“And you left her there?” Kincaid asked. “At the edge of the tunnel?”
Mortimer flushed. “There’s never any point arguing with Annabelle when she makes her mind up about something. But I did try. She said she was all right, she just needed a few minutes on her own. So after a bit I went on. The funny thing is … when I was halfway up the other side I looked back, and I could have sworn I saw her talking to the street musician.”
“There was a busker in the foot tunnel?” Gemma asked, surprised. It seemed an odd place, but then she’d seen them often enough in the tube station tunnels.
“There usually is, in the center of the flat stretch. But I don’t remember seeing this chap before.”
Kincaid uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward a bit, a signal to Gemma that his attention was fully engaged. “Did you go back, then?”
Mortimer wrapped his hands round his cold cup as if for comfort and shook his head. “I wish I had, now.”
“Did you see her again?”
“I waited at the pub for an hour, then I waited outside her flat.”
“You don’t have a key?” Kincaid’s tone indicated skepticism.
“No. Annabelle is adamant about her privacy,” Mortimer answered without defensiveness. “I went back to the tunnel, but there was no sign of either of them. Then I tried the flat again, and rang her from my mobile.”
“And then?”
“I went home. I started phoning again at first light, and I’ve been round to her flat and to the office—we work together—periodically all today. This afternoon I rang her sister, but she hadn’t heard from her, either.”
“Does Miss Hammond make a habit of going off like that?” Kincaid asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Mortimer said dryly. “And she’s certainly never done anything like this before. You think she’s gone off with some bloke for a dirty weekend, and I’m having a fit of the vapors over it, don’t you?” he added, his voice rising.
“Not at all,” said Kincaid. “We’re very interested in what you’ve told us.”
Reg Mortimer’s eyes widened and Gemma heard the quick intake of his breath before he said, “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Just bear with us a bit longer, Mr. Mortimer,” Gemma said gently, in an effort to put him at ease. “We don’t know that anything has happened to your fiancée, but it would be helpful if you could give us a bit more information about Miss Hammond.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mortimer answered. “Annabelle’s thirty-one. She was thirty-one in January. She’s the managing director of Hammond’s Teas. It’s her family’s business—Annabelle took over from her father five years ago. I handle the marketing side of things. The warehouse is just down the far end of Saunders Ness Road.”
Gemma hadn’t a clue where that might be, but she wrote it down in her notebook. “And what does Annabelle look like?” She saw the tendons flex in Mortimer’s hands as they tightened on the mug. “Height?” she prompted, not wanting to give him any longer to ponder the significance of the questions.
“About like you. And she’s slender, with red hair.” He studied Gemma. “But not like yours—it’s lighter, almost golden, and longer, too.”
“Eyes?”
“Blue.”
“And can you tell us what she was wearing last night?” Gemma asked, eyes on the pen poised over the page of her notebook.
She felt his gaze on her face before he answered softly, “A black jacket. Long, with silvery buttons. And a little black skirt.”
Making a conscious effort not to glance at Kincaid, Gemma wrote deliberately in her notebook. She felt none of the elation she’d expected over an almost certain identification. Until this moment, the anonymous woman had been merely a puzzle; now she had become real, someone with a name, a job, a family, a lover.
Kincaid rested his fingertips on the edge of the table. “Mr. Mortimer, you’ve been very helpful, and we appreciate that.”
Gemma looked up and reluctantly met Reg Mortimer’s eyes, knowing she needed to observe his reaction as Kincaid continued.
“But I’m afraid I have to tell you that the description you’ve given us of Annabelle Hammond matches that of a woman found this morning in Mudchute Park.”
Mortimer’s face was still, expressionless. He licked his lips. “Dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
For a moment longer Reg Mortimer stared at them, the only change the draining of color from his face. Then the handle of the tea mug he still held snapped cleanly off. He looked down at the shard of cheap pottery in his hand, as if he couldn’t quite work out where it had come from.
“If you could make a formal state—”
“Since when?” Mortimer demanded.
“Sometime last night. I’m afraid we can’t be more definite than—”
“How?”
“Mr. Mortimer, we’re not sure of anything yet. If you could just give us her sister’s name and—”
“I want to see her.”
“I’m afraid it’s customary for a family member to make the identification,” Gemma said gently. “If you could just—”
“Surely you won’t make Jo …” His voice broke.
“It’s procedure, Mr. Mortimer. I’m—”
“I don’t think I can bear not knowing.”
Although she understood his plea, Gemma shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
Mortimer rose unsteadily to his feet. “Then I think I’d like to go home.”
Kincaid pushed back his chair. “We’ll arrange it. But if this busker was the last person to see Annabelle, we’ll need to talk to him. Had you seen him before? Can you describe him?”
For a moment, Gemma thought Mortimer hadn’t heard, but he wiped a trembling hand across his mouth and seemed to make an effort to collect himself. “The street musician? I’d never seen him before. And I didn’t really look when I passed him in the tunnel.… But when I looked back …” He closed his eyes, frowning, then gripped the back of his chair for support as he swayed a little. “He was tall.… I remember Annabelle was looking up at him. Short hair … fairish. Military clothes.”
“What instrument did he play?” Gemma asked.
Reg Mortimer opened his eyes. “I remember I thought it a bit unusual. The clarinet.”
KIT STOOD IN THE CENTER OF Kincaid’s sitting room, watching the millions of sparkling, dancing dust motes illuminated by the late afternoon sun that blazed in through the open balcony doors. Having placed his holdall at the end of the sofa, he’d unzipped it and taken out one of his natural history books, placing it carefully on the coffee table so that he’d feel like he belonged here. He’d only spent the night in the flat once before—usually Duncan came to Cambridge and took him out somewhere, or he stayed with the Cavendishes in the big house while Duncan stayed with Gemma—and he had so looked forward to this weekend, just the two of them on their own.
Sid, Kincaid’s black cat, lay curled on a patch of sunlit carpet, eyes slitted in contentment. Kneeling, Kit ran his fingers through the cat’s silky fur and scratched behind his ears. He felt the vibration of the cat’s purr travel through his fingers and up his arm until it seemed as if it were reverberating inside his brain. The contact made him miss Tess with an almost physical pang.
Cats were all right, he supposed—he’d never had one, never had a dog for that matter until Tess had come into his life—but there was nothing like a dog for making you feel less lonely.
He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. He wouldn’t bloody cry, not even here on his own, though these days he fought a constant battle against the tears that seemed to hover behind his eyelids, waiting to pounce on him at the most humiliating moment.