“No. Go on.”
He shifted restlessly. “That’s it. That’s all I can tell you.”
“But—”
“You don’t understand. I knew how she was with me, but nothing else. Nothing.” Going to the window, he pulled aside the lace panel and looked out. The sounds of the heavy equipment from the construction at the Mudchute DLR Station came clearly on the breeze.
When he didn’t continue, she said, “Were you …”
“Lovers?” The word carried an undertone of amusement. “Past tense. I broke things off with her months ago.”
“You broke it off with her?”
He spun round and took a step towards her. “Is that so hard to believe? Do you think I hadn’t any pride? I’d had enough of games.”
“What sort of games?”
“She came to listen to me play, just like you. And one night she came home with me.”
Gemma felt the flush creeping up her chest and throat. Is that what he’d thought the evening she’d stopped and spoken to him about his dog? She wondered if he’d been more encouraging with Annabelle—not that she’d had Annabelle’s motives, of course.… Or if perhaps Annabelle had liked the challenge.
“I should think you’d have been flattered,” she said, aiming at nonchalance as she perched herself gingerly on the arm of the old chair near the bed.
Its fabric was worn, but he’d covered it neatly with a woven purple rug, and for an instant she imagined Annabelle sitting there, framed by the contours of the chair, her hair glowing against the purple backdrop. Gemma smoothed the rug with her fingers, feeling as though she were infringing upon a ghost.
“Flattered?” With a derisive snort, he added, “By the attention of a woman who didn’t tell me her name for weeks? Who made it a point not to tell me where she lived or what she did?” He flicked ash from his cigarette end with a sharp tap of his fingertip.
“But you found out?”
“Only by accident. I’d just got off the train at Island Gardens one day. I looked down from the platform and saw her coming out of the Ferry Street flat. And once I knew her name, it didn’t take too long to make the connection with Hammond’s Teas.”
“You must have wondered why she was so secretive—what she was hiding.”
“The arrangement suited me well enough.”
“Did it?” Gemma shook her head. “I wouldn’t think the hole-and-corner bit suited you at all. Or that you’d like being treated as if she was ashamed of you.”
“All right,” he said sharply, and she knew her remark had stung. “I didn’t like it. But she said she was engaged to someone in the company, and there were reasons she couldn’t break it off.”
“What sort of reasons?”
“She wouldn’t say. I told you, she didn’t talk to me about herself. She only said that much because—” He stopped, scowling, and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray next to the first.
“Because you threatened to call it off,” Gemma finished for him. “Is that it?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Is that what ended things between you?”
“No. I just … got tired of her, that’s all.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and stared out the window.
“When did you learn about your father’s connection with Annabelle?” asked Gemma, trying a different tack.
“I didn’t know there was a connection—and I doubt you do, either. You’re fishing, Sergeant.”
“We have a witness who saw them together as far back as last autumn. And your father left a message on her answering machine the night she died.”
“So?” Gordon challenged, but she thought his face had paled.
“When did you first see Annabelle?”
He lit another cigarette. “I don’t remember.”
“You said she came to listen to you play. You must remember what time of year it was,” Gemma insisted.
“Summer, then. It was hot.”
“And when did you break things off with her?”
“A few months ago. I suppose it was early in the spring.”
Was that why he’d been so taciturn when she’d seen him in Islington? wondered Gemma. The timing fit. “And you’d not seen her again until Friday night?”
“Seeing and speaking are two different things. I’d seen her around—the Island’s a small place—but I hadn’t spoken to her.”
A current of air lifted a sheet of music from the stand and sent it drifting lazily towards Gemma. Bending to catch it, she turned it right side up. “It is Mozart you were playing. I thought it must be.”
Gordon looked surprised. “You were listening?”
“I couldn’t help hearing. And I remember you playing it before.”
“In Islington.” He squinted against the smoke rising from his cigarette as he studied her. “You like music, then? Do you play?”
She heard the quickening of interest in his voice, free for the first time of mockery or caution. “No, I …” She hesitated, unwilling to part with her secret. But this was the first chance she’d seen of breaking through his defenses. Shaking her head, she left the chair and wandered over to the kitchen table. She turned to face him again, her handbag clutched against her midriff like a shield. Perhaps he wouldn’t think her daft. “No. I don’t play. But I … I want to learn the piano. I’ve started lessons.”
He ground out his cigarette and came across to her, pulling one of the kitchen chairs away from the table until he could flip it round and straddle it. “Why?”
Gemma laughed. “You sound like my teacher. Why does everyone want to know why? I’m not silly enough to think I’m going to become a great pianist, if that’s what you think. It’s just that music makes me feel …”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know. Connected with myself, somehow.” She smiled, as if making light of it would protect her from ridicule, but he merely nodded as if it made perfect sense. “What about you?” she asked. “You’re good—I know that much. Why do you do this?” Her gesture took in the small flat, the clarinet, the signs of a meager existence.
“I like my life.”
“But you could play in an orchestra, a band—”
“Oh, right. Sit in a monkey suit in a concert hall, or play in some poncey restaurant where no one listens to you?”
“But surely the money would be—”
“I make enough as it is. And nobody tells me when to go to work, or when to go home. Nobody owns me. I could pack up tomorrow and go anywhere, free as a bird.”
Gemma stared at him. She was close enough to notice that his eyes were a clear, pure gray. “Then why don’t you?”
The question hung in the silence between them. After a moment, she said, “That freedom is an illusion, isn’t it? We all have ties, obligations. Even you, as much as you try to deny it. Is that why you broke things off with Annabelle? You were afraid she’d get too close?”
“No, I—”
“She wanted something from you, in the tunnel. What was it?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Good question. I asked her that often enough.”
As if unsettled by the tension in their voices, Sam raised his head and whined. Gordon knelt beside him, putting a comforting hand on the dog’s head.
Gemma moved a step closer. “What did she ask you that night?”
“To reconsider. She wanted me to … to go back to the way things were.”
“And you refused her?”
He continued stroking the dog.
“Did you change your mind, go after her?”
“Do you think I killed her?”
Gemma hesitated, thinking of the shock she’d sensed when they told him of Annabelle’s death. “No,” she said slowly. “No, I don’t. But that’s my personal opinion, not a professional clean bill of health. And if I’m wrong about you, my head’s on the block.”
Standing up, Gordon faced her. “Why did you come here on your own? On the strength of that video, you could’ve had me hauled in to the station.”