No Mark upon Her

Chapter Ten

Each year a Boat Race crew, and perhaps even the whole initial squad as well, would develop its own distinctive style and character, different from year to year, sometimes as a group, sometimes dominated by the presence of one or two strong personalities . . .

—Daniel Topolski

Boat Race: The Oxford Revival

The face above the carefully arranged white sheet on the mortuary trolley looked nothing like Becca.

Oh, it had her features, all right—the straight nose with the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge from days spent rowing in the sun, the dark, level brows, the tiny pinprick of a mole near her right ear, the slightly square chin.

But Freddie had never seen Becca’s face still or composed. She was always in motion—even in sleep, her brow had been creased, as if she were working out a knotty problem, or replaying a training session, and her lips and eyelids had moved in sequence with her dreams.

Someone had taken the trouble to comb her hair, and it fell back in gentle waves that she’d never have tolerated in life. Freddie clenched his hand, resisting the impulse to smooth it, or to touch the fan of the dark eyelashes that, under the harsh overhead lighting, cast a shadow on her cheeks.

He nodded to the mortuary attendant. “That’s her. That’s Becca.”

“That would be Rebecca Meredith, sir?” the young man said, and Freddie found himself inordinately distracted by the ring in the man’s nose.

He looked away. “Yes. Yes, that’s her.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” The condolence was rote. “If you could just sign here?” The attendant handed Freddie a clipboard with all the ceremony of a delivery boy requesting a signature for a parcel.

And that was that.

Freddie walked out into the fresh air of the hospital car park, which felt warm by comparison, to find Ross Abbott waiting. Ross had left the engine idling in his late-model white BMW, a shout-out to the world that he didn’t need to worry about the price of petrol. It would have annoyed Becca no end, but Freddie didn’t care about his friend’s affectations at the moment. He collapsed gratefully into the soft leather seat.

“You all right, man?” said Ross.

Freddie managed another nod. Ross had picked him up from his flat in the Malthouse at lunchtime and driven him to the hospital in Reading. Freddie had asked him to wait outside—he hadn’t wanted a witness if he broke down—but in the end he had felt strangely detached, as if the experience were happening to someone else.

“Where do you want to go now?” Ross asked, jerking him back to the present.

“For a drink.”

“Henley? Magoos?”

“No, it’s too early for Magoos. They don’t open until four and it’s only half past two.” Nor could Freddie bear the thought of the boisterous atmosphere of the bar on Hart Street. He knew too many of the people who were likely to wander in after work, and the last thing he wanted at the moment was questions or condolences.

“Hotel du Vin?” suggested Ross. “Not far for you to walk home then,” he added, with what Freddie knew was an attempt at humor.

“Yeah, okay.” The hotel was across the road from Freddie’s flat, and was, like the Malthouse, part of the old Brakspear Brewery complex. The hotel’s bar was usually quiet, and while locals would filter in later in the evening, in mid-afternoon any custom was likely to be business travelers.

On the drive back to Henley, Ross regaled him with a detailed description of the car’s features. It might have been a bit insensitive, but it meant Freddie didn’t have to speak, and for that he was grateful.

The hotel’s bar was as quiet as Freddie had hoped. A few men wearing polo shirts and sports jackets sat on the leather sofas, conferring over papers, but they didn’t look up at the new arrivals. The girl serving was new, which was a blessing. She took their orders with only cursory interest.

“A Hendrick’s,” said Ross, giving her the smile Freddie remembered him trying on every girl in Oxford. “Double. On ice. With a slice of cucumber.”

For a moment, Freddie was tempted to remind Ross that he had to drive, then realized there’d been a time when he’d not have thought twice about driving on a double gin. And it wasn’t his business. He shrugged. “Make that two.”

Ross gave the barmaid his card, but after a moment she came back and said quietly, “I’m sorry, sir, but your card’s been declined.”

“Bloody bank.” Ross’s face flushed with the quick temper Freddie remembered. “Stupid buggers couldn’t put their bloody socks on straight.”

“Look, let me,” said Freddie, embarrassed for his friend. He reached for his wallet. “It’s the least I can—”

“No, no.” Ross had already pulled out another card. “No problem. It’s just that card. Their computers always seem to be going down, or something.”

The second card seemed fine, as the girl returned with the drinks and a perfunctory smile.

Ross held up his glass. “Well, cheers isn’t exactly appropriate, old man.”

