“Nothing. He’s a bastard, that’s all.” Patches of damp had begun to appear on his starched blue shirt. He’d come in that morning shaved and dressed with his usual smartness, but as the day wore on the atmosphere in the warehouse had seemed to exact a physical toll on him, as it had on everyone.
Teresa had arrived early, taking it on herself to inform the sales and production staffs of Annabelle’s death. She had somehow got through it without breaking down, and they had all made a stunned attempt at business-as-usual. It was when she’d shut herself in the large office she’d shared with Annabelle that her composure had dissolved completely. She had wept again, but now that she’d got it over with she felt a bit more able to cope.
“Martin may not even vote the shares,” she said now, attempting to calm Reg. “He knows nothing about the business, after all.”
“He’s a banker, for God’s sake—he understands finance. And he’ll realize he has the power to affect any decision the board makes.” Reg grasped the front of his desk as if for support.
“He’d have to influence one of the other major shareholders to swing a vote. Annabelle said he and Jo weren’t on good terms, and I can’t see your father or William—”
“You know what we have to do. And we might be able to pull it off, unless bloody Martin Lowell interferes.”
“You can’t mean to approach your father now, with Annabelle—” Teresa swallowed hard.
“I don’t see that we have much choice.” Reg stood, still grasping the desk, looking up at her through the fringe of hair that had fallen over his brow.
Watching him, Teresa tried to recall the comfort she’d felt yesterday in his arms. But now he seemed to be disintegrating before her eyes, and for the first time she felt a little frightened. “Just wait a bit. Everything will be fine,” she added, trying to reassure herself as much as him.
“Will it?” He pushed his hair back with a visibly shaking hand and came round the desk. “I wish I had your confidence, Teresa.” Lifting his jacket from the hook on the back of the door, he stood, his face inches from hers. A fine tracery of red veins showed in the whites of his eyes. “Annabelle didn’t deserve you,” he said softly. “And neither do I.” Then a draft of cooler air touched Teresa’s cheek as the door swung shut behind him.
She went out to the catwalk and stood, staring down into the warehouse long after he had disappeared through the front door. When Superintendent Kincaid rang a few minutes later, she had to tell him she had no idea where Reg Mortimer might be.
STANDING IN THE LANE OUTSIDE JO Lowell’s house, Gemma gave Kincaid a questioning look as he retracted the antenna on his mobile phone.
“No joy,” he reported. “Mortimer is temporarily away from the office. We’ll keep trying.”
Gemma glanced at her watch. “We have some time before our appointment with Lewis Finch. I think we should have a word with William Hammond while we’re here.” She nodded towards the house nestled into the side of the hill above them, its pale aqua door just visible through the trees. “I’d like to see what he has to say about the Finches, and about Martin Lowell’s unexpected inheritance.”
“Aren’t we going at this roundabout? We haven’t talked to Lowell yet.”
“We’ll pass right by the bank on our way back through Greenwich.”
“All right. Let’s pay Mr. Hammond a call, then.” Kincaid led the way as they crossed the lane and climbed the steps set into the hillside.
It was cooler under the trees, and the filtered light illuminated patches of multicolored impatiens among the vines. “Someone likes to garden,” said Gemma. “Or liked to,” she amended as they neared the top. “It’s a bit wild now.”
On closer inspection, the aqua door also showed faint signs of neglect, its paint chipped and peeling near the bottom. Gemma rang the bell, and as they waited she listened to the birdsong coming from the surrounding trees.
William Hammond answered the door. He wore red braces over a white shirt and suit trousers, and on his feet only stockings. For a moment he stared at them without recognition, and then said, “I’m sorry,” adding, with a gesture at his attire, “you’ve caught me resting. I’m afraid I’ve not been sleeping particularly well.” He ran his long fingers through his hair in an attempt to arrange it. “Have you any new information?”
“I’m sorry, no,” Kincaid answered. “But there are a few questions we’d like to ask you. It won’t take long.”
“Please, come in,” said Hammond so hospitably that Gemma had the feeling he didn’t find their presence all that objectionable. Perhaps any company was better than time spent with his own thoughts, she reflected.
In the sitting room, dark green velvet drapes had been pulled wide to admit the smallest breeze. Gemma caught the faint scent of dust, and of something it took her a moment to recognize as glue. A pair of men’s dress shoes sat neatly beside the sofa, and the cushion at one end bore the imprint of a head.
