CHAPTER 8
Memories of Childhood
on the Isle of Dogs, 1870–1970
In the mid-eighties, Lewis Finch had chosen to live with a view of Millwall Dock rather than a view of the river; in fact, his housing estate had been one of the pioneering Docklands developments, low-rise and less than exorbitantly expensive. Although he’d had many opportunities since to sell at a profit and move into one of his own newer, more glamourous riverside developments, he liked the small scale of the place, liked knowing his neighbors, and he’d found himself loath to make a change.
Nor did he care much for travel, and having arrived home from a weekend conference late the previous evening, he’d begun his Monday morning routine with a particular sense of relief.
Shower, shave, dress, then repair with a pot of coffee, a rack of toast, and a stack of newspapers to his tiny dockside balcony.
As he buttered his toast, he gazed out at the sun-pearled, early morning mist on the water. To the north, across the Outer Dock, he could see Glengall Bridge; to the northwest, the towers of Canary Wharf rose in the distance, barely visible in the haze; to the east were the DLR and the high ground of the Mudchute.
It was his small kingdom—the Island—and if he hadn’t quite managed to re-create the past, at least he’d come to terms with his failures over the years, and with himself.
Or so he’d thought, until Friday night.
The things that had happened with Annabelle had exposed long-buried wounds, and his reaction had shocked him so deeply that he’d spent the weekend trying to regain his balance.
Today, he’d attempt to repair the damage, or at least control it. But it was too early yet to ring Annabelle at the office, so he would read the papers and drink his coffee, and try not to consider the prospect of his life without Annabelle in it.
He began with the
The headline jumped out at him from the front page of the tabloid. WOMAN FOUND MURDERED IN MUD-CHUTE PARK IDENTIFIED. He read on, at first with the sort of uneasy curiosity engendered by the mention of violence on one’s own doorstop—then with unbelieving horror.
It couldn’t be. He read it again, tracing the words with his finger as if he were a child, willing it not to be true.
At last, he lowered the newspaper with shaking hands, his vision blurred. What had he done?
Years of hatred had spilled in a moment of fury—then he had let her walk away, white-hot with her own anger. And he feared she’d gone straight to his son.
LOOKING IN THE OPEN DOOR OF Janice Coppin’s dimly lit office, Gemma saw a television on a portable stand flickering bluely in one corner. “You wanted to see me?”
Janice sat on the edge of her desk, sorting through a pile of videotapes. “Did the guv’nor reach you?” she asked, looking up. The room smelled of stale cigarette ends and Gemma saw that the tin ashtray on the desk was near to overflowing, although she didn’t remember ever seeing Janice smoke.
“On my mobile,” Gemma replied. She’d awakened to find Toby fractious and feverish, not a good omen for a Monday morning. By the time she’d got him settled in front of the telly at Hazel’s, she was running late, and Kincaid had rung her to say he’d keep the appointment he’d made with Annabelle Hammond’s solicitor on his own. She’d not had a chance to ask why he hadn’t stayed last night, and he hadn’t offered an explanation.
Coming farther into the room, Gemma peered at the juddering black and white image on the telly screen, her interest quickening. “What have you got?”
“The security-camera video from the foot tunnel. I spent the morning in their office, watching the footage from all the cameras on the time-lapse VCR. Once we’d isolated this camera, they made me a copy.”
Gemma noticed her creased blouse and flattened hair. “What time did you come in?”
“Crack of dawn, it feels like. But worth it.” Janice put down the videos she was holding and picked up the remote. “Watch.”
