“I couldn’t help hearing. And I remember you playing it before.”
“In Islington.” He squinted against the smoke rising from his cigarette as he studied her. “You like music, then? Do you play?”
She heard the quickening of interest in his voice, free for the first time of mockery or caution. “No, I …” She hesitated, unwilling to part with her secret. But this was the first chance she’d seen of breaking through his defenses. Shaking her head, she left the chair and wandered over to the kitchen table. She turned to face him again, her handbag clutched against her midriff like a shield. Perhaps he wouldn’t think her daft. “No. I don’t play. But I … I want to learn the piano. I’ve started lessons.”
He ground out his cigarette and came across to her, pulling one of the kitchen chairs away from the table until he could flip it round and straddle it. “Why?”
Gemma laughed. “You sound like my teacher. Why does everyone want to know
“Go on.”
“I don’t know. Connected with myself, somehow.” She smiled, as if making light of it would protect her from ridicule, but he merely nodded as if it made perfect sense. “What about you?” she asked. “You’re good—I know that much. Why do you do this?” Her gesture took in the small flat, the clarinet, the signs of a meager existence.
“I like my life.”
“But you could play in an orchestra, a band—”
“Oh, right. Sit in a monkey suit in a concert hall, or play in some poncey restaurant where no one listens to you?”
“But surely the money would be—”
“I make enough as it is. And nobody tells me when to go to work, or when to go home. Nobody owns me. I could pack up tomorrow and go anywhere, free as a bird.”
Gemma stared at him. She was close enough to notice that his eyes were a clear, pure gray. “Then why don’t you?”
The question hung in the silence between them. After a moment, she said, “That freedom is an illusion, isn’t it? We all have ties, obligations. Even you, as much as you try to deny it. Is that why you broke things off with Annabelle? You were afraid she’d get too close?”
“No, I—”
“She wanted something from you, in the tunnel. What was it?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Good question. I asked her that often enough.”
As if unsettled by the tension in their voices, Sam raised his head and whined. Gordon knelt beside him, putting a comforting hand on the dog’s head.
Gemma moved a step closer. “What did she ask you that night?”
“To reconsider. She wanted me to … to go back to the way things were.”
“And you refused her?”
He continued stroking the dog.
“Did you change your mind, go after her?”
“Do you think I killed her?”
Gemma hesitated, thinking of the shock she’d sensed when they told him of Annabelle’s death. “No,” she said slowly. “No, I don’t. But that’s my personal opinion, not a professional clean bill of health. And if I’m wrong about you, my head’s on the block.”
Standing up, Gordon faced her. “Why did you come here on your own? On the strength of that video, you could’ve had me hauled in to the station.”
Gemma touched the pages on the music stand with the tip of her finger. “I don’t know,” she answered. “I felt she meant something to you, in spite of what you said.”
Gordon hesitated, then said, “For what it’s worth, I regretted turning her away so … abruptly. She’d never asked for anything before … or given me reason to think I was more to her than a bit of rebellion on the side.” He shook his head. “But it was so unexpected … and it wasn’t until afterwards I realized she’d been crying.”
“Do you know why?”
“I came straight back to the flat—I suppose I thought she might come here.” He looked away, and the muscle in his jaw flexed. “But she didn’t. I never had a chance to ask her.”
• • •
KINCAID SAT AT A TABLE NEAR the door in the pub just down the street from Hammond’s; Gemma had agreed to meet him for lunch. Smoke filled the air in spite of the open doors, VH1 blared from two televisions mounted near the ceiling, and the menu offered prepackaged pub food.
Frowning, he sipped at his pint, wondering if he and Gemma had miscommunicated about the time or place. Her tardiness had not improved his temper, already frayed by an interview with his guv’nor. Chief Superintendent Childs had expressed himself as not at all happy with their progress on the case, notwithstanding Kincaid’s reminder that it had only been two days and they’d had very little to go on.
He’d just about made up his mind to place his order, hoping a meal would improve his perspective, when he spotted Gemma standing in the doorway. She saw him and smiled, then threaded her way through the tables to him.
“Guv.” She looked flushed from the sun, and a damp tendril of hair clung to her cheek.
