, he chided himself.
“Want to switch?” Gemma asked as she polished off the crumbs remaining in her clear, triangular sandwich box.
“Almost there,” he said through a mouthful. Swallowing, he added, “And we’ll be a bit early, I think.”
“In that case, we might’ve had these in luxury.” Gemma tucked her empty box into a rubbish bag and sipped at a bottle of fruit juice.
“In the canteen? Right.” The smell of hot grease in the stifling midafternoon heat had encouraged them to grab their prepackaged sandwiches from the canteen at Limehouse Station and make a hasty exit.
He turned right into Ferry Street and pointed. “There, on the right. That’s the pub where Reg Mortimer says Annabelle meant to meet him. The Ferry House.”
“Well, we haven’t any proof, have we?” The street jogged abruptly to the left just after the pub, so that it ran parallel to the river on one side and Manchester Road on the other. Kincaid drove slowly, taking advantage of the Sunday afternoon calm to study the flats between the pub and Annabelle Hammond’s. “We’ll have to send someone to have a word at the pub, and extend the house-to-house along this stretch here. Someone might have seen something.” He tucked the last bit of sandwich in his mouth. “Mortimer might have invented the story about the busker as well.”
“I don’t think so.” Gemma frowned. “Did you believe him? Gordon Finch, I mean?”
Kincaid thought while he chewed, then said, “If he knew why we’d brought him in, he’s a bloody good actor. But I’d also swear he knew Annabelle Hammond, and that the idea of her having a connection with his father didn’t surprise him.”
“I don’t believe he knew she was dead.”
“Meaning he can’t have killed her? Then why not admit he knew her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s not in the habit of dealing cooperatively with the police,” Gemma said with a hint of sarcasm.
“I thought we were quite civilized.” They’d reached Annabelle’s building and he swung in towards the curb, idling for a moment. “For now, I suppose we’ll wait and see what DI Coppin turns up before we get out our hobnailed boots.” Janice Coppin had informed them that the tunnel employed security cameras, and she’d set out in
