Kissed a Sad Goodbye (10 page)

This missive was signed with a large calligraphic K and embellished with birdlike squiggles.

Kincaid found a light blanket in the linen cupboard and covered Kit as far as the cat. Then he put the sandwiches and milk in the fridge, quietly poured himself a finger of twelve-year-old Macallan, and carried the note and his drink across the room to the armchair. There he sat for a long time, motionless except for the occasional lifting of his glass, watching the gentle rise and fall of Kit’s breathing.

A
FTER SHE HAD PUT THE CHILDREN
to bed, Jo slipped next door and let herself into her father’s house with her key. He had taken Sir Peter and Helena to dinner at the Savoy, but he would be home soon and she had steeled herself to break the news to him then.

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak to the children, not yet, although she knew she’d have to face it in the morning. They’d gone to bed without a fuss, a signal that they sensed something was wrong, but they hadn’t asked. Nor had they questioned her unexplained absence when the police had driven her to the morgue, though Harry had made a token complaint about being sent to the neighbors’ for a while.

Standing in the hallway, she listened to the sounds of the empty house. The grandfather clock ticked; the floor creaked; from the kitchen came the low hum of the fridge and the intermittent drip of the tap. She had grown up in this house, and to her it seemed a living, breathing entity, as familiar as her own body. It had its own unique smell, and she closed her eyes as she tried to pick out the individual components. Was there the faintest hint of tea rose still, four years after her mother’s death? It had been her mother’s scent, and the house had been filled with the garden’s roses from spring to frost. Did odors linger like ghosts, invisible, yet there for those able to perceive them?

She gazed up at the portrait of her mother on the landing. The beaded lace veil and headdress Isabel Hammond wore in the portrait hid most of her red-gold hair, but the eyes that looked down at her were Annabelle’s.

The only blessing Jo could see in her sister’s death was that her mother had not had to endure it. Although her mother had seen Annabelle more clearly than most, she had loved her fiercely nonetheless. As Jo loved her own children, despite their faults—and she found her mind could not fasten on the thought of their deaths, at any age.

Moving into the dining room, she encountered her father’s essence; the muskiness of his shaving soap, overlaid with the sharpness of glue and the slight spiciness of balsa. He had always been good with his hands, and when her mother’s ill health, and then his own, had compelled him to turn the day-to-day running of the business over to Annabelle, he’d begun building scale models of tea clippers. Since childhood he’d been fascinated by the intricacy and precision of the ships that had first brought tea to Britain.

The dining room table served as his workbench, and he’d not only given up any pretense of using the room for its original function, he’d built special illuminated shelves to hold his creations.

Jo picked up the half-completed model in her hands, running her fingers over the curve of the hull, searching for imperfections. Would his bits and pieces of wood be enough to compensate for the loss of a daughter he had valued above all else?

He still lived on income from his interest in the firm—as did she, to some extent. The money from her shares supplemented her own business, allowing her to work from home, and to be there for the children. Would Hammond’s provide security for any of them, with Annabelle gone?

Jo shook her head and went to the drinks cabinet. No point thinking that far ahead, yet. There was this evening to get through first; tomorrow she would think about the
next thing. She’d learned that when her mother died. And that there was no harm in the occasional numbing drink. Pouring some of her father’s treasured Courvoisier into a snifter, she carried it to the sitting room and sank into the armchair by the empty fireplace. The windows stood open and the edges of the drapes moved fitfully in the night air.

Green velvet; her mother’s choice. If Jo stood near them she thought she could smell the pipe tobacco her father had smoked when they were children. It had been Annabelle who had bullied him into giving it up. She’d claimed it made her feel sick, that she couldn’t bear to be in the room with him when he smoked; then she’d administered the coup de grâce by refusing for weeks to kiss him good night. As a power play it had been brilliant, a harbinger of things to come.

Jo’s hand jerked at the sound of a car coming up the lane and the brandy sloshed over the lip of the glass. She held her breath. How could she possibly do this? What preparation had she in her thirty-four years that would allow her to tell her father this terrible thing? For a brief moment she hoped that Reg Mortimer had phoned his parents, and that Peter and Helena had told him; then she cursed herself for a coward. Gravel crunched as the car turned into the drive. She heard the gears shift as it began to climb.

