No Mark Upon Her (28 page)

He was afraid. Afraid of what he might find, of who
he would be, if he’d lost everything that had begun to make him feel like a
whole person again.

And he was afraid, full stop. Noise and smoke and
flames and panic—they were all still much too close.

But if he didn’t go back now, when would it be any
easier?

The dogs were sitting at his feet, gazing up at him
expectantly. “All right, you greedy buggers.” Kieran broke the remaining half of
the sandwich into two pieces. “Down,” he said, and both dogs dropped like felled
marionettes, then inhaled the offered treats in matching gulps.

“Okay. Good dogs. All gone,” he told them, rubbing
his slobbery fingers on his jeans as he looked at their eager faces. He had
backup, after all, he thought, right in front of him, ready and willing.

And he could make a small deal with himself. That
was one of the things he’d learned in these last two years, and he couldn’t
afford to forget it. You didn’t have to tackle things all at once. Small steps
led to bigger steps.

He would go, but he would take the detective
superintendent’s advice and come back to Tavie’s house, at least for tonight.
There was no shame in that.

B
y the
time Kieran reached Mill Meadows, both he and the dogs were panting. Having made
up his mind to go, he’d jogged, not giving himself a chance to waver, and he’d
been grateful that the clear, dry day seemed to be holding his vertigo at
bay.

He slowed when he realized there was a man standing
on the pedestrian path just across the water from the boatshed, gazing at
it.

The man wore jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue
T-shirt, but no jacket, in spite of the cool breeze. And even though he appeared
slightly disheveled, there was something indefinably elegant about him. When he
turned, Kieran recognized him instantly.

It was Freddie Atterton, Becca’s ex-husband.

“I know you,” said Atterton, his glance going from
Kieran to the dogs. “I saw you that day, on the search team.”

Kieran felt the hair stand up on his arms. He
nodded cautiously. “That’s right.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Atterton.
“And the dogs,” he added. “They’re brilliant.”

Finn and Tosh, who always seemed to know when they
were being talked about, wagged appreciatively and sat. No alarm there.

“Yeah, they’re great.” Kieran stroked Finn’s head
and Tosh nosed him and then Atterton, seeking her share of attention, and
Atterton gave a good rub to both dogs.

What the hell did you say, Kieran wondered as the
silence stretched, to the man whose ex-wife had been your lover?

Freddie Atterton smiled, as if he’d read his mind.
“I know about you and Becca,” he said. “Superintendent Kincaid told me. That’s
not why I’m here.”

“Okay.” Kieran waited, feeling stranger and
stranger, and tried to keep his eyes from straying to what remained of his
home.

“Well, I have to admit to a bit of curiosity,” said
Atterton. “Wouldn’t be human otherwise, I suppose. But mostly I came to see if
you could repair Becca’s boat.”

“The Filippi?” It was the last thing Kieran had
expected.

“Apparently it has a crack in the hull. I haven’t
seen it yet. But I don’t like to think— She’d have wanted—” Atterton stopped,
his voice unsteady, and Kieran realized suddenly that this was a man teetering
on the edge of emotional collapse. He knew, because he had stared into the
precipice himself, and even now he might stumble into it.

Kieran steeled himself to look across the water. “I
would, of course. But I don’t know if I can. My workshop—”

“Superintendent Kincaid told me what happened,”
said Freddie. “It doesn’t look too bad from here. How do you get across?”

“I’ve got a skiff.” Kieran gestured towards his
little rowboat, tied up a few yards nearer the museum.

“Can we go over? All of us?” Freddie’s nod included
the dogs.

Kieran was still feeling befuddled by the whole
exchange, but found he was glad enough of an excuse not to go alone, however odd
his companion. “Yeah, okay.” He dropped Finn’s lead. “Finn, go get the
boat.”

Finn bounded down to the skiff, and, taking the
rope in his mouth, pulled the boat up against the bank.

As soon as Kieran reached the boat and grabbed the
rope, Finn leapt in, grinning at them in Labrador glee.

“He’d rather swim, I’ll wager,” said Freddie,
laughing.

Tosh jumped in only after Kieran and Freddie had
joined Finn in the skiff, her dark eyebrows furrowed in a look that said she
didn’t like this particular adventure, but would make the best of it.

Kieran rowed across to the island, where Freddie
tied them up with quick expertise.

