along after …”
“That’s daft, Teresa. It never even crossed my mind. I wanted you. I wanted someone who wouldn’t turn away—but you did.” Moving a step closer, he said, “You believe them, too, don’t you? You think I killed her.”
“No, I—”
Reg grabbed her, his thumbs digging painfully into the soft flesh of her arms. “Don’t bloody lie, Teresa. I can see it on your face. You—”
The door swung open and Jo exclaimed, “What the—”
Slowly, Reg let Teresa go. “What’s the verdict, then?” he demanded. “Banishment from the kingdom?”
“Reg, I’m sorry.” Jo shook her head. “We’re asking Teresa to step in as acting director.”
He gave a strangled laugh that was almost a sob. “Not you, too, Jo?”
“I’m sorry,” Jo repeated. “It’s not because I think you murdered Annabelle—I don’t believe that. But I think it’s the best thing for the company. You’re out of control, Reg. You need—”
“All you Hammonds can go to hell, so just shut up, Jo. Don’t you dare tell me what I need.” He turned away from her, back to Teresa, and his eyes were bright with tears. “They’re right, you know. If anyone can salvage what Annabelle sowed, it’s you—but don’t say I didn’t warn you about the consequences of throwing your lot in with the Hammonds. They’ve a bloody talent for betrayal.”
JANICE LOOKED UP FROM HER DESK at Kincaid and Gemma conferring in the corridor. There was a tension between them this morning, subtle but evident if one was aware of the signs. If Gemma was trying to juggle the personal and the professional, as Janice now strongly suspected, she didn’t envy her the task—although she supposed that even if Kincaid was a bit of a prat sometimes, he was not bad as far as men went.
Of course, everyone’s frustration level was running high—it had been six days since they’d found Annabelle Hammond’s body, and they weren’t much further forward. So far, forensics had not turned up anything of significance in either Annabelle’s flat or her car, and they were still processing the samples from the warehouse.
Kincaid had had another meeting with his chief superintendent that morning, and Janice knew the brass was pressuring him to come up with something. She still had her money on Mortimer—he was the obvious suspect with the clearest motive—but they’d not been able to put together enough evidence to justify searching his flat. It was too bad—
Her phone rang. She picked it up quickly, reaching for a cigarette. A distressed female voice asked for Sergeant James, and cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, Janice called out, “Gemma! Phone.”
Coming into the office, Gemma took the receiver and sat on the edge of the desk, listening. “Right,” she said. “We’ll try the flat first. We’re on our way.” She passed the phone back. “That was Teresa Robbins. She says Reg Mortimer left Hammond’s after the board meeting this morning, and he seemed so upset and irrational she’s worried for his safety.”
REG MORTIMER ANSWERED THE DOOR ON the first ring, holding it open for them without speaking. Kincaid thought his face looked blotchy, as if he’d been weeping, and as they followed him into the sitting room he wiped the back of his hand across his nose.
“Teresa rang us,” said Gemma. “She was concerned about you.”
“How magnanimous of her.” He stood with his back to them, looking out the window at the river, gray under the scudding clouds.
In the few days since they had last seen it, the flat seemed to Kincaid to have acquired an aura of neglect. A fine coating of dust lay on the furniture, in the kitchen he could see dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the warm room held the faint smell of spoiled food.
Nor had Mortimer fared well. His clothes looked wilted, his skin was sallow, and his once-shiny chestnut hair seemed lank and lifeless.
When he didn’t face them again, Gemma said to his back, “Can you tell us what happened at the meeting this morning, Mr. Mortimer?”
“They made Teresa managing director, with encouragement from Martin Lowell. You’d think he might have displayed a bit of solidarity, the two of us having been through the same war, so to speak.”
“Surely she’s capable—”
“Of course she’s capable,” Mortimer said impatiently. “And deserving. It’s not that.”
“Then what’s the problem? You worked happily enough for Annabelle—why not Teresa?”
“No.” Mortimer’s voice sharpened as he turned round at last. “You don’t understand. I
“What vultures?” Kincaid asked.
Reg stretched his lips in a smile. “I’m afraid I got in a bit over my head.”
Kincaid nodded towards the canvases on the walls. “The paintings?”
“Very perceptive,” Reg acknowledged. “Yes, among other things. Managing cash flow has never been my strong suit, and I was counting on a rather large sum that never … materialized.”
“I think you had better sit down and tell us about this deal.” Kincaid gestured towards the sofa.
Reg Mortimer came round and slumped onto the white cotton cushions, putting his head in his hands as if his exhaustion had finally overwhelmed him. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Nothing does, much,” he said through his splayed fingers. Then he dropped his hands to his lap and looked up at Kincaid and Gemma.
“It was a commission—a sort of finder’s fee, I suppose you might call it. We came to the conclusion quite some time ago—Annabelle and Teresa and I—that the only way to keep Hammond’s solvent was to sell the physical plant and use the proceeds to move the business downriver into more modern and cost-efficient premises.
“I knew a chap—a developer—who would pay any price for the property … if Annabelle could be persuaded to
