Kissed a Sad Goodbye

tee shirt under an olive linen blazer— determined today to present a professional front to the world, hot or not.
    Although the morning had brought a small respite from yesterday’s temperatures, the humidity had risen with the thin covering of cloud that spilled across the sky like curdled milk. As she drove towards the East End, she felt the moisture clinging to her skin and wondered if sheer willpower could keep her from wilting before the day had even begun.
    Kincaid was there before her, leaning against the Rover he’d parked across the street from Hammond’s. He smiled when he saw her and straightened, running a hand through his already wind-ruffled hair. “We might get some rain,” he said by way of a greeting when she’d parked the Escort and joined him. “A break in the heat.”
    “Are you all right?” she asked, studying him. His good cheer seemed a bit manufactured, and he was not usually given to talking about the weather.
    He looked back at her guilelessly, his eyes as blue today as the denim shirt he wore. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
    “You didn’t ring. What did Ian—”
    “I thought you’d be asleep.” He looked away, leaning down to brush dust from the car’s bonnet off his trousers. “And to be quite honest, I suppose I needed some time to sort things through.” Glancing up at her, he added, “McClellan says he’s here to stay. He’s moving back to the Cambridge house. And he wants Kit with him.”
    “But...” Gemma tried to make sense of this. “After months of wanting nothing to do with him? Just like that? What did you say?”
    “What could I say?” He gave her a lopsided smile. “You know the situation as well as I do.”
    Gemma searched for a reply, but everything that came to mind seemed both trite and facile. Finally, she touched his arm. “I’m sorry things are difficult just now. If there’s anything I can do...”
    “We could talk tonight, if the gods are willing.” He took her elbow, guiding her towards Hammond’s front door. “In the meantime, the guv’nor wants to see me midmorning, and I’d like to be able to tell him we’ve made some progress on this case. Let’s hope we find Reg Mortimer cooperative.”
    The first thing Gemma noticed as they entered the warehouse was the distinct aroma of tea; the second was the low hum of activity that had been absent on Sunday. As Kincaid spoke to the receptionist at her desk near the door, Gemma cocked her head, trying to sort out the sounds. From upstairs came the grumble of machinery and j the occasional thump, and from the open doors of the loading bays drifted the sound of a radio. The ringing of a telephone punctuated the faint murmur of voices, but the atmosphere seemed subdued.
    A balding man in a crisp green apron moved about the tasting table. He must be Mac, the tea taster Teresa had mentioned, thought Gemma, but before she could speak to him, the receptionist directed them up the stairs and along the catwalk.
    As they passed the open door of the first large office, they saw Teresa Robbins seated at one of the two desks, telephone held to her ear. She glanced up, startled, and lifted one hand in an awkward gesture that stopped short of a wave.
    Reg Mortimer awaited them in the office next door, rising from a neat desk to greet them. He wore a pale pink shirt and coordinated tie, but the flattering shade did little for skin made sallow by exhaustion. Gemma was shocked by how much his appearance had changed since she’d seen him three days ago. Guilt? Or grief?
    “You’ve been rather elusive, Mr. Mortimer,” Kincaid began as they sat down.
    “Have I?” Mortimer smiled cordially enough. “There’s been a good deal to see to—and to clean up.” He ran the side of his hand across the polished surface of his desk. “Your lads don’t exactly tidy up after themselves.”
    “Not part of their job description,” Kincaid said, giving the office an interested glance.
    Gemma saw no evidence that the forensic team had left traces behind, but she found the room’s mixture of furnishings rather odd. The large, contemporary desk was of mirror-gloss ebony, the accompanying executive’s chair black leather, while the straight-backed wooden visitors’ chairs she and Kincaid occupied were likely older than Mortimer and had never been more than utilitarian. The chairs’ ambiance was echoed in the scarred, wooden filing cabinets flanking the open, uncurtained window behind the desk, and atop one of the