Kissed a Sad Goodbye

it matter, really?
    Somehow that argument didn’t make her feel any better. Shrugging, she promised herself a compromise. She would tell Kincaid, the first chance she had to drop it casually into the conversation. And if she thought it necessary after she’d spoken to Finch, she’d send someone round to bring him in to the station.
    Reaching the entrance to Millwall Park, she detoured long enough to peek through the wrought-iron fence at the deserted bowling green and the substantial-looking Dockland Settlement House behind it. She guessed this would be the center of working-class social life on the Island, and that Gordon Finch might be a regular here, but she had difficulty imagining him socializing even in the service of political aims.
    Retracing her steps and continuing up the street, she’d only gone a few yards when she heard the light notes of the clarinet. She followed the sound across the street to the brown-brick house at the end of the terrace. The music came from the open upstairs window, and as she stood listening, she thought she recognized the Mozart piece she’d heard Gordon play once on the Liverpool Road.
    There were two glossy, deep blue doors on the side of the house, and the one nearest the rear bore the number Janice had given her. He must have the upstairs flat, Gemma thought. She knocked sharply and heard the dog bark once in response. It was only when the music stopped that she realized she had no idea what she meant to say.
    The door swung open without warning and Gordon Finch stared at her, looking none too pleased. His feet were bare, and he wore nothing but a thin cotton vest above his jeans. Sunlight glinted from the gold earring in his left ear and the reddish stubble on his chin.
    “If it isn’t the lady copper,” he said with a look that took in her dress and bare legs.
    Gemma was suddenly very aware of the fact that she was wearing only bra and knickers under the thin cotton dress. She felt both unprepared and unprofessional, and wondered why it was that tights gave one a sense of invincibility.
    “I’d never have picked you for a snoop. Is this a social call, or are you just doing your job?” His tone made it clear what he thought of her choice of profession.
    She collected herself enough to pull her identification from her handbag and flip it open. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, Mr. Finch,” she said, determined to regain her authority.
    Gordon Finch ducked his head in a mock bow and gestured towards the stairs. “Be my guest.” He stepped back to let her by, and when Gemma brushed past she was close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. The sound of her sandals thumping on the threadbare steps seemed unnaturally loud as he padded silently up behind her.
    When she reached the top of the stairs, she went straight through the open door without waiting. Her momentum carried her into the center of the room and gave her an instant to take stock.
    Gordon Finch’s dog, Sam, lay on a round cushion near the open window. “Hullo, boy,” she said. “Remember me?”
    Lifting his head, the dog regarded Gemma, then returned his head to his paws with a sigh. She obviously had not made a lasting impression.
    The single, large room was obviously used as a bedsit. To the back was a kitchen alcove with a small pine table and two chairs, to the front a single bed with a cotton spread in bars of bright reds and purples.
    “Does it get your seal of approval?” Gordon Finch said behind her, and when Gemma turned round, he added, “What did you expect? Beer cans and rubbish?”
    A bookcase held a CD player but no television, and a music stand was positioned in front of the window. His clarinet rested half out of the open case on the floor, and on the stand pages of sheet music fluttered gently, as if sighing. The flat was tidy and, even though sparsely furnished, looked comfortable.
    “Look, Mr. Finch, I’m not here to—”
    “Mr. Finch?” he parroted, mocking her again. “Why didn’t you say anything yesterday at the station?” He stood with his back against the door, arms crossed. “Pardon?”
    “You know what I mean. You’d have thought you didn’t know me from Adam.”
    Gemma glared back at him. “Are you saying I do? We spoke once, as far as I remember, and I might as well have been a leper. Now I’m supposed to have claimed you as a long-lost cousin?” She’d come here to give him a break, and he’d immediately put her on the