Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“I think she was searching for something she hadn’t found in Reg Mortimer. And she kept those relationships secret. Up to a point anyway. She only told Mortimer there was someone else under extreme provocation.”

“If Mortimer is telling the truth,” Kincaid agreed with some skepticism. “I still believe he’s holding out on us. Did you get a look at his papers?”

Nodding, Gemma stretched out her feet and wiggled toes unencumbered by sandals. “Looked like bills and bank statements, but I didn’t catch the details. Were those paintings as valuable as I thought?”

“If I remember what I read recently in the Times, I’d say twenty to thirty thousand pounds apiece.”

Gemma whistled through her teeth. “Crikey. How could he afford that?”

“Family money?” Kincaid finished his beer, upending the bottle to get the last drops. “His father’s on the Hammond’s board, but from what I’ve seen, none of the Hammonds have that sort of lolly.”

“Posh flat, expensive furniture, expensive paintings, expensive clothes … and a stack of bills and bank papers.” Gemma wrinkled her nose. “Financial overextension? But I can’t see how that would give Reg a reason to kill Annabelle. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain.”

“He might have thought she’d left him her shares. Or that he’d get her position.”

“A big risk, either way, but we should do a bit of digging into his affairs—as much as we can without getting up Sir Peter’s nose,” added Gemma.

“I’m not happy about the Finches, either—major or minor,” Kincaid said, glancing at her. “I find it very hard to swallow that neither of them learned about the other.”

“Reg Mortimer’s story seems to bear out what Gordon told us—that he was the one who rejected her. What if it was because he found out about Annabelle and his father?”

“That would give him a bloody good motive for killing her—”

“Maybe when he found out, two or three months ago. But why kill her now? When she wanted to mend things between them?”

“We only have his word for that,” Kincaid said, irritated by her defense of Finch. “For all we know, she told him it was his father she was in love with, and he snapped and killed her.”

Gemma glared at him. “According to Mortimer, Annabelle said that even if the man she loved wouldn’t have her, she wouldn’t be satisfied with less—if you weren’t being pigheaded you’d see that Mortimer’s statement supports Gordon Finch’s.”

Stung, he retorted, “And you weren’t being pigheaded when you compromised your safety by going to Gordon Finch’s flat on your own yesterday?”

“Are you still on about that? Give me credit for a bit of judgment, will you? I wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t felt perfectly safe, and I got results, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“Since when do I need telling how to do my job?”

Kincaid realized this was escalating into a full-scale row. “Gemma, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Shhhh,” she said suddenly, holding out a restraining hand. “Listen.”

It took him a moment to realize that it was the silence she meant. He sat up and looked round. The children had been huddled together, giggling, the last time he’d looked, but now they were nowhere to be seen.

“Toby?” Gemma called, setting her drink on the table and starting to rise.

Kincaid stood. “I’ll go see what they’re up to, the little buggers.” It would give him a chance to cool off.

The children were not allowed to go out the garden gate alone—even though it was only a few steps from the gate to the front door of Gemma’s flat, they would be unsupervised on a busy street. Kincaid’s heart quickened at the thought, and it was with difficulty that he kept his pace unhurried as he crossed the lawn, peering into the pockets of deeper shadow. They were simply hiding, he told himself, and as he neared the gate he caught a pale flash of movement behind the mock orange hedge.

Whistling faintly, he walked on by, and was rewarded by the sound of a stifled giggle. He backed up a step and stood looking round, as if confused, then whirled about and reached through a gap in the hedge. “Got you!” His hands closed on damp skin and the children squealed with delight. Gently, he extricated them from the shrubbery, then scooped Toby up under one arm and Holly under the other. Their small bodies were sticky from the drippings of the iced lollies Hazel had given them after their tea. “All right, you two. You stay where we can see you, or you’ll have your baths early and up to bed.”

“One more hide-and-seek, please, Duncan, pretty please,” wheedled Holly, while Toby squirmed and wiggled in his grasp.

“Can’t catch me, can’t catch me,” the boy chanted.

Kincaid tightened his grip. “I just did, you wiggle-worm. I’ll tell you what. If you’re both very, very, very good, I’ll read you a story after your baths.”

“In my room or Toby’s room?” Holly demanded, always the one for details.

Kincaid stopped and made a show of thinking, the children still dangling from his arms. “If you promise to be little angels, I’ll read the story in Toby’s room. And I’ll carry you home, Holly. How about that?”

“A fireman’s carry?” Holly had recently discovered the joys of bouncing upside down over his shoulder.

“If you like.” He plopped them in front of Gemma and they darted away like minnows scattering in a pond.

His arms felt weightless now, and the impressions of the children’s bodies lingered like an afterimage on the retina. Suddenly, he felt a longing for Kit so intense that it took him by surprise. He sat down clumsily, as if his legs had turned to jelly.