Then, as Kincaid said, “Why don’t you begin the questioning, Janice,” Gemma stopped dead on the threshold.
The man stood in the center of the room, facing them, hands jammed in the pockets of his army-issue trousers. The sleeves had been cut out of his camouflage jacket, revealing the muscular definition of his suntanned arms. Since she had last seen him, his fair hair had grown out a bit and he’d added a gold earring in his left ear.
“You’ve no right to keep me here like this,” he said, and she remembered how unexpected she had found his educated voice. “Either let me leave or I’m calling my solic—” He saw her, and faltered.
His surprise, thought Gemma, must have been greater than hers, because she realized now that at some level she’d made the connection between Reg Mortimer’s description and this man.
For a few months, he had played his clarinet in front of the Sainsbury’s on the Liverpool Road, until he had become a regular if enigmatic part of her life. Although he had seldom spoken or smiled, she’d been drawn to him in a way she could not explain. But when she’d at last ventured to speak to him, he’d answered so brusquely that she’d felt a fool, and shortly after that he’d vanished from the area. She had not seen him since.
Sitting down, Janice Coppin switched on the tape recorder and gave the date, then addressed the busker. “Your name, please, for the record.”
Without taking his eyes from Gemma, he said, “It’s Finch. Gordon Finch.”
CHAPTER 6Bounded on three sides by the river Thames, and communications hindered (in those days) by the swing bridges at the entrances to the working docks, [the Island] had (and still has) a special feeling of isolation, which separates it from the rest of East London.
Eve Hostettler, from Memories of
Childhood on the Isle of Dogs, 1870–1970
“Sit down, Mr. Finch.” Janice Coppin positioned her chair squarely in the center of the interview table; after a moment, Gordon Finch sank reluctantly into the chair on the other side. Kincaid and Gemma sat on either side of Janice and a bit back, so that Janice became the natural focus of attention.
Gemma was glad Kincaid had given Janice the lead, for it gave her a chance to study the busker, who hadn’t met her eyes again. It had been some time since she’d seen him, and she thought perhaps he’d lost weight. Surely the planes and angles of his face seemed more pronounced. His short cap of fair hair stood up in tufts where he had run his fingers through it, and darker stubble shadowed his chin.
“I want my solicitor,” he said. “You’ve no right to hold me here without my solicitor present.” How many street musicians, wondered Gemma, had a solicitor at their beck and call?
“You are free to ring your solicitor, Mr. Finch,” Janice countered. “But you understand that we are not charging you with anything—we merely want your help in answering a few questions.”
“What sort of questions?” Finch said warily, not sounding reassured.
Janice lined up her notebook at a right angle to the table’s edge. “You’re aware, of course, that busking is in direct violation of—”
“Oh, come off it, Inspector. It’s Sunday afternoon, the best day of the week, and most likely you’ve made me lose my pitch. If you mean to slap me with a fine for busking, do it. Otherwise let me go back to work before all the punters pack up their pushchairs and their picnics and go home.” He moved his chair back, as if to rise.
Kincaid clasped his hands over his knee and smiled, making it clear he had no intention of terminating the interview. “Are you an observant man, Mr. Finch? It seems to me that your particular line of work would provide you with a unique opportunity to witness the vagaries of human nature, as well as its more ordinary comings and goings.”
“Vagaries?” Gordon Finch stared at him, and Gemma chalked one up to Kincaid. “What the bleedin’ hell is that supposed to mean?”
Kincaid grinned. “I don’t believe you suffer from the constraints of the verbally challenged, Mr. Finch, but I’ll tell you exactly what I mean. You’re the ideal witness. You observe everything, but people don’t see you. How many people who pass you could say later what clothes you wore? Or what piece you played?”
Finch shrugged, but Gemma saw interest in his light gray eyes. “Ten percent, maybe. On a good day.”
Beside her, Gemma felt Janice Coppin stir with the impatience of one not used to Kincaid’s interview methods.
“Frustrating, I should think,” Kincaid continued conversationally. “Not to be appreciated. Like playing the violin in an Italian restaurant.”
“They’re punters—what can you say?” Finch shrugged dismissively. “But there are some who listen, some who even come back,” he added, glancing almost imperceptibly at Gemma.
She looked away, shifting her gaze to his hands. Although he seemed more relaxed, his hands rested awkwardly on the tabletop, as if he were used to having something in them.
“On Friday evening, you were busking in the Greenwich Foot Tunnel,” said Kincaid. “I want you to tell us what you saw.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow you.” Finch frowned slightly.
“Did anything at all unusual happen?” Kincaid leaned forward, as if he could will an answer from him.
Finch thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not that I remember. What are you getting at, exactly?”
“About half past nine—is that right, Inspector?” Kincaid glanced at Janice.
Janice made a show of looking through her notebook, although Gemma felt sure she knew the time perfectly well. “Yes, sir. Between half past nine and ten o’clock.”
“About half past nine, a man and a woman entered the tunnel together, from the Greenwich end. But according to her companion, the woman suddenly refused to go on, insisting that he leave her there and meet her later. We thought perhaps you could corroborate his statement.”
“How could I possibly know something like that?” Finch sounded more baffled than irritated.
“Because the woman was a strikingly beautiful redhead, and her companion says she spoke to you.”
Gemma saw the involuntary jerk of Gordon Finch’s hands, but when she looked up at his face, his expression was guardedly neutral. “I don’t remember anyone speaking to me. What’s all this about, anyway? Why don’t you just ask her, if you’re so anxious to know what this woman did?”
Kincaid settled back in his chair, absently turning the pen he’d picked up from the interview table round and round in his fingers. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Finch. She’s dead.”
Gemma watched Gordon Finch’s face now, looking for the telltale signs of guilt—the nervous blink, the uncontrolled twitch of the mouth—but she saw only the blankness of shock.
“What? What are you talking about?” He looked directly at Gemma this time, as if trusting her to tell the truth.
“Her name was Annabelle Hammond.” Gemma’s voice felt as if it needed oiling. “She was killed on Friday night, sometime after she left the Greenwich Tunnel.”
“But—” Finch shook his head once, sharply, and Gemma saw the flicker of some intense emotion in his eyes before his face settled into an impassive mask and he said flatly, “I can’t help you.”
Holding his gaze, Gemma said, “Then you wouldn’t know if your father knew Miss Hammond, or the nature of their relationship.”
“I’ve no idea. My father’s affairs are his business. Now, either charge me with something or let me get back to work before my day is a total sodding loss, all right?”
Gemma knew they’d no further cause to hold him. But she also had no doubt that Gordon Finch had known Annabelle Hammond, and known her well.