Carefully, she set the glass on the end table and rose. Her limbs felt awkward, uncoordinated as a toddler’s, and once she had managed to unfold herself from the depths of the chair, she stood rooted to the spot. The car door slammed and a moment later she heard her father’s key in the door she had left unlocked.

The door swung open. “Jo?”

She found her voice. “In here, Dad.”

“Good. I could have sworn I’d locked the door, and I’d hate to think I was becoming an absentminded old dodderer.” Coming into the sitting room, he offered his cheek for a kiss. He wore the light gray summer suit that set off
his silver hair. In his late sixties, William Hammond was still a handsome man, and since Isabel’s death he’d had a time of it fighting off what Annabelle called “the widows’ club.”

Had
called, Jo reminded herself. She swallowed. “Dad—”

“Peter and Helena send their regards. I see you’ve got a drink already. I think I’ll join you in a nightcap. Didn’t want to overdo and drive; you know how touchy they are these—”

“Dad.” Jo touched his arm. Her hand was shaking. “I need you to sit down.”

William peered at her face. “Are you feeling all right, Jo?”

“Dad, please.” She saw his expression of mild concern turn to alarm.

“What is it, Jo? Are the children all right?”

“They’re fine. It’s—”

“Is it Martin?”

“Dad, please.” She pressed her hand against his chest so that he was forced to retreat a step. When the backs of his legs hit the edge of the sofa, he sat involuntarily. Jo dropped to her knees before him. “Dad, it’s Annabelle. She’s dead.”

“What?” He stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Annabelle’s dead.”
Annabelle’s dead
. The phrase echoed in Jo’s head like a children’s nursery rhyme.

William drew his brows together. “Don’t be silly, Jo. Whatever is the matter with you?”

Jo reached out and grasped his hands in hers. The skin on his knuckles felt like silk under her fingers. “The police came to my house. Reg reported her missing because she didn’t come home last night.”

“But surely they’ve just had a tiff of some sort—”

“That’s what I thought when he phoned me this afternoon. But the police found her body. I know. I saw it.”

“No …” The muscles in William’s face began to sag
with shock, like modeling clay held too close to a flame. He shook his head rigidly. “There must be some mistake, Jo. Annabelle can’t be dead. Not Annabelle …”

Not Annabelle. Never your precious Annabelle
. “Daddy, I’m so sorry.” As she squeezed her father’s hands, she felt the enormity of it overwhelm her. Annabelle had always been there, to love and to hate. However would she manage without her?

When Kincaid’s alarm blared, he was sleeping with his pillow over his head. It was already full daylight at six o’clock, and when he emerged from his cocoon, the air from the open window smelled fresh and clean. That made him a bit less reluctant to roll out of bed, though it didn’t quite compensate for having to get up at such an ungodly hour on a summer Sunday morning. The postmortem on Annabelle Hammond was scheduled for eight o’clock, and he’d arranged last night to meet Gemma at the Yard beforehand and go together from there.

Although he showered and shaved as quietly as he could, when he tiptoed into the sitting room on his way to the door, Kit stirred and opened his eyes.

“What time is it?” Kit asked sleepily, propping himself up on his elbow. “Did you just get home?”

“It’s half past six in the morning, and I’ve been home but I have to go out again.” Kincaid bent down to stroke Sid, who had abandoned Kit and was rubbing madly about his ankles, purring. “I was going to leave you a note.”

Kit threw off the blanket and sat up. “Can I go with you?”

“Sorry, sport. It’s work.”

“But it’s Sunday.”

Kincaid sighed. “I know. But that doesn’t matter when there’s a case on.”

“It’s a murder, isn’t it?” Kit stared at him, wide awake now.

Pushing Sid gently out of the way, Kincaid sat on the edge of the coffee table.

Before he could answer, Kit continued, “You could take me with you. I’d wait in the car. I wouldn’t be any trouble.”

Kincaid thought of the body that would be laid out on the stainless steel mortuary table, and of what would happen to it. “Kit, I can’t. It’s just not on, and I have no idea how long I’ll be.”

