“And then she stopped, in the tunnel, with an astonished look on her face—you’d have thought she’d seen the Second Coming. She told me to go, but I said no, we had to talk, so she said she’d meet me at the Ferry House in half an hour, if I would just leave her for a bit. So I walked away, and it was just like I told you—when I looked back I saw her talking to the busker. But I’d no idea she even knew him, much less … Was it him she meant? Gordon Finch?”
“We can’t be certain, but Finch says he broke off their relationship several months ago, and in the tunnel that night she pleaded with him to resume things. He says he refused her.”
“Refused her? But why?”
Gemma didn’t answer his question. “Did Annabelle tell you she wanted to end your engagement?”
“Not in so many words, no. But I suppose that’s what she meant—I thought if I just gave her time to calm down, she’d change her mind.”
“Did you wait for her?”
“No. I just walked for a bit, and the more I thought, the more it seemed that she couldn’t really have meant those things she said. When I got to the pub I thought she’d be waiting to tell me it was all a mistake.”
“And when she didn’t come?”
“I’ve told you.” Mortimer drew a breath. “I rang her, then went to her flat, but she wasn’t there.”
Kincaid regarded him with irritation. They knew Mortimer had gone to the pub, had rung Annabelle from there, just as he said. Forensics had not yet found any evidence that Annabelle’s body had been moved in her car, Reg didn’t own an automobile, and Kincaid couldn’t come up with any believable scenario in which Reg had persuaded Annabelle to go with him to the park, then strangled her.
“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.”
