Kissed a sad goodbye - Deborah Crombie [126]
Today, no sound of the clarinet came from the flat’s open windows. Gemma crossed the road and knocked at the blue door, telling herself that he might be busking at South Ken today, or even in Islington.
But after a moment, the door opened and Gordon stared at her groggily. “Gemma?”
“Did I wake you?” she asked. His hair stood even more on end than usual, and one side of his face bore faint crease marks, as if from prolonged contact with a wrinkled sheet.
He shook his head as if to clear it, said, “I suppose you did,” then added, “I sat in on a recording session last night; didn’t finish until dawn.” He yawned. “If you’ve come to interrogate me, you’d better come in. Just let me put on some coffee.” There was a click of toenails as Sam came down the stairs, and after a questioning look at his master, he went out into the small side garden and efficiently did his business.
When the dog had finished, Gemma followed them both up the stairs. The flat looked very much as she’d seen it before, except that the narrow bed was unmade. Sam stretched out beside it with a sigh and closed his eyes.
“He’s getting too old for such late nights,” said Gordon, giving up his attempt to straighten the covers. “Though you’d have thought he slept just as much at the studio.” He squatted to rub the dog’s ears. “I suppose he doesn’t care for his routine being disrupted.” Standing again, he gestured at the small table. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” he said, but Gemma couldn’t detect any evident sarcasm. As he disappeared into the bathroom, he added, “I won’t be a minute.”
When he returned a few moments later, his hair had been smoothed down and his shirt buttoned the remainder of the way.
He put water on to boil and took a cafetière and a bag of ground coffee from the cupboard in the small kitchen. As he spooned out the coffee, he gave Gemma a questioning look, but she shook her head. “No thanks. I just had some at the station, unspeakable as it was. You’d think it was a deliberate attempt to poison us.”
Hearing herself sound idiotic, she quelled any further impulse to babble by asking, “What were you recording?”
“Some mates of mine in a rock band wanted a clarinet solo on one of their tracks.”
“Do you do much studio work?” she said, her natural curiosity providing her an easy avenue.
Gordon shrugged as he poured the hot water over the coffee. “I never turn down an offer—makes a break from busking.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that many bands used clarinets.”
“I play anything—jazz, classical, even backing for adverts; I’m not a bloody music snob. It works both ways, you know.” He glanced up at her as he poured coffee into one of the two mugs he seemed to own. “The rock guys who think classical is rubbish are just as stupid as the classical blokes who think rock is rubbish.”
Blowing across the top of his cup, he took an experimental sip, then sat down opposite her, his eyes now clear and focused. “So, Sergeant, what is it you want from me today?”
“The truth.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought we’d done that.”
Gemma plunged in. “You must have known your father was interested in buying the Hammond’s warehouse and developing the property. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Hammond’s? You mean Annabelle’s business? Why should I have known that?” he answered reasonably. “I haven’t seen my father in—”
“It was common enough knowledge that your mate in the Neighborhood Association knew about it. You expect me to believe he neglected to mention it to you? And that’s assuming you hadn’t heard it already from someone else.”
Gordon stared at her, his face expressionless. “My father buys properties all the time—it’s what he does. Why should anyone have bothered to mention one he hadn’t managed to acquire? You’re giving significance to things after the fact that hadn’t any before, Sergeant.”
She stared back at him, regrouping. “All right, let’s try