“I’M BEGINNING TO SUSPECT THAT WILLIAM Hammond may have had a convenient blind spot where his daughter was concerned,” Kincaid said as they walked down the hill towards Greenwich center in the intensifying heat of early afternoon.
“Surely that’s not unusual,” countered Gemma. “Most parents want to think the best of their children—especially if it has to do with sex. On the other hand, Jo Lowell certainly didn’t seem surprised at the suggestion that her sister had cheated on her fiancé.”
“I wonder where Mortimer fell in that spectrum. Did he think Annabelle beyond reproach? If that was the case and he found out about her affair with Gordon Finch, the shock might have driven him to kill her.”
“Or if he was suspicious already and suddenly had his fears proved. But that doesn’t explain the row at the dinner party—and we only have Jo’s word about that—or the fact that he left her in the tunnel with Gordon Finch,” argued Gemma. “And the answering machine messages seem to support his story.”
They had reached Royal Hill and Gemma paused, looking in the window of a cheese shop. In the glass, Kincaid could see the reflection of the police station across the street. “He could easily have killed her, then left messages to give himself an alibi,” he said.
Gemma walked on, swinging her handbag against the skirt of her cotton dress, leaving behind the temptations of white Stilton with ginger and Shropshire blue. “But you could hear the noise of the pub in the background, so it must have been before closing, and the pathologist says Annabelle died after midnight.”
“We’re not going to get anywhere with this until we see Mortimer again,” said Kincaid. “And in the meantime, I’d like to know why Jo Lowell was so reluctant for us to interview her husband.”
“Your curiosity is about to be satisfied.”
They found the bank as easily as Jo had promised, and the clerk at the window directed them back to Martin Lowell’s office.
“Mr. Lowell?” Kincaid tapped on the open door of the small cubicle. “We’re from Scotland Yard—Superintendent Kincaid, Sergeant James.” He showed his identification. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The man at the desk glanced up, a look of irritation marring his handsome face. Dark and clean-cut, he wore the banker’s uniform of white shirt and dark tie, but he’d rolled up his sleeves against the heat. “Scotland Yard? How can I help you? I’m afraid I have a meeting in”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes, so I hope this won’t take long.”
“It’s about your former sister-in-law, Annabelle Hammond,” Kincaid said, adjusting one of the visitors’ chairs for Gemma and taking the other himself. Lowell had neither risen nor offered his hand, and now he made no response to Kincaid’s remark. “Has the Hammonds’ solicitor been in touch with you?”
“Yes, this morning. But I don’t see why this should be any concern of yours.”
“Really?” Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “A murder and an unexpected disposition of property usually merit some interest, Mr. Lowell.”
Martin Lowell smiled for the first time. “Are you suggesting I killed Annabelle for my children’s interest in the firm, Superintendent … what did you say your name was? You must be quite desperate.”
Kincaid had no doubt that Lowell remembered his name. “Your suggestion, Mr. Lowell, not mine.” He smiled back. “I was merely wondering if you were aware of Annabelle Hammond’s intentions.”
“I’d no idea until the solicitor rang me this morning. I was certainly surprised, but I’m curious as to why you seem to think Annabelle’s leaving her shares to her only niece and nephew an unusual bequest.”
“It was the fact that she designated you as trustee I found odd, since you’re no longer married to her sister.”
Lowell shrugged. “According to the solicitor, she made the will shortly after her mother’s death, and never got round to changing it. And she may have thought me better suited than Jo to look after the children’s financial interests.”
“Will you take an active role in the firm, Mr. Lowell?” asked Gemma.
Martin Lowell’s glance at her was frankly assessing, and Kincaid saw Gemma flush.
“Any other course would be irresponsible, don’t you think, Sergeant?” Lowell smiled, holding her gaze until she looked away. Then he stood, with another obvious look at his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind …”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Lowell,” Kincaid said with mild sarcasm as he rose.
When they reached the street, Kincaid touched Gemma’s shoulder. “What was that all about?”
Gemma scowled. “Who gave Martin Lowell license to think he’s God’s gift to women?”
TO GEMMA, HERON QUAYS LOOKED CHEERFULLY informal compared with the classic lines of Canary Wharf just to the north, across the middle section of West India Dock. The complex was low-rise, and its slanting roofs, red and purple siding, and white iron balconies made her think of Swiss chalets gone riot. Janice had told her it was one of the early Docklands projects, and that Lewis Finch had kept an office there since the completion of the first phase in the mid-eighties.
As they walked along the waterside, Kincaid said, “I’m curious about William Hammond and the Finches, since Hammond denies having anything against them. Do you suppose Jo misunderstood what her mother said?”
Gemma shrugged. “Maybe he’s just too polite to admit his class prejudices to us.”
“Snobbery hardly constitutes a feud, and Jo Lowell doesn’t seem the type to take it as such,” Kincaid murmured as he opened the door emblazoned with the “Finch, Ltd.” logo Gemma had seen on hoardings round the Island.
She breathed a sigh of relief as they entered the air-conditioned outer office. Outside, the sun glaring off the surface of the Dock had seemed to raise the temperature a good ten degrees.
When Kincaid had given their names, the rather harried-looking receptionist had smiled and led them into the left-hand office.
Gemma saw the view first—of the monumental Canada Tower across the Dock framed foursquare by the plate-glass window—then her attention was captured by the man who came towards them, hand outstretched.
She saw the resemblance at once—not so much in physical similarities, although those were evident, as in presence. Lewis Finch had about him the same sort of intensity that had first drawn her to Gordon, but in Lewis it had been translated into power.
“You’ve just caught me,” said Finch, firmly shaking Kincaid’s hand, then Gemma’s. “Sit down, please. Normally, I’m out on site this time of day, but the officer who phoned said this was urgent?” He was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened slightly at the collar, but that did nothing to detract from the instant impression of the sort of effortless elegance that came with wealth and success. Whatever advantages this man had been given, thought Gemma, he had put them to superb use.
“What can I do for you, Superintendent?” Finch asked, settling into the chair on the other side of his desk.
“You’re aware of the death of Miss Annabelle Hammond?”
“I … Yes, I just learned of it this morning—I was away over the weekend. It’s a terrible loss,” he said, his voice heavy with regret, and Gemma suddenly realized that not once had Martin Lowell expressed any sorrow over his sister-in-law’s death.
“You knew Miss Hammond well?” Kincaid asked.
“I’m not sure anyone knew Annabelle well, Superintendent. She was a very self-contained person. But we’d been friends for the past year or more. We met at a neighborhood meeting.” The recollection made Finch smile.