“You row, don’t you?” Kieran asked as they climbed
ashore.

“Did,” said Freddie. “But that was a long time ago.
Water under the bridge.” He shrugged, then nodded towards the shed. “Let’s take
a look at the damage, shall we? Are you game?”

Kieran put the dogs in a stay, swallowed hard, and
followed him.

I
t
wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Broken glass, water-sludged ash, scorched
beams—but his tools and the structure itself seemed to be intact. His clothes,
camp bed, and personal belongings were undoubtedly smoke- and water-damaged, but
those were things that could be replaced or done without.

The boat he’d been repairing, however, was
buggered. Its carbon-fiber hull was blistered and crazed, the scorch marks
clearly visible.

“Oh, God,” said Kieran, staring at it. He felt a
wave of dizziness. “This—I don’t have insurance to cover this. Bloody hell.”

Freddie joined him in his examination. “Can it be
fixed?”

“Well, maybe, but it’ll be a hard job, and can’t be
done without clearing up this mess and repairing the damage to the shed—” Kieran
shook his head, overwhelmed.

“Look,” said Freddie slowly. “I know it sounds
weird, but if it’s hard labor you need, I’ll help. I can sand and scrub and
sweep, or whatever.”

Perplexed, Kieran looked at the man he’d first seen
standing outside Leander in a perfectly tailored suit, looking as if he’d never
dirtied a finger. But Freddie Atterton was an Oxford Blue—God knew Becca had
told him that often enough—so he had to be tougher than he looked. “I don’t
understand,” Kieran said. “Why should you—”

“Look at this place,” Freddie interrupted, his
gesture taking in the undamaged cabinet of solvents, the paint, the polishing
rags. “I’m not much for miracles, but the fact that there’s anything left of
this place, or of you, is bloody astounding. You can’t just give up. It would
be— It would mean that whoever did this to you and to Becca had won. Do you
see?”

“I don’t—”

Outside, Finn gave the distinctive little yip he
used to greet people he knew and liked.

“Hi, Kieran,” came a shout.

“It’s John, my neighbor,” said Kieran. He suddenly
felt he couldn’t stand the stink of wet ash another second. “Let’s go out.”

When they emerged onto the patch of lawn, John
greeted Kieran with a handshake and a pat on the back. “That’s quite a bruise,”
he said, “but I’m just glad to see you in one piece. You gave us a fright the
other night.”

Freddie held out a hand and introduced himself. If
John wondered what connection Freddie had with Kieran, he was too polite to
ask.

“I’ve got something for you.” John held out a key
to Kieran. “Your single’s in my shed. Keep it there as long as you need.” With a
wave, he walked back towards his house.

“Your single?” asked Freddie. He glanced at
Kieran’s old shell, up on trestles near the landing raft. “I thought—”

Wordlessly, Kieran walked to John’s shed and
unlocked it. He pulled the double doors wide so that the afternoon light flooded
in, then drew the tarp off the single. Becca’s single. It was unblemished, and
even though he had made it, his heart leapt at the beauty of it.

Freddie stared, first at the boat, then at him.
“You built this? A wooden shell?”

“I know most people don’t race in them anymore, but
I thought if I made some design adjustments . . .”

“You made this,” said Freddie, his voice little
more than a whisper. He went closer, ran his hand over the silky wood of the
hull, then touched the molded seat and moved it slightly on the runners. “For
her.”

Kieran nodded.

“Did she know?”

“No. I thought, when it was finished, I’d tell her
. . . But I’m not sure I’d ever have shown it to her, to tell the
truth. She might have laughed. Or worse, felt obligated to row in it.”

For the first time, Freddie seemed at a loss.
Shaking his head, he walked away. When he reached the lawn’s edge, he stood
gazing at the river for a moment, then sank to the grass and wrapped his arms
round his knees, like a child seeking comfort. Kieran saw a shudder run through
his shoulders.

Reluctantly, Kieran followed and hunkered down
beside him, pushing away the dogs when they butted him.

“I never made anything for her,” whispered Freddie.
He lifted his head and rubbed the back of his fist across his wet cheeks. “I
envy you that,” he added, and Kieran heard the bitterness.

“I lied, you know, when I said I didn’t mind about
the two of you,” Freddie went on. “Not that I had any right—but still, there it
is.” He looked at Kieran. “Did you love her?”

