Kissed a Sad Goodbye

supply of treats, giving her one for good measure, then started her trotting towards the beginning of the course as he clucked encouragement. As they neared the first jump, he picked up speed, urging, “Come on, girl, you can do it! Jump!”
    Tess sat down hard in front of the log, tilting her head to one side and staring at him as if he’d gone completely daft. The expression on her face was so comical that he couldn’t help laughing, but he was determined to go on nonetheless. Positioning himself on the far side of the log, he tightened the tension on the lead so that she couldn’t go round, then held up a dog biscuit. “All right, girl, you want the biscuit, you come and get it. Come on! Jump!” He whistled coaxingly, and after a few aborted attempts to go round the sides, Tess jumped effortlessly over the log.
    Kit whooped with delight as he fed her the biscuit, then flopped flat on his back in the grass while Tess tried to lick his face, one of their favorite games.
    Suddenly, he had the odd sensation that he was being watched. He sat up, holding his squirming dog by the collar, and looked round the garden. It took a moment to make out the man standing by the gate, in the deep shadow of the yew hedge. His heart gave a thump of fear, then he realized there was something familiar about the figure.
    The man lifted a hand to the latch and stepped through the gate, and as he moved into the sunlight, Kit saw his face clearly. Swallowing against the constriction in his throat, he said tentatively, “Dad?”
     
    * * *
     
    “IT’S NOT IN THE BEST OF taste, is it?” Kincaid said to Gemma as he stared up at Reg Mortimer’s building.
    His meeting with Chief Superintendent Childs had left him distinctly out of sorts. Childs had just fielded a call from Sir Peter Mortimer, demanding to know why the police were badgering his son rather than making progress in finding Annabelle Hammond’s murderer, and he had transferred his irritation to Kincaid with instructions to get somewhere bloody quick—and to go easy on Mortimer.
    When Kincaid had suggested that the two things might not be synonymous, considering the fact that Mortimer had apparently lied to them from the beginning, Childs had warned him against making any allegations he couldn’t back up.
    Gemma shaded her eyes against the glare as she examined the building’s little rounded balconies and portholes. Funnel-like structures rose from its top, while one side of the building cascaded downwards in a stepping-stone series of penthouse terraces. “I think it’s jolly. A child’s fantasy of living in an ocean liner, rather than a tree house. Looks a bit posh, though.”
    As he watched her, he thought she seemed remarkably unwilted for having slogged about in the heat most of the day. She’d been waiting for him at Limehouse Station and had soon caught him up on what had happened in his absence.
    After her visit with Jo Lowell’s neighbor, she’d rung Martin Lowell’s bank, only to be informed that he was away at a meeting for the afternoon. But she’d at least finagled his home address.
    While waiting for Lowell to get home, they had decided to try Reg Mortimer’s flat, even though Mortimer hadn’t answered his phone.
    Only in passing had she mentioned to Kincaid that she’d seen Gordon Finch again, and that Finch had claimed he hadn’t known of a connection between his family and Annabelle’s or of his father’s relationship with her.
    It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask her why she hadn’t pressed Finch harder, but he’d bitten back his comment, realizing he didn’t trust his own motivations.
    Following her now as she made her way round the building to the entrance, he wondered if the difficulty lay with him or with her. He was ordinarily comfortable with Gemma’s interviewing skills, so why was he letting the matter of Gordon Finch get his nose out of joint?
    As she reached the main doors, Gemma looked back and smiled at him, and he was glad he’d resisted his earlier impulse to snap at her. “Care for a cruise, mate?”
    “Just as long as the ship stays firmly on dry land,” he replied, holding the door for her.
    Inside the building, a speedy lift whisked them up to the level of Reg Mortimer’s flat. Kincaid knocked on his door, then they waited in the hush of the corridor. Gemma stood inches from him, and he could smell the sweet and distinctive scent of her skin. After a moment, he knocked again, looking at her with a