“Salute, then,” said Freddie, and lifted his own. The first swallow of gin went down like fire, and with the smell of cucumber came memories of summer regattas and too many gins and Pimm’s drunk in canvas enclosures. He saw Becca, her face flushed with victory after a race, and Ross shaking a bottle of champagne to make it fizz. His head swam. Was he remembering Henley or Oxford?

He looked at Ross. “We had some good times, didn’t we?”

“Oh, that we did.” Ross downed half his gin and made a face. “But the no-drinks-in-training thing was a bitch.”

“You never did want to work that hard, did you?” said Freddie. He remembered Ross, always skiving off training with some complaint or other, and then, when he’d been put in Isis, the second boat, he’d been furious. But fate had smiled on him when, on the day of the Boat Race, his counterpart in the Blue Boat had come down with a nasty case of stomach flu and Ross had taken his place.

Fate had been fickle, however. Everything had gone against them on race day. The weather was foul and the crew had lost their synergy. The boat just didn’t move, and the harder they tried, the worse it got. They’d been half swamped, and had lost by humiliating lengths, collapsing in agony at the finish. And afterwards, no one had said what everyone had thought: Ross Abbott had not been up to the job.

But Ross hadn’t let the disastrous race damage his prospects, and he’d made good use of his Blue. Although Oxford and Cambridge Blues were awarded in other sports, the rowing Blue was still by far the most prestigious. And if you made the Blue Boat, it didn’t matter if you won or lost, as long as you didn’t sink before the Fulham Bend.

Freddie took another sip of his gin and studied his friend. Ross hadn’t been as tall as most of the rowers, so he had tried to make up for the deficiency in height by adding bulk. He’d been good at lifting weights, and it had given him power if not finesse.

Now, although the shoulders under his lightweight sports coat were still broad, he looked thicker and softer around the middle. A few too many gins, Freddie thought, and raised his own. “Still working out?” he asked.

Ross looked pleased. “Got a new gym at home. A new house, in fact, in Barnes.”

“Barnes? That’s brilliant. Things must be going well for you.”

“Looking up, yeah,” Ross said, leaning in for a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve got a deal in the works”—he shook his head, grinning—“knock your sodding socks off.”

Like many Blues, regardless of the degrees they’d taken at university, Ross had gone into investment banking—with better results than Freddie had seen in commercial real estate, apparently.

He glanced round at the other men in the bar. Like Ross, they were wearing expensive clothes, drinking expensive drinks, huddled in quiet and self-important conference. Fat cats. They were fat cats. Had he been in danger of becoming one, too? Was that the real reason Becca had left him?

Freddie realized his mind was wandering. The gin was beginning to go to his head. He forced himself to concentrate. Ross had, after all, gone out of his way to be a mate today. “Listen, Ross. I really appreciate your doing this for me. You’re a good friend.”

“Bollocks.” Ross gave him an awkward clap on the shoulder. “It was the least anyone could do. You let me know whatever else you need. And Chris as well—she’d have come today if it wasn’t for work and the kids.”

“Chris, and the boys? They’re doing well?”

Ross lowered his voice again. “Chris may have a promotion in the works. All hush-hush, but she’s made a good job of impressing the right people.”

For an instant, Freddie heard Becca’s voice, slightly waspish, murmuring, And what does that have to do with being a good copper? He shook his head, wondering if he was going thoroughly bonkers, and tried to focus on what Ross was saying.

“—and the boys, well, it’s not official yet, but there’s a good chance for”—he looked round, and this time spoke in a whisper deserving of a state secret—“Eton.”

“Eton?” said Freddie, surprised at the rush of resentment he felt. “Wow. So no old school tie, then. Bedford School not good enough for the Abbott offspring?”

“It’s not that, man, you know that.” Ross sounded hurt. “It’s just that you’ve got to do whatever is best for the kids. Help them get on in the world.”

“Right.” Freddie forced a smile. Kids. He had wanted kids. Becca hadn’t. And now it would never matter.

Exhaustion swept over him, and he suddenly wanted nothing but to go home and be alone.

Ross tipped up the last of his drink, then, before Freddie could protest, signaled the barmaid and ordered another round for them both. Ross turned to him. “About today. I really am sorry, mate. Was it bad, at the mortuary? Was she—was she cut up or anything?”

“She was fine,” said Freddie, feeling guilty over his momentary antagonism towards his friend. “There was nothing that you could see, really. She just looked—” His throat tightened and he couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Dead.

“Have the police talked to you? Do they have any idea what happened?”

“They’ve talked to me, all right. But nobody’s told me anything. They called in a superintendent from Major Crimes. Scotland Yard.”

