The headline jumped out at him from the front page of the tabloid. WOMAN FOUND MURDERED IN MUD- CHUTE PARK IDENTIFIED. He read on, at first with the sort of uneasy curiosity engendered by the mention of violence on one’s own doorstop—then with unbelieving horror.
It couldn’t be. He read it again, tracing the words with his finger as if he were a child, willing it not to be true.
At last, he lowered the newspaper with shaking hands, his vision blurred. What had he done?
Years of hatred had spilled in a moment of fury—then he had let her walk away, white-hot with her own anger. And he feared she’d gone straight to his son.
LOOKING IN THE OPEN DOOR OF Janice Coppin’s dimly lit office, Gemma saw a television on a portable stand flickering bluely in one corner. “You wanted to see me?”
Janice sat on the edge of her desk, sorting through a pile of videotapes. “Did the guv’nor reach you?” she asked, looking up. The room smelled of stale cigarette ends and Gemma saw that the tin ashtray on the desk was near to overflowing, although she didn’t remember ever seeing Janice smoke.
“On my mobile,” Gemma replied. She’d awakened to find Toby fractious and feverish, not a good omen for a Monday morning. By the time she’d got him settled in front of the telly at Hazel’s, she was running late, and Kincaid had rung her to say he’d keep the appointment he’d made with Annabelle Hammond’s solicitor on his own. She’d not had a chance to ask why he hadn’t stayed last night, and he hadn’t offered an explanation.
Coming farther into the room, Gemma peered at the juddering black and white image on the telly screen, her interest quickening. “What have you got?”
“The security-camera video from the foot tunnel. I spent the morning in their office, watching the footage from all the cameras on the time-lapse VCR. Once we’d isolated this camera, they made me a copy.”
Gemma noticed her creased blouse and flattened hair. “What time did you come in?”
“Crack of dawn, it feels like. But worth it.” Janice put down the videos she was holding and picked up the remote. “Watch.”
It was an odd perspective, with pedestrians moving in both directions in the foreground while the tunnel receded in the distance. Then Gemma saw what someone had momentarily blocked—Gordon Finch, standing against the curving tunnel wall, his clarinet case and his dog at his feet. Then the tape jumped jerkily to the next recorded segment, reminding Gemma a bit of an old silent film.
Now a woman stood in front of Gordon, her back to the camera, but Gemma recognized her sleek, black jacket and short skirt, and even in monochrome the wavy fall of her hair was unmistakable. It was Annabelle Hammond.
From her body movements, she seemed to be speaking, but Gordon didn’t respond. Annabelle reached out, touching his arm in a gesture of entreaty. Only then did he look at her and shake his head. For a moment, Annabelle stood there, hand still on his arm. Then she shoved past him and walked away down the tunnel, anger visible in every stride.
The tape jumped again. Gordon Finch slowly broke apart his clarinet and knelt to put it in its case. Still squatting, he leaned back against the white-tiled wall of the tunnel, his eyes closed, one hand resting on the dog’s head.
Then again, the now-familiar jerk and pause, and the frame showed nothing but moving pedestrians and an unoccupied segment of white-tiled wall. Janice stopped the tape.
Gemma realized she’d been holding her breath. “That’s all?”
“There’s no sign of either of them after that, on any of the cameras,” Janice replied as she rewound the video. “But there’s no doubt, is there, that it’s Annabelle Hammond?”
“So he lied to us.”
“It’s certainly obvious he knew her.” Janice slid off her desk and switched on the overhead light, then went round to her chair, brushing a speck from her trousers as she sat down.
That Gordon had known Annabelle came as no surprise to Gemma, but she had not been prepared for the emotional intensity of the eerily silent scene, or for the oddness of seeing Annabelle Hammond come to life. “But did he follow her?” she asked.
“It didn’t look as though they were making an assignation,” said Janice. “She wanted him to do something, and he seemed to be refusing.”
Gemma sat slowly down in the visitor’s chair, smoothing her skirt beneath her thighs. She’d pulled the coolest item she could find from her wardrobe this morning—a short, loose, Indian cotton dress. “Maybe she wanted him to meet her, and after she left he changed his mind.”
“But she was the one who was angry. Why would
“We don’t know what they were arguing about. Or what he might have been building up to,” Gemma countered.
“Even if he met her later, it doesn’t mean he killed her. And what about Mortimer? He says he saw them together—what proof do we have that Mortimer didn’t wait for her?” Janice’s blunt face was set in a stubborn scowl.
Gemma studied her. “You’re defending him, aren’t you? Gordon Finch, I mean. Why?”
“I’m not,” Janice said hotly. Then she shrugged and looked embarrassed. “It’s just that I’d admired what he stood for—you know, the Robin Hood sort of thing. Rich man’s son comes back to his roots and supports the working classes. Probably all a load of bollocks, and it’s not as if his father hasn’t done his part for the Island. And speaking of the father,” Janice added, “I’ve come up with something.”
Gemma thought she detected reluctance. “He cheated on his income tax,” she joked, but Janice didn’t smile. “All right,” said Gemma. “Out with it, then.”
“You were right about George Brent. I went back to see him last night, and it wasn’t too difficult to get him to ‘remember’ where he’d seen Annabelle Hammond.”
