No Mark Upon Her (26 page)

Tess, Kit’s terrier, had been upstairs, curled on the foot of Kit’s bed, but Geordie had stayed in the kitchen with Gemma. Now he settled on the floor, resting his head on Kincaid’s foot with a sigh. Sid kept watch on them from the far chair, his eyes on the pizza. The cat was an incorrigible food thief.

Gemma was drinking tea and had a stack of papers beside her cup. When he started to reach for them, she stopped his hand with hers. “Eat first.”

Obediently, he ate a slice of pizza, his favorite, and drank half a glass of the wine. But he had no appetite, and the wine he’d been anticipating as a special treat left an acrid taste in his mouth.

He thought of the fire burning invitingly in the sitting room. But here they were in the kitchen, which was where all their important conversations seemed to take place. Was it the same in other families? he wondered. He had an instant’s intense longing for his parents’ kitchen in Cheshire, where everything momentous in his family had been discussed. And where he and Juliet, as children, had inevitably felt safe.

But he felt no security tonight, even here. He pushed his plate away and reached for the papers, and this time Gemma didn’t stop him.

She watched him as he read, and when he looked up, her expression was somber. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “I think so.”

“He was escalating, wasn’t he? Taking on more powerful women, becoming more violent. He took a big risk with Becca Meredith, and he got away with it. That must have made him feel invincible.” She reached across the table and touched the papers. “Do you think this woman—Jenny Hart—do you think she told him she wouldn’t be blackmailed into silence?”

Picking up the pages again, he glanced at the crime-scene photos. The coffee table in Jenny Hart’s sitting room had been overturned. There was broken glass on the floor, as well as scattered magazines and newspapers. “Not just that,” he said. “She fought, hard.” He looked up at Gemma. “The other women—did they report injuries, bruising, any throttling?”

“Bruising, yes,” said Gemma. “One victim had a shattered cheekbone.”

Kincaid thought of Angus Craig’s powerful arms and shoulders. When he raped, Craig had used surprise, strength, and intimidation, probably in that order. But with Jenny Hart, perhaps he’d been past caring about the intimidation part of the equation. Perhaps his need for violence had passed the point of no return.

Kincaid guessed that up until Jenny Hart, Craig’s rapes had been crimes of opportunity, although he must have gone to functions and pubs hoping he would find a suitable target.

Had Hart been different? Had he known where she drank, and when she was likely to be there? Had he intended murder when he’d met Jenny Hart in the pub that night?

If so, Becca Meredith’s murder seemed a small and rather cautiously executed action. Why had he not surprised her in her home, if he knew she lived alone?

Kincaid answered his own question. Because Craig had known what he was dealing with in Becca Meredith, and he would have known that she wouldn’t be taken defenseless again.

But what Kincaid still didn’t understand was why Craig had chosen to kill Becca Meredith now, rather than a year ago when she’d first threatened to expose him.

What the hell had triggered it? And hadn’t Craig thought Gaskill would be suspicious if Becca died mysteriously? Or was Gaskill so crooked that Craig had felt sure he could depend on him even then . . .

“Earth to Duncan.” Gemma waved a hand in front of his face. “You’re right away with the fairies, love. How about you talk to
me
.”

“I don’t like this,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t like you or Melody being involved with this. Craig has too much power.” The idea of Gemma having even peripheral contact with the man made him see red.

“I’ll take over the Jenny Hart inquiry from here on,” he went on. “Doug and I will interview the barmaid tomorrow—although it might be better if Doug was out of it as well.”

Gemma gave him the look that meant she wasn’t having it. “And if the guv’nor calls you off before you have the chance?” she asked. “What then? You’ll be dead in the water and nobody will be able to touch Craig. Let Melody do the interview. It’s a legitimate Project Sapphire follow-up, and she doesn’t have to clear it with anyone. If she gets a positive ID, you can take it from there.”

She was right, although he hated to admit it. He drank a little more of his wine, then said reluctantly, “All right. But it’s Melody’s interview, not yours,” he cautioned. “I don’t want you connected with this in any way.”

“Of course not,” said Gemma, but she looked like the Cheshire Cat.

He felt his blood pressure shoot up. “You’ve got to take this seriously, Gemma. Have you really looked at these photos?” Smacking his palm on the stack of papers for emphasis, he said, “I don’t think you realize just how dangerous this man is. I don’t want—”

His phone rang. He’d put it on the table when he sat down to eat, and the vibration made the cutlery rattle against his plate. Geordie lifted his head and growled.

“Bloody hell,” Kincaid muttered as he reached for the offending instrument. “Now what? I swear I’m going to throw the damned thing in the bog next time it rings.”

