“As if you never do,” she muttered.
“Dammit, Gemma, I’m—” He stopped himself. Arguing would only make her more stubborn, he knew, and there was no point turning this into a full-blown row. He’d done enough damage losing his temper the last few days.
The lift doors opened, and as they waited for the disembarking passengers to exit, Kincaid saw that the lift was unusually large and had a uniformed operator. Once inside, he discovered the high-tech counterpart to this rather old-fashioned courtesy: a security camera and monitor, mounted near the ceiling.
They took up positions against the bench in the back as the other passengers crowded in. “If he admitted a relationship with her, I suppose your strategy worked,” he said quietly.
She gave him a wary glance as they continued their descent, as if assessing his change of tone. The camera view shifted from the tunnel to the interior of the lift, and for a moment he saw himself with Gemma beside him. Then the lift sighed to a stop and the doors slid open, disgorging them into the white-tiled dampness of the tunnel.
As they started down the gentle incline, he saw that the condensation from the curving walls had collected into rivulets on the sloping concrete floor. The sounds of voices and footsteps ricocheted eerily round them; from somewhere he heard music. “What exactly did the video show?” he asked. “Did Finch leave with her?”
“It seems Reg Mortimer
“Did he meet her afterwards?”
“He says he went straight home. I’ve asked Janice to send someone round this evening to check with his landlady.”
Glancing at Gemma, he thought she looked pale, but he didn’t know if it was due to the cold light reflecting from the white tiles or the thought of the weight of the river above them.
They walked in silence as they neared the flat stretch of the tunnel, and the echoing music resolved itself into a very bad vocal rendition of “Bad Moon Rising,” accompanied by abysmally played guitar. Wincing, Kincaid commented, “I should think people would pay this bloke
“He’s—” Gemma stopped, giving him a look he couldn’t read. Ducking her head, she fished in her handbag and tossed a fifty-pence piece into the busker’s case as they passed. “I’m sure that wasn’t the case.”
“Did Finch admit to knowing about Annabelle and his father?”
“He says he’d no idea. And we can’t be sure she was having an affair with Lewis Finch, just because she was seen with him.”
“Right,” Kincaid said sarcastically, a little amused at Gemma’s determination to think the best of Annabelle Hammond.
They were climbing now, nearing the Greenwich end of the tunnel, and Gemma’s pace had increased enough that Kincaid had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her. The music had faded until it came to them in intermittent, if still discordant, waves.
The tunnel’s end came into view, with clearly visible daylight filtering down the stairwell beside the lift. Gemma bypassed the lift doors. “Let’s take the stairs. I don’t think I can bear being closed up another minute.”
“Reg Mortimer and Annabelle would have come this way that evening. The lifts close at seven,” Kincaid said. Then he added, with a glance at the spiraling steps above them, “But I daresay going down is easier than going up.”
“Reg says they left the dinner party because Annabelle wasn’t feeling well; Jo says they had a row; Teresa Robbins and Annabelle’s father say they never fought about anything. So who’s telling the truth?” Gemma mused as they climbed.
“I’d say Jo, as far as it goes—but I don’t think she’s told the whole truth. We’ll need to talk to Mortimer again, but perhaps Jo can give us a bit more ammunition.”
Emerging a few minutes later, a bit breathless, into sunlight and warmth that felt welcome for a change, they saw before them the tall masts of the
“Save Greenwich from what?” asked Gemma as they passed a particularly inviting pub called The Cricketers.