Ross gave a low whistle. “Big-time, buddy. They’re bringing in the muscle. So, have they asked you where you were?”

The alcohol from the night before had aggravated Kieran’s vertigo, as he’d known it would. After the search, he’d managed to avoid the rest of the team. But once on his own, he’d been unable to shut out the recurring image of Becca’s body, trapped in the roots below the weir, the strands of her hair moving like fronds in the current.

So he had gone to the pub, where Tavie had found him. Afterwards, he’d stumbled home and fallen onto the camp bed in the boatshed. For a while he’d drifted in a cider-induced doze, in which he’d seen Becca’s white face again and again, gazing up at him with open, pleading eyes.

But then the nightmare shifted, and he’d suddenly realized that parts of her body were missing, blown away, and her face became the faces of the men in his unit, and their screams had filled his ears.

Then it was Tavie, Tavie shouting at him, giving him commands he couldn’t understand and couldn’t follow.

He woke, sweating, and found the reality as bad as the dream. Becca. Becca was dead. And Tavie, his best friend—his only real friend—was lost to him.

At the first hint of dawn, he’d given up on sleep and made coffee as strong as he could bear. Then, with Finn beside him, he’d taken his cup outside and watched the light grow slowly on the river. Gray water melded into gray sky, then the skeletal shapes of trees began to appear on the far bank, and at last, as the mist lifted, the still-green froth of the willows trailing in the water’s edge.

The water’s edge . . . Kieran frowned in concentration, and then it flickered again, the image that had been teasing him since they’d found the Filippi.

He had seen someone at the water’s edge. Not where they’d found the boat, but a good bit farther upstream, the other side of Temple Island. A fisherman, or so he had thought, standing there in the shadows when he’d gone for his evening run on Sunday.

And he had been there again, on Monday.

Kieran had made a habit of timing his runs so that he passed Becca rowing her evening workout, but on Monday, she’d been late, and he must have already been back on the upstream side of Henley Bridge by the time she’d gone out.

Oh, dear God. If only he’d delayed a few minutes, dawdled on his route, could he have saved her?

And the fisherman—what if the fisherman had been waiting for her? She’d have passed right by him after she rounded Temple Island and started back towards Leander, and she’d have been staying close to the Bucks bank, where the wind and the current favored the upstream stroke.

If she’d capsized there, or been tipped, or been pulled out of the shell, then the end of Benham’s Wood, where they’d found the Filippi, was probably the first place the shell would have snagged as it floated downriver. And Becca—Becca would have gone on with the current, until her body caught in the eddy below the weir.

Kieran stood, determined to examine the place where he’d seen the man as soon as it was fully light. But then everything reeled and tipped sideways, and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the soft grass at the river’s edge.

Groaning, he mumbled, “Goddamned bloody vertigo.” What kind of life was this, when without warning it could fell him like a tree?

For a long time, he watched the whirling, juddering sky grow brighter. At last he drifted into a light sleep. Finn woke him by whimpering and nudging him with his nose.

“Sorry, boy,” he croaked, his mouth dry. “Fucking useless, aren’t I?”

Experimentally, he shifted his head a fraction. So far, so good. The short sleep had helped the dizziness, as it usually did. After a bit, he was able to get up and stagger inside, and he managed to pour some food into Finn’s bowl before stretching out on the camp bed. He slept again, more soundly, and when he woke in mid-afternoon, he felt stable enough on his feet to venture into Henley.

There was no easy access to the Buckinghamshire side of the Thames Path. He could have taken the Land Rover as far as the beginning of the footpath that veered off from the Marlow Road, but with the frequency and severity of the vertigo he hadn’t dared drive. So after taking the skiff the few yards across to the mainland, he walked, occasionally using Finn’s sturdy back for support. All the while he half hoped and half feared he would see Tavie.

A few of the people he passed, seeing his unsteady gait, threw him the disgusted looks reserved for drunks, but he didn’t care. He wanted only to see if he was right, or if the man in the trees had been a delusion.

The sun, partially obscured by the clouds moving in from the west, was low in the sky by the time he passed the entrance to Phyllis Court and turned onto the footpath. Finn watched the meadow by Henley Football Club intently—he knew from previous walks that rabbits played there—but he stayed close at Kieran’s heel.

