“Will you take an active role in the firm, Mr. Lowell?” asked Gemma.
Martin Lowell’s glance at her was frankly assessing, and Kincaid saw Gemma flush.
“Any other course would be irresponsible, don’t you think, Sergeant?” Lowell smiled, holding her gaze until she looked away. Then he stood, with another obvious look at his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind …”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Lowell,” Kincaid said with mild sarcasm as he rose.
When they reached the street, Kincaid touched Gemma’s shoulder. “What was that all about?”
Gemma scowled. “Who gave Martin Lowell license to think he’s God’s gift to women?”
TO GEMMA, HERON QUAYS LOOKED CHEERFULLY informal compared with the classic lines of Canary Wharf just to the north, across the middle section of West India Dock. The complex was low-rise, and its slanting roofs, red and purple siding, and white iron balconies made her think of Swiss chalets gone riot. Janice had told her it was one of the early Docklands projects, and that Lewis Finch had kept an office there since the completion of the first phase in the mid-eighties.
As they walked along the waterside, Kincaid said, “I’m curious about William Hammond and the Finches, since Hammond denies having anything against them. Do you suppose Jo misunderstood what her mother said?”
Gemma shrugged. “Maybe he’s just too polite to admit his class prejudices to us.”
“Snobbery hardly constitutes a feud, and Jo Lowell doesn’t seem the type to take it as such,” Kincaid murmured as he opened the door emblazoned with the “Finch, Ltd.” logo Gemma had seen on hoardings round the Island.
She breathed a sigh of relief as they entered the air-conditioned outer office. Outside, the sun glaring off the surface of the Dock had seemed to raise the temperature a good ten degrees.
When Kincaid had given their names, the rather harried-looking receptionist had smiled and led them into the left-hand office.
Gemma saw the view first—of the monumental Canada Tower across the Dock framed foursquare by the plate-glass window—then her attention was captured by the man who came towards them, hand outstretched.
She saw the resemblance at once—not so much in physical similarities, although those were evident, as in presence. Lewis Finch had about him the same sort of intensity that had first drawn her to Gordon, but in Lewis it had been translated into power.
“You’ve just caught me,” said Finch, firmly shaking Kincaid’s hand, then Gemma’s. “Sit down, please. Normally, I’m out on site this time of day, but the officer who phoned said this was urgent?” He was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened slightly at the collar, but that did nothing to detract from the instant impression of the sort of effortless elegance that came with wealth and success. Whatever advantages this man had been given, thought Gemma, he had put them to superb use.
“What can I do for you, Superintendent?” Finch asked, settling into the chair on the other side of his desk.
“You’re aware of the death of Miss Annabelle Hammond?”
“I … Yes, I just learned of it this morning—I was away over the weekend. It’s a terrible loss,” he said, his voice heavy with regret, and Gemma suddenly realized that not once had Martin Lowell expressed any sorrow over his sister-in-law’s death.
“You knew Miss Hammond well?” Kincaid asked.
“I’m not sure anyone knew Annabelle
“And you were … involved during the whole of that time?”
Finch studied Kincaid, and for the first time Gemma detected wariness in his manner. “If by that you mean did we have a sexual relationship, the answer is yes—when we both found it convenient. You have to understand that Annabelle was extremely independent.”
“Tell us about her,” said Gemma. “What was she like?”
When Lewis Finch looked at her, Gemma saw that his eyes were the same clear gray as his son’s. “Annabelle had a talent for getting what she wanted—sometimes ruthlessly so—and she had the rare gift of knowing exactly what that was, at least in the professional sense. She was also intelligent, courageous … impossibly self-absorbed, and in some ways surprisingly loyal.”
“A contradiction?” prompted Gemma.
Finch nodded. “Compellingly so.”
“Were you aware that she was engaged to be married?” asked Kincaid. “I don’t know that her relationship with you constitutes a display of loyalty.”
Finch frowned. “An odd sort of loyalty, perhaps. But in my experience, most people who stray outside a committed relationship justify their behavior by complaining about the injured partner. Annabelle never did that.”
“Mr. Finch,” said Gemma carefully, “were you aware that Annabelle also had a relationship with your son?”
Finch stared at her. “With Gordon? No, I was not.”
“Annabelle Hammond seems to have been fascinated by your family. Have you any idea why?”
“No. She never said anything to give me that impression.”
“And she didn’t tell you that she was aware of your connection with her father?”
“What are you talking about, Superintendent?” Finch’s voice was level, but Gemma felt the tension in the room rise.
