Kissed a Sad Goodbye

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.
     
    TERESA STOOD AT HER SINK, WIPING the same plate over and over with a tea towel. After Jo’s call she’d sat for a long while on the edge of the sofa, the phone still in her hand. Then, stiffly, she had stood and searched out the dust cloth, and after that the vacuum.
    It was Sunday. She always did her chores on a Sunday, to be ready for the week. Whenever she tried to fix her mind on the thing Jo had told her, the thought skittered away, elusive as a bat at dusk, and she returned to the familiar loop. It was Sunday. She did her chores on Sunday.
    The strident buzz made her jump and the plate flew from her hands, clattering unharmed to the lino. It was a moment before she connected the sound to her doorbell, and then her heart leapt with hope. It had been a dreadful mistake, of course; she should have seen that.
    Dropping the tea towel in a sodden heap on the floor, she wiped the damp palms of her hands on her jumper and hurried through the sitting room. She flung the door open and stared at Reg Mortimer, who stood with his finger poised over the buzzer.
    In all the time they’d worked together, Reg had never come to her flat, though she’d had a few guilty and quickly squelched fantasies in which he had. She’d told herself often enough that Reg Mortimer floated through life like oil atop water—he was seldom ruffled, never shaken, and if anything stirred in the depths, he did a good job of keeping it to himself.
    But today she hardly recognized him. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised with exhaustion, his lips were bloodless and clamped in a thin line, and she saw that his raised hand shook slightly.
    “Teresa, I... I thought Jo must have rung you....”
    So it must be true—his presence here told her that, as did the sight of his face. “Jo said...” She faltered, then swallowed, forcing herself to continue. “But I didn’t really believe it.”
    He nodded, once, an undeniable confirmation. She stepped back and he came into the flat, closing the door behind him. For a moment they stood staring at one another, then Reg touched her shoulder awkwardly. “Teresa, I’m so sorry.”
    That he should express concern for her, when he and Annabelle had been everything to each other, pulled the last prop from her fragile composure. She covered her face with her hands and began to weep like a child.
    Reg gathered her into his arms, and it was not until her sobs had at last subsided into hiccups that Teresa began to take stock of her position. Her wet face was crushed uncomfortably into Reg’s knit shirt, just beneath his chin, while he rubbed the middle of her back with the palm of his hand. He smelled faintly of sweat and aftershave—and with that thought she realized with horror that her nose was running and she hadn’t a tissue. She pulled herself free of his arms and turned away. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m a mess.” Sniffing, she groped blindly for the box of tissues on the coffee table, knocking it to the floor.
    “It’s all right. You’re fine.” He retrieved the tissues and pressed a wad of them into her hand. “You have a good blow, and I’ll make you a cuppa.”
    “But I... but you won’t know where—”
    “I’m sure I can manage that much in your kitchen. Sit down, please.”
    Teresa sat, because her rubbery knees threatened to give out if she did not.
    She heard the opening of cupboards and the burble of the kettle, and a few moments later Reg