Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“As if you never do,” she muttered.

“Dammit, Gemma, I’m—” He stopped himself. Arguing would only make her more stubborn, he knew, and there was no point turning this into a full-blown row. He’d done enough damage losing his temper the last few days.

The lift doors opened, and as they waited for the disembarking passengers to exit, Kincaid saw that the lift was unusually large and had a uniformed operator. Once inside, he discovered the high-tech counterpart to this rather old-fashioned courtesy: a security camera and monitor, mounted near the ceiling.

They took up positions against the bench in the back as the other passengers crowded in. “If he admitted a relationship with her, I suppose your strategy worked,” he said quietly.

She gave him a wary glance as they continued their descent, as if assessing his change of tone. The camera view shifted from the tunnel to the interior of the lift, and for a moment he saw himself with Gemma beside him. Then the lift sighed to a stop and the doors slid open, disgorging them into the white-tiled dampness of the tunnel.

As they started down the gentle incline, he saw that the condensation from the curving walls had collected into rivulets on the sloping concrete floor. The sounds of voices and footsteps ricocheted eerily round them; from somewhere he heard music. “What exactly did the video show?” he asked. “Did Finch leave with her?”

“It seems Reg Mortimer was telling the truth, at least to a point, about what happened here.” Gemma moved closer to Kincaid, allowing a cyclist walking his bike to pass. Bicycles Strictly Prohibited signs had been plainly posted at the tunnel entrance. “Annabelle stopped and spoke to Gordon Finch, and Mortimer was nowhere to be seen. She seemed to be arguing with Finch, but he didn’t respond. Then she walked away, and a few minutes later he packed up and left.”

“Did he meet her afterwards?”

“He says he went straight home. I’ve asked Janice to send someone round this evening to check with his landlady.”

Glancing at Gemma, he thought she looked pale, but he didn’t know if it was due to the cold light reflecting from the white tiles or the thought of the weight of the river above them.

They walked in silence as they neared the flat stretch of the tunnel, and the echoing music resolved itself into a very bad vocal rendition of “Bad Moon Rising,” accompanied by abysmally played guitar. Wincing, Kincaid commented, “I should think people would pay this bloke not to play. If Gordon Finch is anywhere near this untalented, Annabelle might have been trying to persuade him to give it up.”

“He’s—” Gemma stopped, giving him a look he couldn’t read. Ducking her head, she fished in her handbag and tossed a fifty-pence piece into the busker’s case as they passed. “I’m sure that wasn’t the case.”

“Did Finch admit to knowing about Annabelle and his father?”

“He says he’d no idea. And we can’t be sure she was having an affair with Lewis Finch, just because she was seen with him.”

“Right,” Kincaid said sarcastically, a little amused at Gemma’s determination to think the best of Annabelle Hammond.

They were climbing now, nearing the Greenwich end of the tunnel, and Gemma’s pace had increased enough that Kincaid had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her. The music had faded until it came to them in intermittent, if still discordant, waves.

The tunnel’s end came into view, with clearly visible daylight filtering down the stairwell beside the lift. Gemma bypassed the lift doors. “Let’s take the stairs. I don’t think I can bear being closed up another minute.”

“Reg Mortimer and Annabelle would have come this way that evening. The lifts close at seven,” Kincaid said. Then he added, with a glance at the spiraling steps above them, “But I daresay going down is easier than going up.”

“Reg says they left the dinner party because Annabelle wasn’t feeling well; Jo says they had a row; Teresa Robbins and Annabelle’s father say they never fought about anything. So who’s telling the truth?” Gemma mused as they climbed.

“I’d say Jo, as far as it goes—but I don’t think she’s told the whole truth. We’ll need to talk to Mortimer again, but perhaps Jo can give us a bit more ammunition.”

Emerging a few minutes later, a bit breathless, into sunlight and warmth that felt welcome for a change, they saw before them the tall masts of the Cutty Sark. They detoured round its bow to reach King William’s Walk, then made their way through the center of Greenwich. Small and somewhat tatty shops nestled beside flower-bedecked pubs, and many businesses bore Save Greenwich placards on their windows.

“Save Greenwich from what?” asked Gemma as they passed a particularly inviting pub called The Cricketers.

“Developers, I imagine. With the underground extension going in, this will be a prime area for commuter flats.” It would be a shame, he thought as they left the town center behind and began climbing up through the terraced streets, for Greenwich to fall to bulldozers now when it had escaped much of the devastation suffered by the Isle of Dogs during the war.

By the time they reached Emerald Crescent, he could feel a film of sweat beneath his shirt. The lane seemed even sleepier on a Monday afternoon than it had on a Saturday evening, but a knock at Jo Lowell’s door brought a quick response.

Harry Lowell stared at them, eyes wide in his thin face. It was clear he knew them now as the bearers of bad news.

“It’s all right, Harry,” Kincaid told the boy gently. “We just want a word with your mum.”

“She’s in the shed. I’ll take you.” Harry turned and they followed him through the silent house. “Sarah’s having a nap after lunch,” Harry explained as they crossed the back garden, “and Mummy tries to work when Sarah’s sleeping because she’s such a little pest.” When they reached the small blue shed, he put his head round the door and said, “Mummy, it’s the police.”

Jo Lowell came to the door, wiping her hands on a cloth that smelled of spirits. “What—”