“But I have to get the train back to Cambridge tonight.” Kit’s blue eyes widened in alarm. “I’ve got school tomorrow; it’s exam week. And there’s Tess—”

“I’ll get you to the train, don’t worry. And in the meantime, why don’t you take the Major up on his offer. I think you’d like Kew.” Kincaid glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, sport, but I’ve got to—”

“There’s nothing for breakfast.” Kit’s mouth was set in the stubborn line Kincaid had begun to recognize as his way of coping with disappointment.

“I know,” Kincaid said with a rueful smile. “I’d planned we’d do the shopping together.” He thought for a moment. “I’ve an idea.” Removing his wallet, he peeled off a few notes. “There’s a good cafe round the corner on Rosslyn Hill. Why don’t you treat the Major to a proper breakfast. There’s enough for the tube and your admission to the gardens, as well.” He tucked his wallet back into his pocket, then hesitated a moment, not knowing how to make Kit understand that he wasn’t abandoning him by choice.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Kincaid said finally, and as he let himself out of the flat, it occurred to him that perhaps his
justification wouldn’t hold water, because he had, after all, chosen the job.

“M
ILE
E
ND AT EIGHT O’CLOCK ON
a Sunday morning,” muttered Gemma as they made their way down into the bowels of the hospital. “Just where I wanted to be.” She hated the smell of disinfectant and the underlying, cloying smell of illness.

To distract herself, she thought of the music store she’d seen as she walked to the Angel tube station this morning. It had been closed, of course, but she’d crossed Pentonville Road and peered in the windows. Maybe tomorrow she’d have a chance to buy the music books Wendy had recommended, and at next Saturday’s lesson—assuming this case allowed her to go—she would actually start playing the piano.

Last night, after putting Toby to bed, she’d dimmed the lights and poured a glass of white wine from the open bottle in the fridge. Then she’d stood, hesitating, looking out into the twilit garden. As much as she valued her all too infrequent opportunities for solitude, she’d felt itchy, unable to settle; she wondered if a few minutes’ quiet chat with Hazel would help her erase Annabelle Hammond’s image from her mind.

As she’d quietly let herself out of the flat and made her way across the garden, she blessed the chance that had led her to the Cavendishes. Hazel had not only offered to care for Toby, along with her own daughter, while Gemma worked, but she’d become a much-valued friend as well. In many ways, Gemma felt closer to Hazel than she did to her own sister, for she’d learned blood was no guarantee of sympathy or common interest.

She’d found Hazel and Tim sharing a quiet moment at the kitchen table, drinking mugs of hot cocoa. “I’m interrupting,” she’d said, one hand still on the doorknob. “I’ll just say good night.”

“Don’t be silly. Come and sit down,” Hazel had said,
patting the chair beside her. “I’d offer you cocoa, but I see you’ve brought your own tipple,” she’d added with a glance at Gemma’s wineglass. “Hard day?”

“A right bugger.” Gemma had wandered over to the table but hadn’t sat. “And you can imagine what Toby was like after a day at Cyn’s. He fought going to sleep like it was the end of the world, then passed out from one second to the next.” Touching the soft knitting wool in Hazel’s basket, she’d added, “Would you mind if I went into the sitting room for a bit?”

Tim had looked up from his paper and smiled. “Help yourself.”

She’d wandered into the sitting room, drawn by the piano. Sliding the cover back, she’d run her fingers lightly over the keys just for the smooth feel of them, then pressed a few randomly, listening to the notes vibrate and die away. She couldn’t imagine that she would ever be able to string the notes together in a way that would make music—and after her talk with Wendy Sheinart, she found herself trying to work out why she had such a strong desire to do so.

There had been a case the previous autumn that had unexpectedly opened up the world of opera for her, and she’d found herself fascinated … and since moving into the garage flat, Hazel’s wide-ranging collection of CDs had allowed her to sample everything from piano concertos to improvisational jazz … and then in the spring there had been the street musician with the clarinet, who had drawn her to listen whenever she passed the Sainsbury’s on her way home from work. An odd coincidence, she thought fleetingly, that Reg Mortimer had described a busker with a clarinet, but surely it was no more than that.