The tightening in his jaw made him realize he was still waiting for Angus Craig’s ax to fall.

But once again it wasn’t the chief superintendent ringing to pass along Craig’s ire or to give Kincaid an official reprimand.

According to the phone ID, it was Detective Constable Imogen Bell.

“Sir,” she said when he answered, sounding surprisingly diffident. “It’s DC Bell here. Sorry to bother you so late, and you’re probably at home—I checked with the Red Lion but they said you’d gone . . .”

“Never mind where I am, Bell. Out with it.” Meeting Gemma’s inquiring glance across the table, he shrugged in consternation.

“Sorry, sir,” said Bell. “Didn’t mean to pry.” She sounded even more uncomfortable. “It’s just that—I, um, I’ve a little problem here. I seem to . . . well, I seem to have lost Freddie Atterton.”

Chapter Nineteen

Race day draws inexorably closer and it is not anticipation or even elation that is the key sensation for the first-timer. It is fear—not of the impending battle, but fear of losing face, fear of a personal failure to function properly under stress, despite the endless months of practice; fear of letting down crewmates, friends, family and the whole damned tradition of the century and a half old Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race
.

—Daniel Topolski

Boat Race: The Oxford Revival

“T
ell me exactly what happened,” he said.

Bell hesitated. “Everything?”

“Yes, everything.” He tried to master his impatience. “You let me decide whether or not it’s important, okay?”

“Okay,” Bell repeated, still a little uncertainly. “Well, after I spoke to you earlier this afternoon, I put together some lunch with the bits that were in the fridge. I thought he should eat something, you know?”

The question was apparently rhetorical, as she went on. “Then, well, there didn’t seem to be anyone else to do it, so I went with Fred—Mr. Atterton—to the undertaker’s. I helped him make the basic arrangements. It was—it was . . . grim. I’m glad I don’t do that every day.”

“Understandable,” Kincaid said encouragingly. “I’m sure you were a great help. Then what did you do?”

“We went back to the flat. I helped him with the obituary. It needed to go in the
Times
straightaway. And that was— I didn’t realize all the things she’d done. She was quite special, wasn’t she?” An element of hero worship had crept into Bell’s voice.

“She was that,” Kincaid agreed. “But she was also very human, and I suspect that right now Freddie is not inclined to remember her flaws. But we mustn’t forget that she had them.”

As he spoke, Kincaid watched Gemma, who had stood and was quietly putting plates and cups in the sink as she listened to his side of the conversation.

She could be obstinate, he thought, cataloging his wife’s faults. Impulsive. Quick to judge, quick to speak her mind, quick to care passionately about things and people. Slow to make commitments unless she knew she could keep them.

“And he adored her. He wouldn’t have her any other way.

He wondered if Rebecca Meredith had wanted to be loved for her flaws as much as for her accomplishments—and if she’d realized, too late, that she’d had that and had given it up.

“Right,” said Bell, sounding unconvinced. “When we’d finished, it was getting on for supper, and there was nothing left in the fridge but sour milk and some beer. I said I’d go to the shops. He—Atterton—seemed so . . . lost. He couldn’t even put together a shopping list, so I . . . I went to Sainsbury’s.” Bell paused again.

“And?” Kincaid prompted.

“When I got back, he was gone.”

“Just gone? On foot? By car? You’re certain he wasn’t in the flat?”

“I knocked and rang, then I tried his mobile and the landline. By that time I was getting seriously worried, so I tracked down the building manager and had him let me in. I was afraid . . . I was afraid of what I might find. But he wasn’t there. There was nothing disturbed, no note. His car keys were still on the console table by the door. He seems to have just walked out and not come back.”

“Was he drinking?”

“No. In fact, he poured the remains of a bottle of good scotch down the sink. Said the smell made him feel ill.”

At least it didn’t sound as if Atterton had gone off on a bender, Kincaid thought. To Bell, he said, “Keep trying to reach him. You did the right thing, helping him out this afternoon and ringing me. But Freddie Atterton’s a grown man and we’ve no right to restrict his movements unless we’ve charged him with something.”

“We’re not going to, are we?” asked Bell. “Charge him, I mean.”

“The SOCOs found no evidence linking him to the scene of the murder, so at the moment, I doubt it.” He sounded more certain than he felt. “Was there anything else today?” he asked. “Anything you talked about that was out of the ordinary?”

There was silence while Imogen Bell thought. Then she said, “He kept asking about the boat, wanting to know when he could have it back. I told him I thought the SOCOs were almost finished with it. I hope that was okay.”

