Kissed a Sad Goodbye

these things to Harry.”
    Martin stared at her, the chin she had once thought strong thrust out in obstinate refusal. “Why shouldn’t I tell them the truth? You’ll make a saint of her—”
    “At least promise me you won’t see them until they’ve had a chance to absorb it. They’re children, for God’s sake. Can you for once think of someone besides yourself?”
    “That’s rich, coming from you,” he said venomously, and she suddenly saw the same endless argument, spiraling down through all the days of her life. And she’d been foolish enough to think that divorce would mean an end to it. She closed her eyes and his voice faded until it was a faint, tinny squawking.
    “Jo, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you dare bloody faint on me, do you hear me?” Martin’s fingers bit into her shoulder, pulling her back. “Did you hear me? I said I’d not take them this afternoon. Now go home.”
    He released her and, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers, walked away.
     
    KINCAID DID HIS BEST TO JUGGLE a ham salad sandwich as he drove. One hand for steering and one for shifting left none for eating, and as he transferred the sandwich to his right hand while shifting with his left, he had a fleeting fantasy that one day the Yard would put comfort before budget and equip fleet cars with automatic transmissions. Next he’d be dreaming of air-conditioning, he chided himself.
    “Want to switch?” Gemma asked as she polished off the crumbs remaining in her clear, triangular sandwich box.
    “Almost there,” he said through a mouthful. Swallowing, he added, “And we’ll be a bit early, I think.”
    “In that case, we might’ve had these in luxury.” Gemma tucked her empty box into a rubbish bag and sipped at a bottle of fruit juice.
    “In the canteen? Right.” The smell of hot grease in the stifling midafternoon heat had encouraged them to grab their prepackaged sandwiches from the canteen at Limehouse Station and make a hasty exit.
    He turned right into Ferry Street and pointed. “There, on the right. That’s the pub where Reg Mortimer says Annabelle meant to meet him. The Ferry House.”
    “Says?” Gemma glanced at him.
    “Well, we haven’t any proof, have we?” The street jogged abruptly to the left just after the pub, so that it ran parallel to the river on one side and Manchester Road on the other. Kincaid drove slowly, taking advantage of the Sunday afternoon calm to study the flats between the pub and Annabelle Hammond’s. “We’ll have to send someone to have a word at the pub, and extend the house-to-house along this stretch here. Someone might have seen something.” He tucked the last bit of sandwich in his mouth. “Mortimer might have invented the story about the busker as well.”
    “I don’t think so.” Gemma frowned. “Did you believe him? Gordon Finch, I mean?”
    Kincaid thought while he chewed, then said, “If he knew why we’d brought him in, he’s a bloody good actor. But I’d also swear he knew Annabelle Hammond, and that the idea of her having a connection with his father didn’t surprise him.”
    “I don’t believe he knew she was dead.”
    “Meaning he can’t have killed her? Then why not admit he knew her?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe he’s not in the habit of dealing cooperatively with the police,” Gemma said with a hint of sarcasm.
    “I thought we were quite civilized.” They’d reached Annabelle’s building and he swung in towards the curb, idling for a moment. “For now, I suppose we’ll wait and see what DI Coppin turns up before we get out our hobnailed boots.” Janice Coppin had informed them that the tunnel employed security cameras, and she’d set out in search of the videotapes. “And we’d better have a word with the owners here, too,” he added. The gates that led to the three attached riverside houses were open, allowing a ' glimpse of a green and inviting enclosed garden.
    As he moved on, one of the cheerful-looking red and blue DLR trains pulled into the elevated Island Gardens Station across the street. Gemma watched it, her brow furrowed. “She could have gone anywhere.”
    “What?”
    “There are three hours unaccounted for between the time Reg Mortimer says he left Annabelle in the tunnel and the time Dr. Ling estimates she died. The train was so close, she could have gone anywhere in London.”
    At Island Gardens Station, Ferry Street became Saunders Ness Road, and Janice had instructed him to continue