search of the videotapes. “And we’d better have a word with the owners here, too,” he added. The gates that led to the three attached riverside houses were open, allowing a glimpse of a green and inviting enclosed garden.
As he moved on, one of the cheerful-looking red and blue DLR trains pulled into the elevated Island Gardens Station across the street. Gemma watched it, her brow furrowed. “She could have gone anywhere.”
“What?”
“There are three hours unaccounted for between the time Reg Mortimer says he left Annabelle in the tunnel and the time Dr. Ling estimates she died. The train was so close, she could have gone anywhere in London.”
At Island Gardens Station, Ferry Street became Saunders Ness Road, and Janice had instructed him to continue along almost to its end. He glanced at the round-domed entrance to the tunnel as they passed, and at the crowds still making the most of their Sunday afternoon in Island Gardens. Through the park’s spreading plane trees he could see the glint of the Thames, and across the river the white, classical symmetry of the Royal Naval College. “Then someone brought her body back, to make it look as though she were killed on her doorstep?”
“We can’t rule it out.”
“No, but let’s not complicate things any more than necessary for the moment. It’s just as likely she never left the Island, or even this neighborhood.” Once they were past the park, new developments of flats lined the river, each one of slightly different character and architectural style.
“This looks an odd place for a business.” Gemma touched his shoulder as she leaned across to look out his window.
“This was one of the first areas to be heavily redeveloped. Most of the old riverside warehouses have been razed in the last few years to make way for upmarket flats.”
“You’ve been grilling Janice again.”
“Might be more accurate to say she’s been instructing me, whether I like it or not. Hammond’s is one of the last of the old warehouses on this stretch of the river. Look, this must be it.”
He parked the car at the curb and got out, studying the building. It was four-storied, brown-bricked, a square bastion of Victorian industrial prowess, but its grimness was relieved by an arch of orange brick set in above each of its many windows, and another over the main door. A pediment rose above the flat roof, giving the facade an incongruously playful air, and beneath that had been set in plaster
Joining him, Gemma tried the glossy, dark blue front door. “Locked. But at least it’s a bit cooler this side if we have to wait.”
Kincaid examined the school across the street. Although the main complex ran to uninspired postmodern, a separate structure at the front proclaimed its Victorian origins with the same triangular embellishments and orange trim as the warehouse. “Not much hope of finding a good witness for Friday evening here. Let’s have a look round the back of the warehouse,” Kincaid said as he turned towards the river. There were no windows along the side at ground level.
The building was flush with the waterline in the back, so that the bricked pedestrian walkway that ran along the river was forced to detour round the front. “Dead end,” he reported, exasperated. “The place is a bloody fortress.”
“People stole things from warehouses in the old days, too.” The tide was out; Gemma wrinkled her nose at the dank smell rising from the exposed mud.
“True, but there must be ground access round the far side. They needed loading bays for wagons even in the days when they brought goods in from the water.
“The river probably smelled worse then, too,” Kincaid added, leaning over the walkway railing for a look at the rubbish revealed by the receding water. “And people probably just left a different sort of litter. Not very encouraging, is it?” He gazed at the three dark smokestacks of the power station across the river, then at the gleam of the Naval College further round the curve. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ve made any progress at all.” Pointing across the river towards the college, he added, “Look at what Christopher Wren accomplished.”
“I’ll vote for plumbing, thank you,” said Gemma, and he realized it was the first time he’d seen her smile all afternoon. The bridge of her nose had turned pink from the sun and the faint dusting of freckles across her cheeks had darkened.
“You all right?” he asked, brushing her cheek with his fingertip.
“Just hot.” She pushed a tendril of damp hair from her brow and looked away.
“I thought—”
A car door slammed nearby. “That came from round the front,” said Gemma, listening. “Someone’s here.” She retraced their steps towards the front of the warehouse and he followed, wondering just what he had meant to say.
A SLENDER, FAIR WOMAN IN JEANS and a yellow tee shirt stood before the door of the warehouse, keys dangling from her hand.
Kincaid called out and she whirled round, looking startled.
“Sorry,” Kincaid said as they reached her. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. We’re with Scotland Yard.” He showed her his warrant card and introduced Gemma, then asked, “Are you Teresa Robbins?”
“An Inspector Coppin rang me.…”
“She’s the local officer on the case. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” Kincaid smiled, hoping to put her at ease.
“But I don’t see how I can possibly help you.” Teresa’s thin face was pleasant, if unremarkable, and bore signs of makeup hastily applied to cover the ravages of weeping.
“You can start by looking round very carefully as we go in. I want you to tell us if you see anything at all out of the ordinary.”
“But why—”
“Could Miss Hammond have come here on Friday night to finish up some work?” Gemma suggested.