The way seemed endless, and Kieran approached the far end of the last meadow with relief. But this was as far as he and Finn had ever ventured, and when he saw what lay ahead, his heart sank. Here, an inlet of the Thames snaked into the beginnings of a boggy wood, and a narrow plank footbridge provided the only crossing. There was no way round that Kieran could see, so he held the rails as he crossed, stepping as carefully as a child, and he did the same on the next, even narrower, footbridge.

As he walked on, brushing at the overhanging branches that caught at his hair, the path grew less defined, twisting and turning deeper into the woods until it threatened to vanish altogether.

And then he came round one more bend, and he was there. He knew the place at once.

A small bowl of a clearing lay between the path and the river, hemmed by trees and trailing brush. A signpost on one of the trees stated FISHING LICENSE REQUIRED. The grass in the clearing looked soft and swampy, and was still vibrantly green, even in late October. In a muddy spot to one side, Kieran thought he could make out a clear footprint.

He didn’t dare go closer, for fear of disturbing evidence, but he thought the flotsam at the water’s edge had been disturbed. When he looked north, through a gap in the trees, he could just make out the white gleam of the folly on the tip of Temple Island. Was this, then, where Becca had died?

The blood rushed to his head. He crouched, his arm across Finn’s shoulders, fighting the dizziness, forcing himself to breathe. Then the skin crawled on the back of his neck.

He knew that feeling. He’d had it in Iraq, when his unit had been observed by hostiles. Someone was watching him. Finn’s ears came up, but he didn’t growl, and Kieran couldn’t tell if the dog had sensed something or was just reading his master’s signals.

Finn whined and butted at him, upsetting his balance. “Okay, okay,” he whispered, steadying himself. Carefully, he stood and looked round, checking the path in either direction, then the dense wood behind him.

Nothing.

He felt a drop of moisture on his cheek, then another. The rain that had been threatening all day was moving in, and the light was fading fast. If he didn’t start back, he’d be limping across those footbridges and through the meadows in near zero visibility, and he hadn’t brought a torch.

He looked once more at the clearing. He was certain now that he hadn’t imagined the man he had seen here. But he was a clapped-out, freaked-out Iraq vet who yesterday had destroyed his only fragile claim to credibility. Who would believe him?

When they’d arrived at the Yard, Kincaid found that his chief was out to lunch and would afterwards be attending a planning meeting in Lambeth.

Kincaid had been tempted to go back to Shepherd’s Bush and have another talk with Gaskill, but he hadn’t wanted to betray Becca’s sergeant’s confidence. So after he and Cullen had grabbed a sandwich in the canteen, he shut himself in his office and did his own research on Angus Craig. He didn’t like what he found.

To some degree, all senior officers in the Met rotated from division to division, filling different positions. But it seemed that Craig had moved more than most, and after a certain point, although he’d risen in rank, his postings had seemed to carry less and less responsibility.

He sat back from the computer, frowning, and rang Superintendent Mark Lamb. Lamb was Gemma’s guv’nor at Notting Hill, but he was also an old friend of Kincaid’s, and someone he trusted to give him a straight opinion.

“Craig?” Lamb said when they’d dispensed with the pleasantries. “Well, off the record, he’s a bit dodgy, really. I’ve worked with him on a few committees. He’s not a man you want to cross. He likes to use his influence, and not always to the betterment of his fellow officers.”

“Any problems with female officers in particular?” Kincaid asked.

“There were whispers,” Lamb said reluctantly. “I don’t want to tell tales out of school, and I never had anything concrete. But I got the impression that the female officers avoided him whenever possible.”

“You don’t mean just an old-fashioned bias against working with women, I take it?”

“I think it was more than that. Hang on.” Lamb murmured to someone in the background. “Look, I’ve got to go. But tell Gemma we’re looking forward to having her back next week.”

“Will do,” said Kincaid, and rang off.

There was a tap on his office door and Cullen came in. “I’ve been on to Henley,” he said, taking the visitor’s chair. “I’ve assigned a family liaison officer to Freddie Atterton, although Atterton had already made the official identification before I could get the FLO to accompany him.

“I’ve had a word with the press officer and said the usual—deepest regrets, one of our finest officers, putting all our resources towards finding an explanation for DCI Meredith’s tragic death, etc., etc. But they want you in your finest in Henley tomorrow morning for a five-minute stint with the cameras.”

Kincaid nodded. He didn’t like doing interviews, but it was a necessary, and sometimes useful, part of an investigation. It was a good thing he would get home tonight for a change of clothes. “Anything new from the forensics teams, or this afternoon’s interviews?”

Shaking his head, Cullen said, “Not yet. What about this Angus Craig business, guv?”

