“Reg,” said Gemma thoughtfully, “you knew Annabelle better than anyone, except perhaps her family—you’d been friends since you were children. She was very upset—shattered, even. What do you think she might have done when she left the tunnel?”
“Do you think I haven’t asked myself that a thousand times?” Mortimer demanded. Then he frowned. “But … when she needed a refuge, she went to the warehouse.”
“HOLD UP A BIT.” GEMMA CLASPED Kincaid’s elbow to steady herself as she slipped off her sandal and rubbed at her heel.
“Blister?”
She grimaced. “From the bloody tunnel, I think. I’d give anything for a plaster.” After leaving Reg Mortimer’s, they had walked from Island Gardens through the foot tunnel to Greenwich once again, avoiding rush-hour automobile traffic in the Blackwall Tunnel, and Gemma heartily regretted having worn new shoes.
“Not much further now,” Kincaid said sympathetically. They’d reached the entrance to Martin Lowell’s block of flats, not far from Greenwich center and the riverfront. The buildings here were redbrick, dark as dried blood, and showing signs of shabbiness. Rubbish had accumulated in corners of the courtyard, and the few shrubs looked stunted and neglected. “That looks like the flat number, straight across the court. A far cry from Emerald Crescent, I’d say.”
Gemma slid her shoe back on and straightened up. “Right, then. Let’s pay a call on Prince Charming.”
Martin Lowell yanked the door open before Gemma had even rung the bell. “What the—”
“We’d like another word, Mr. Lowell,” said Kincaid.
“I thought we’d done all that already. Look, I’m meeting someone—”
“It seems you left out a few things when we talked yesterday. Why don’t we go inside, unless you prefer we tell your neighbors about your affair with your sister-in-law.”
A door had opened two flats along and a woman with curlers in her hair was watching them with unabashed inquisitiveness.
His eyes still locked with Kincaid’s, Lowell muttered, “Nosy bitch.” But he stepped back, calling out as he allowed them into the flat, “It’s all right, Mrs. Mulrooney, nothing to worry about.”
Gemma looked round, thinking of the one time she’d visited her ex-husband’s flat after they’d divorced. Apparently there were some men incapable of making a dwelling into a home on their own—Rob had been one, and it looked as though Martin Lowell was another. This flat looked clean, at least, which was more than she could have said for Rob’s, but that was its only saving grace. The walls were the color of old putty, unadorned in any manner, and the sofa and matching armchair of a worn and undistinguished brown corduroy.
The obvious focal point of the room was a large new telly on a laminated stand. There was little else to speak of, other than a stack of financial magazines on the cheap coffee table, lined up neatly beside the remote control. The heavy mustard-colored drapes were pulled three-quarters of the way against the late afternoon sun.
“Why didn’t you tell us it was your affair with Annabelle that broke up your marriage?” Kincaid asked, moving about the room as he spoke, touching the magazines, examining the television. He stopped by the sofa as if assessing its welcome, then continued with his wandering.
Martin watched Kincaid uneasily, but didn’t invite them to sit. “I didn’t see why I should. I hadn’t seen Annabelle in a couple of years.”
“Not since she broke things off with you, in fact?” Kincaid stopped his pacing to peer into the small kitchen.
“That’s right. Was it Jo who told you?”
“Does it matter?” asked Gemma. “Were you expecting her to shield you?”
He gave her a bitter smile. “I see you’ve bought the Hammond sisters’ story lock, stock, and barrel, and I’m the villain of the piece.”
“Is it not true, then?”
“That I slept with Annabelle? Oh, that’s true enough. But it would have been all right, if Annabelle hadn’t told Jo.”
Gemma stared at him in repelled fascination, wondering just how covering up an affair with your sister-in-law made it okay.
“I suppose Jo told you Annabelle was just trying to make amends? Set wrongs right, or some such righteous crap?” Martin continued. “The truth is, Annabelle liked to stir things. She discarded men like a snake sheds skin, and once she’d no use for you, she liked to amuse herself by shredding your life to bits.”
“Are you saying Annabelle broke things off with you before she told Jo?”
“She’d set her sights on Peter Mortimer’s son—more socially advantageous for a girl going places. I suppose she thought the match would benefit her new position as managing director.”
“Perhaps she genuinely cared for him,” suggested Gemma. “Or felt comfortable with him. They’d been friends since childhood, after all.”
“If you think Annabelle did anything without an ulterior motive, you’re as stupid as all the rest of the poor suckers she sank her fangs into,” Martin said dismissively. “I even feel a bit sorry for Reg Mortimer—but not sorry enough.”
“How can you be so bloody callous?” Gemma felt the telltale flush of anger staining her cheeks, but she didn’t care. “You slept with this woman. She was your wife’s sister. She loved your children. Don’t you feel anything for her?”
For a moment she thought he would snarl back at her, but instead, he said with unexpected tenderness, “You’ve no idea what it was like to love her.… And then to be discarded with no more remorse than if she’d given an old pair of shoes to the jumble. To lose your home, and your children.” He jabbed a finger at her. “If I were you, Sergeant, I’d look very carefully at anyone Annabelle came in contact with. Because I promise you there’ll be others like me. Others whose lives she destroyed without a backwards glance. Do you think Mortimer killed her?”
