Childhood on the Isle of Dogs, 1870–1970
Kincaid slid into the car and gingerly touched the steering wheel, then snatched his fingers back. “Bloody hell. I’ll bet you could fry eggs on the dash.”
They had left William Hammond on his own, with his assurances that he just needed a chance to get his bearings, but to Gemma the weight of grief in the warehouse had felt so tangible that even the scorching heat outside was a relief. “It’s a terrible thing to lose a child, even if they’re grown,” she said as she grappled with a seat-belt buckle that seemed molten. “Do you suppose it’s even harder if that child is as perfect as Annabelle Hammond seems to have been?”
“She can’t have been all that perfect, or someone wouldn’t have killed her.”
“Are you saying it was her fault she was murdered?” Gemma retorted, then felt a little embarrassed by her defensiveness.
“Of course not.” Kincaid glanced at her in surprise. “But let’s look at what we’ve got so far.” Starting the car, he pulled it forward into a patch of shade and let it idle, fan running. “Annabelle Hammond was extremely beautiful, which, you have to admit, usually implies some degree of self-absorption. She was headstrong, even going against her father’s wishes in the running of the family business, which leads to the next point—she apparently had a real passion for her job. Passion makes people dangerous.”
Gemma thought of Gordon Finch, wondering if Annabelle’s passion had extended to him. She said, “I suspect she’d got cold feet about marrying Reg Mortimer. Otherwise, why put it off?”
“We keep coming back to Mortimer, don’t we? Why don’t we stop at the Ferry House, see if we can confirm his movements on Friday night.”
Realizing with a start that the afternoon had stretched into early evening, she pulled her phone from her handbag. “It’s getting late. I’d better give Hazel a ring first and check on Toby.”
“Oh, shit.”
“What?” She looked up in alarm, her finger poised over the keypad.
“I completely bloody forgot. I promised to take Kit to the station.” He glanced at his watch as he jammed the car into gear. “And there’s no one else.”
“The Major?” Gemma suggested, but even as she spoke she remembered he didn’t drive.
“No car. And I’ve imposed upon him enough this weekend as it is. I’ll have to drop you at Limehouse, and get back to Hampstead as quickly as I can.”
KINCAID BERATED HIMSELF AS HE TURNED into the bottom of Carlingford Road. He’d meant to ring during the day and check on Kit, and he’d certainly meant to keep the promise he’d made to him about tonight, but once he’d got involved in the case, his good intentions had come to nought.
Kit sat on the steps leading to the flat, his arms wrapped round his knees, his bag beside him. He watched, unsmiling, as Kincaid pulled up to the curb, and did not rise to greet him.
Kincaid got out and crossed the street. “I’m sorry, Kit. I got hung up.”
Kit didn’t look at him. “I’ve rung Laura and told her not to meet the train.”
“We’ll get you on the next one, then I’ll let her know when to pick you up.” When Kit didn’t respond, Kincaid jingled his keys impatiently in his pocket and added, “Have you said goodbye to the Major?”
This elicited a scathing glance. “Of course I have. And thanked him. Do you think I was brought up in a barn?”
Kincaid closed his eyes for an instant and took a deep breath, the equivalent of counting to ten. “Well, shall we go, then? The sooner we get you to the station, the sooner you’ll be … back in Cambridge.” He had almost said “home.” But since his mother’s death in April, Kit had been without a real home.
Kit stood, his face averted, and trudged to the car as if his feet were mired in treacle. When Kincaid had stowed the boy’s holdall in the Rover’s boot, he got in beside him, pausing when he put the key in the ignition. “We’ll go on to King’s Cross, then if there’s time before the next train, I’ll take you for something to eat. And you still won’t be very late back.”
“It doesn’t matter now. I’ll have missed Tess’s obedience class,” Kit said stonily, his eyes fixed on some invisible point in the windscreen.
“You didn’t tell me Tess had an obedience class.”
“I never had a chance, did I? I’ve hardly seen you all weekend.”
“Kit. I said I was sorry. But sometimes things come up—”
Swinging round to face him, Kit spat out, “You’re always late.” Red spots flared across his cheekbones and he rubbed the back of a fist across his trembling lower lip. “You say you’ll do something, then you don’t keep your word. You’re just like my dad.”
Kincaid clenched his hands round the steering wheel. “Give me a chance, will you, Kit? I’ve never done this before. It’s hard enough for me to juggle my job—”
“Then don’t bother.” Kit turned away, his lips clamped tight and his chin thrust up in defiant bravado. “It’s just the same old crap, isn’t it? My dad—”
“Just because I have a commitment to my job doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you. I’m not going to lose interest, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Dad did. He—”