“I don’t think we can take that any further until I’ve had a word with the chief.” He glanced at his watch. It was almost five. His patience with his chief superintendent was evaporating, but he wasn’t leaving until he’d seen him. “I’m going to stay on a bit, Doug, but you go home. I expect you have boxes to deal with. When are you out of your flat?”

Cullen grinned. “This weekend. Good thing I don’t have much to pack.”

“You’d best take advantage of a lull, then. We’ll make an early start for Henley in the morning.”

After Cullen left, Kincaid shuffled papers with one eye on the clock. He was just about to go knock on the chief’s door when Childs’s secretary rang and summoned him.

Kincaid entered the chief superintendent’s office without ceremony, and when Childs gestured towards his usual chair, he shook his head.

“I won’t keep you long, sir.”

Childs’s usually implacable gaze sharpened. “What’s going on, Duncan? Is there a development?”

Kincaid had worked under Denis Childs for more than six years, and they’d been on first-name terms for much of that time. Not only did he consider Childs a personal friend, but they were also connected through the house in Notting Hill, which Kincaid and Gemma leased from Denis’s sister. At the moment, however, he wasn’t inclined towards informality.

“Sir, were you aware that there was some sort of connection between Deputy Assistant Commissioner Angus Craig and Rebecca Meredith?”

Childs looked startled. “Did Peter Gaskill tell you that?”

A heavy man, Childs had made an effort to lose weight in the past year, and now his skin seemed to sag on his body, as if it had belonged to someone a size larger. The resulting fleshy folds around Childs’s dark almond-shaped eyes had not made his expression any easier to read, but from his response, Kincaid assumed that he had known something.

Avoiding an answer that would implicate Sergeant Patterson, he said, “What I’d like to know is why you didn’t tell me. If there was some relationship between Rebecca Meredith and DAC Craig, it seems the fact that Craig lives a mile from where Meredith’s body was found might be relevant. That’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Duncan. And you’re shooting in the dark, aren’t you?” Childs looked at him speculatively. “You don’t really know anything.” Then he sighed and folded his pudgy hands together on the pristine surface of his large and shiny desk. “But I know you well enough to know that you won’t leave it alone now.”

“Leave what alone, exactly?”

“Something that I’d hoped would not become an issue. Something that needs to be handled very delicately. I wouldn’t say that DCI Meredith had a relationship with Craig. But she had made certain . . . allegations . . . regarding Craig’s behavior towards her. I’m sure they have nothing to do with her death, but if they became public knowledge, it could be very ugly for the Met.”

“Ugly?” Kincaid thought of the sight of Rebecca Meredith’s body. “I can’t think of many things uglier than what looks like the murder of one of our senior officers. I think you’d better tell me exactly what’s going on here, Denis. What sort of allegations are you talking about?”

Pushing back his chair, Childs said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Duncan, sit down. You’re giving me a headache looming over me like that.”

Reluctantly, Kincaid pulled out the steel and leather visitor’s chair and sat on the edge.

Childs pursed his lips, as if sampling something unpleasant. “A year ago, DCI Meredith told Peter Gaskill that Angus Craig had offered her a lift after some sort of do—a leaving party, I think. He said her cottage was on his way, and when they arrived, he asked to come in for a moment. And then he—assaulted—her.”

Kincaid had never seen his boss hesitate over a word choice before. “That’s media-speak—assaulted. What exactly did Rebecca Meredith say?”

“She said”—Childs turned his chair slightly, so that he was facing the window rather than looking directly at Kincaid—“she said he raped her. And then—at least according to Meredith—he told her that if she made a complaint, she would lose her job. She had a DNA sample taken, then went to Gaskill.”

“And what,” Kincaid asked, “did Superintendent Gaskill do about it?”

Childs swiveled towards him again, his expression pained. “Peter Gaskill told her the sensible thing, which was that if her allegations were made public, the whole affair would degenerate into a he said–she said slanging match. She had no way to prove that the sex was not consensual and that she hadn’t afterwards changed her mind. It would tarnish the reputation of the force, and it would ruin her career. No male officer would want her anywhere near his team.

“He promised her that Craig would be asked to retire immediately, and quietly, so that no other female officers would be put at risk, and that Craig would receive some sort of censure within the Met.”

Kincaid simply stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

The usually unflappable Childs frowned at him and snapped, “Could you have come up with a better solution, Duncan? The force has had enough negative publicity the last few years—you know that. Senior officers have made public accusations of racism, sexual intolerance, and incompetence against their peers. Rebecca Meredith’s story would have been disastrous. And it would have ruined her career without accomplishing anything.”