Kincaid frowned. “I don’t see why not—although he won’t have any legal right to the boat until the will has been processed.”

When he’d rung off, Gemma sat down across from him again and poured herself a bit of the Bordeaux. “Becca’s ex-husband’s gone missing, I take it?” she asked. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“He doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type,” Kincaid said. “And DC Bell, who was looking after him, said he kept asking about the Filippi, Becca’s racing shell. Why would he want to know when he could have the boat back if he was going to kill himself?”

“You don’t think—” Now it was Gemma who hesitated. “You don’t think he’s in any danger, do you?”

Kincaid thought of the measures Craig and Gaskill and their shadowy cronies were willing to take to keep secrets. “I hope not,” he said.

K
incaid didn’t sleep well. He lay, feeling the weight of Gemma’s leg against his, inhaling the scent of her lilac bath soap, and worrying about Freddie Atterton—and about Gemma—until well into the wee hours of the morning.

He must have dozed at last, but he woke again when the panes in the bedroom windows began to lighten almost imperceptibly with the coming dawn.

Carefully easing his feet from under Geordie, who slept stretched out across the foot of the bed, Kincaid got up, showered, and dressed. When he was ready, he bent and kissed the corner of Gemma’s mouth. “I’m going to Henley,” he whispered.

“What?” She opened sleepy eyes. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. Shhh. Go back to sleep. I’ll ring you.”

He crept down the stairs, trying not to wake the children, and found that he was suddenly aware of the particular early-morning feel of the house. He imagined it as a quietly slumbering beast, waiting for its heart to wake—its exhalations rich with accumulated scents of tea and toast and dogs and the faint mist of children’s breath.

He was quite pleased with his fancy, and himself, when he reached the front door undetected. But then he heard the click of toenails on the floor tiles.

Turning, he saw that Geordie had followed him downstairs. The dog looked up at him, his tail wagging, his eyes filled with the soulful reproach only a cocker spaniel can achieve.

Kincaid squatted and rubbed his ears. “I can’t take you out just now,” he whispered. “Go back to bed.”

Geordie cocked his head, his tail wagging harder. Kincaid gave his head a last pat. “Nothing gets past you, does it, sport? Keep an eye on Gemma for me, that’s a good—”

He stood, staring at the dog. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

I
t was fully light by the time Kincaid reached Henley. As he passed over the bridge, he saw the rowing eights going out from Leander, like a many-legged flotilla. The morning was cold, clear, and still—perfect rowing weather, he assumed. But it wasn’t rowers he wanted to speak to at the moment.

His first stop was the incident room at Henley Police Station.

DI Singla was there, as was the unfortunately named DC Bean, but the industry of the past few days seemed to have dissipated and the room had a sleepy air. There was little new information for the team to work with, and nothing he could add. Yet.

He was about to ask for DC Bell when she came in, looking rumpled and bleary-eyed.

“Sir.” She nodded at him as she sank into a chair, cradling a plastic cup of coffee in her hands as if she needed its transitory warmth.

“Rough night?” he asked.

Imogen Bell blushed. “I was concerned about Mr. Atterton, sir. I watched the flat.”

Kincaid stared at her. “All night?”

“Yes, sir. From my car. I parked by the main gate.”

No wonder she looked as though she’d slept in her clothes—she had, or at least had spent the night in them. Kincaid was impressed, although he wasn’t sure if she had demonstrated the makings of a very good police officer or a very big crush. Possibly both.

“Commendable,” he said. “Did he come home?”

“No, sir.” She looked utterly dejected. “And he’s still not answering his mobile.”

DI Singla broke in. “We’ve confirmed Atterton’s overseas phone call to Mrs. Meredith on Wednesday evening, both from the phone records and by speaking to Mrs. Meredith. They talked for forty-two minutes. Atterton could not possibly have burned Kieran Connolly’s boatshed unless he has the ability to be in two places at once. Or he and his former mother-in-law are in cahoots,” Singla added thoughtfully. “I suppose he could have answered her call, then left the phone off the hook—”

“While he walked or drove to the place where he borrowed or stole a single scull, rowed to the island, tossed the Molotov cocktail, returned the boat, and made it back to the flat to hang up the phone, all in forty-two minutes?”

“I’ll admit it’s unlikely,” agreed Singla. “And I can’t imagine why Rebecca Meredith’s mother would have agreed to such a thing, unless she and Atterton knew the disposition of Rebecca’s will and planned to share the estate. As far as we’ve been able to ascertain, however, Mrs. Meredith has no need of her daughter’s money or property.”

“Not to mention that such a scenario is based on Freddie Atterton having killed Becca, and we know forensics found no corroborating evidence at the scene.”