Slowly, Kieran nodded.

“Did she love you?”

There was nothing left for Kieran but to face it.
After a long moment, he said, “No. I don’t think she did. But we had something
that worked for a while . . . maybe because I didn’t ask anything of
her. Because I knew she had nothing to give.”

K
incaid had asked Doug to send the witness statement and the request for
a DNA comparison to a magistrate with whom he had often worked, a man he liked
personally, and one he thought would not be influenced by Angus Craig’s
threats.

As he drove into London, he stopped at home and
changed into his Paul Smith gray suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. It
was the best he could do for armor.

Gemma and all the children—according to the latest
family update texted from Kit—were at their friend Erika Rosenthal’s, making
German brown-sugar cookies for Charlotte’s party tomorrow.

Kincaid had no excuse to tarry, and he knew he had
to catch Chief Superintendent Childs before he left for the weekend.

He drove to the Yard, gathered the file on Jenny
Hart and a copy of Rosamond Koether’s statement from Doug, and took the lift up
to Chief Superintendent Childs’s office.

Childs’s secretary sent him straight in.

The surface of his guv’nor’s desk was clear as
usual, and as always, Childs didn’t seem to be doing anything. As Denis Childs
was the most efficient superior officer he knew, Kincaid had sometimes wondered
if the man simply had a computer wired to his brain.

“Sir.” He gave Childs a nod in greeting.

“Oh, dear,” said Childs, steepling his fingers.
“How very formal of you.” He looked Kincaid up and down. “And the suit. Very
nice, the conservative touch, but I suspect this means you’ve come to tell me
something you think I won’t like. Do sit down, Duncan”—he waved at a chair—“and
don’t pace about in my office again. It makes my neck hurt. What have you got
there?” Childs’s eyes went to the papers in Kincaid’s hand.

Sitting down, Kincaid handed over the file and
statement. Then he crossed his ankles and folded his hands in his lap. It was a
Childs pose, used by his boss to convey a complete lack of nerves, and Kincaid
hoped he did it half as well.

Childs went through the Jenny Hart case quickly,
but with a slight frown, and Kincaid had the feeling he’d seen the material
before. When he came to the end, he gave Kincaid a quick glance that might have
been surprise.

Then he turned to Rosamond Koether’s statement. As
he read, he went very still. When he’d finished, he looked up at Kincaid.

“Is this credible?”

“According to Melody Talbot. And I have complete
confidence in her judgment.”

Childs settled back in his chair. “I sense Gemma’s
hand in this. And yours. Why else would Project Sapphire suddenly follow up on
what seemed a dead-end case?”

“Project Sapphire were looking for cases that
matched the pattern of the rape alleged by DCI Rebecca Meredith,” Kincaid
admitted. “At my request. But DC Talbot certainly did not expect to find
this
.” Kincaid gestured at the Hart file.

“Were there other cases that fit the pattern as
well?” Childs asked.

“Yes, several. But only one murder.”

Childs considered Kincaid with his slow,
inscrutable gaze. Then something flickered deep in his brown eyes, and Kincaid
recognized it.

It was rage.

“An unexpected result,” said Childs quietly. “Jenny
Hart was a good officer. And a friend. She served under me when she was a
detective constable.” He tapped his fingers on his desk. “You’ve requested a
warrant for DNA comparison? And not from one of that lot, I hope.” He cast a
scathing glance at the photo of Craig amongst the senior officers in evening
dress.

“Yes, sir.” Kincaid tried to contain his surprise,
both at Childs’s revelation about DCI Hart, and at his comment about Craig and
his cronies. “It should be coming through any moment.”

“You realize this doesn’t get you any closer to
Rebecca Meredith,” said Childs. “Or the attack on the boat builder. What was his
name? Connolly.”

This, Kincaid thought, was the reason there were
never any papers on Childs’s desk. Childs remembered everything that came across
it.

Kincaid had also begun to suspect that Denis Childs
knew about his visit to Craig—that, in fact, Childs knew everything that he had
done since the beginning of the investigation. “I realize that,” he answered.
“But if this”—he gestured towards the Hart file—“pulls Craig’s fangs, then
perhaps his alibis for Meredith and Connolly won’t look quite so tidy. All I
need is a crack, enough to get a warrant to search his car and belongings.”