go round, then held up a dog biscuit. “All right, girl, you want the biscuit, you come and get it. Come on! Jump!” He whistled coaxingly, and after a few aborted attempts to go round the sides, Tess jumped effortlessly over the log.
Kit whooped with delight as he fed her the biscuit, then flopped flat on his back in the grass while Tess tried to lick his face, one of their favorite games.
Suddenly, he had the odd sensation that he was being watched. He sat up, holding his squirming dog by the collar, and looked round the garden. It took a moment to make out the man standing by the gate, in the deep shadow of the yew hedge. His heart gave a thump of fear, then he realized there was something familiar about the figure.
The man lifted a hand to the latch and stepped through the gate, and as he moved into the sunlight, Kit saw his face clearly. Swallowing against the constriction in his throat, he said tentatively, “Dad?”
• • •
“IT’S NOT IN THE BEST OF taste, is it?” Kincaid said to Gemma as he stared up at Reg Mortimer’s building.
His meeting with Chief Superintendent Childs had left him distinctly out of sorts. Childs had just fielded a call from Sir Peter Mortimer, demanding to know why the police were badgering his son rather than making progress in finding Annabelle Hammond’s murderer, and he had transferred his irritation to Kincaid with instructions to get somewhere bloody quick—and to go easy on Mortimer.
When Kincaid had suggested that the two things might not be synonymous, considering the fact that Mortimer had apparently lied to them from the beginning, Childs had warned him against making any allegations he couldn’t back up.
Gemma shaded her eyes against the glare as she examined the building’s little rounded balconies and portholes. Funnel-like structures rose from its top, while one side of the building cascaded downwards in a stepping-stone series of penthouse terraces. “I think it’s jolly. A child’s fantasy of living in an ocean liner, rather than a tree house. Looks a bit posh, though.”
As he watched her, he thought she seemed remarkably unwilted for having slogged about in the heat most of the day. She’d been waiting for him at Limehouse Station and had soon caught him up on what had happened in his absence.
After her visit with Jo Lowell’s neighbor, she’d rung Martin Lowell’s bank, only to be informed that he was away at a meeting for the afternoon. But she’d at least finagled his home address.
While waiting for Lowell to get home, they had decided to try Reg Mortimer’s flat, even though Mortimer hadn’t answered his phone.
Only in passing had she mentioned to Kincaid that she’d seen Gordon Finch again, and that Finch had claimed he hadn’t known of a connection between his family and Annabelle’s or of his father’s relationship with her.
It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask her why she hadn’t pressed Finch harder, but he’d bitten back his comment, realizing he didn’t trust his own motivations.
Following her now as she made her way round the building to the entrance, he wondered if the difficulty lay with him or with her. He was ordinarily comfortable with Gemma’s interviewing skills, so why was he letting the matter of Gordon Finch get his nose out of joint?
As she reached the main doors, Gemma looked back and smiled at him, and he was glad he’d resisted his earlier impulse to snap at her. “Care for a cruise, mate?”
“Just as long as the ship stays firmly on dry land,” he replied, holding the door for her.
Inside the building, a speedy lift whisked them up to the level of Reg Mortimer’s flat. Kincaid knocked on his door, then they waited in the hush of the corridor. Gemma stood inches from him, and he could smell the sweet and distinctive scent of her skin. After a moment, he knocked again, looking at her with a shrug. “Where do you suppose—”
He stopped as the click of the dead bolt came clearly through the door. “It seems we’re in luck, after all.”
The door swung open. Reg Mortimer had discarded his tie; his pink shirt was rumpled and the tail had come partially untucked. He shoved back the brown hair that had fallen over his forehead in an unruly wave and groaned. “What is it this time?” he demanded.
Kincaid smiled. “People are always so happy to see us—I think we must be more popular than the dentist.”
“At least the dentist doesn’t bother you at home,” Reg retorted. Then he stepped back reluctantly, adding, “I suppose you’d better come in.”
The door opened directly into a large sitting room and Kincaid looked round with interest. The place struck him as faintly tropical. Two white, cotton-covered sofas faced each other across a round sisal rug. Table and bookcases were of pale, clean-lined oak, and the windows were dressed only in white linen shades pulled to half-mast. Light from riverside windows flooded the space. The room’s color came from the lime and tangerine cushions tossed on the sofas and the contemporary paintings adorning the walls. The only immediate signs of human occupation were provided by a vase of wilted day lilies on the coffee table and a jumble of papers spread out on the gateleg table that stood half open against one wall.
“Nice flat,” Kincaid said admiringly, taking a seat on one of the white sofas. “Hiding out from work, are you?”
Reg sank down onto the edge of the opposite sofa. “I kept thinking that Annabelle was just away for a bit, on a buying trip, maybe … expecting her to walk through the door.… It still doesn’t seem real, somehow.” He glanced at Gemma, who had moved behind him and was surveying the paintings with her hands clasped behind her back, as if visiting a gallery. “Is that usual?” he went on. “What I mean is, you deal with this sort of thing all the time.… I’ve never experienced …”
“People find various ways of dealing with violent death. Perhaps that’s why you’ve been less than truthful with us, Mr. Mortimer.”
“What—what are you talking about?” Mortimer’s eyes widened, and in the bright light Kincaid saw the sudden dilation of his pupils. There was no doubt the man was frightened of something.
“Did you think that Jo Lowell wouldn’t tell us what really happened at that dinner party?” Kincaid asked, giving him a last chance.