“But what about Mr. Atterton?” said Bell. “Should we report him missing?”

Kincaid considered. He wished he had Cullen as a sounding board, but he’d asked Doug to stay behind in London in case Melody—and Gemma—needed backup. “Let’s give it a bit longer,” he told Bell. “Have you tried Leander?”

“Not since yesterday evening.”

“Why don’t you check with them again? I’ve someone I want to have a word with, then we’ll reconvene.” He started to turn away, but something was puzzling him. “DC Bell, did Freddie give you any reason why he’s so anxious to get the Filippi back?”

“He said . . .” She frowned, as if trying to recall the exact words. “He said it was the only thing he could fix.”

H
aving left Notting Hill without breakfast, Kincaid briefly considered picking up a cup of coffee from the station vending machine. But only briefly. He’d be walking right by Starbucks—not his favorite brew, but a huge improvement over brown slop in a polystyrene cup.

A few minutes later, armed with a paper cup from Starbucks, and having downed a muffin in two bites, he rang Tavie Larssen’s bell.

There was a chorus of wild barking, a man’s answering shout, then Kieran Connolly swung open the door. His forehead, which had just begun to bruise on Wednesday night, was now purple, but he’d removed the dressing, and Kincaid saw that he was indeed going to have a rakish Harry Potter scar slanting down to his eyebrow.

But his face brightened when he saw it was Kincaid. “Have you come about the shed?” he asked, blocking the still-barking German shepherd and Labrador with his body.

“Partly,” Kincaid said. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Kieran turned to the dogs. “Finn. Tosh. Quiet. Go lie down.”

The dogs obeyed the first command but not the second. They had to sniff Kincaid thoroughly as he entered the room, their doggy breath warm against his trouser legs. “You smell other pups, don’t you?” he said, giving them both rubs round the ears. To Kieran, he added, “You forgot the biscuits.”

“Oh, so I did.” Kieran opened the tin on the table by the door, and the dogs sat immediately. “You have dogs?” Kieran asked, looking at him for the first time as if he might be a person as well as a policeman.

“A cocker spaniel. And our son has a terrier.”

“Good dogs, cockers,” said Kieran. “Great at drugs and explosives work. Amazing energy, those little guys.”

“Tell me about it.”

Having finished their biscuits, the dogs went to their beds, now side by side in front of the fire. Tavie’s sitting room, Kincaid saw, no longer looked as though it belonged in a doll’s house. Aside from the two large dogs and one large man, the floor was scattered with dog toys, the tables held empty cups and scattered papers, and several articles of male clothing were draped haphazardly over the sofa and chairs.

Kieran removed a pair of jeans from the sofa back and gestured Kincaid to a seat. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “Tavie’s dryer’s on the blink. She’s borrowed a few things for me from her mates at work, but all my stuff needed washing.”

“Is she here?”

“No. She’s on rota today.” Kieran sat on the chair, his large hands clasped on his knees. “About the shed. Is it—can I—I’d like to go home.”

It seemed to Kincaid that in spite of his assertion, Kieran seemed less anxious about the shed than he had been after the fire on Wednesday night. Understandable, certainly, as he’d been shocked, injured, and frightened. But today he also seemed to be moving round Tavie’s little house more easily, as if he was beginning to feel comfortable in the space.

“I see you two haven’t killed each other yet,” Kincaid said.

“Not yet. Although it’s been a near thing.” There was a glint of wry humor in Kieran’s eyes. “But still, I need to see if—if there’s anything left—”

“DI Singla said the arson team has cleared your boatshed as of this morning. They’ve finished gathering evidence, and they’ve pronounced the shed messy but safe.”

“Oh.” Having been granted his wish, Kieran seemed at a loss. “Great.”

“I went through it yesterday. It’s not as bad as you might think, but you’ll have a job in store.”

Nodding, Kieran reached up as if to scratch his forehead, then appeared to think better of it and dropped his hand back to his lap. “Tavie keeps telling me that things are replaceable, that I should be thankful I’m alive. And I suppose I know that, but everything I owned was in that shed. I could—” He shook his head, as if debating the wisdom of finishing his thought aloud. “Do you know who did this to me?” he asked instead. “Or why? Was it the man I saw by the river?”

“We don’t know yet. But about that place by the river,” Kincaid said, seeing his opening. “You were right. There was someone there, and he left physical evidence.” Kincaid sat forward, glancing at the dogs, both now stretched out on their sides and seemingly oblivious to the world. “It occurred to me—is it possible that the dogs could associate scent left in that spot with a particular person?”