Kincaid felt as though he couldn’t breathe. “But now she’s dead, so there’s no need to worry about her career, I take it? And what about other female officers? Or other women, for that matter?”

“You’re assuming that Meredith’s allegations were true. We have no way of knowing that. Craig denied it, of course.”

“Of course he did.” Kincaid stood, as if movement might contain his rising temper. “Why would Meredith make up something like that? That would have been suicidal.

“And Craig didn’t take immediate retirement, by the way—I looked it up this afternoon. He only stepped down two weeks ago. He’s still listed as a consultant. Oh, and he just happened to receive honors. That’s some censure.

“Becca Meredith must have been livid when she found out. And felt horribly betrayed by her superiors.”

A furrow creased Childs’s wide brow. He straightened the Montblanc on his leather desk blotter before he met Kincaid’s eyes. “Don’t blow this out of proportion, Duncan. There’s a bit more to it. Rebecca Meredith made life difficult for herself, and for those around her, as I’m sure you will come to see. And she had her own agenda. She wanted to row, and she wanted to do it on a fully funded leave of absence.”

“I don’t believe this,” Kincaid said, looking at Childs in astonishment. “Are you telling me that Rebecca Meredith was blackmailing the Met?”

“I’m saying that an offer had been made to her, and that she was considering it.”

“An offer.” Had Rebecca Meredith wanted to row that badly? Or had she just been looking for a way to salvage something from the damage Craig had done to her life? “And if she had turned it down?” he asked.

“Then we would all have dealt with the consequences.” Childs gave a weighty sigh.

Kincaid turned away and walked to the window. Without looking at his boss, he said, “Why, exactly, were you so determined that I should take this case?”

“Because you’re my best officer. Because I thought you could get to the bottom of things. And I thought I could count on you to be discreet.”

It was fully dark, and rain had begun to fall, blurring the lights of Victoria and Westminster beyond. Kincaid gazed out the window, struggling to find coherent words through the haze of his anger. “Angus Craig had both the motive and the physical proximity to have murdered Rebecca Meredith. Did you expect me to ignore that?”

“I expected you to do your job professionally and thoroughly. I still do. And I expect you not to make unsubstantiated allegations against another officer.

“And now,” added Childs, levering his still considerable bulk up from his chair, “I’m afraid I’ve got family obligations. Diane’s sister has come to stay for a fortnight. Damned nuisance.” He moved towards the door, but turned back as he reached it. “Oh, and Duncan, I expect you to keep me informed.”

Kincaid had been dismissed.

“ ‘O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool?’ ” read Kincaid a few hours later, doing his best to sound like Alice. “ ‘I am very tired of swimming about—’ ”

“No.” Charlotte slipped her hand under his and turned the pages back. “Read t’other part again.”

“You mean the part about the little girl who was covered from her toes to her nose?” He sat at the head of her small white bed, book in his lap, and she had scooted over to make room for him.

Having left the Yard straight after his interview with Denis Childs, he’d come home to find the household in the full chaotic flow of evening routine.

“What are you doing home?” Gemma had asked when he’d finally managed to kiss her, having been boisterously greeted by both the dogs and the younger children. “I thought you’d be back in Henley for at least another night.”

“Got a date with the milkman again?” he’d quipped.

But Gemma had seen his face. Frowning, she said, “What’s happened? Is—”

He’d shaken his head as Toby broke in. “Who’s the milkman? We don’t have a milkman.”

“Never you mind,” Kincaid told him. “And don’t interrupt your mum.”

Toby was undeterred. “Kit’s making a stir-fry. He let me chop. Want to help?”

“Help you chop your fingers off? Of course I do.” And so he had let the current of home life sweep him up while he tried to sort out his thoughts.

It had been his turn to read to Charlotte while Gemma gave Toby his bath. It was Charlotte who had chosen the book, Kit’s old copy, found on the sitting-room bookshelf. Kincaid had raised an eyebrow at Gemma when he saw it. “Isn’t she a bit young for Alice?”

Gemma shrugged. “Not according to her. She won’t have anything else at the moment. And I’m rather liking it.”

“You didn’t read it as a child?” he’d asked, surprised. But Gemma’s family had not been readers, and the children’s books were proving a voyage of discovery for her.

Now Charlotte giggled as he pulled the duvet up to the tip of her nose, but she promptly tugged it down again and tapped the book. “No. The Drink Me part.”

Obediently, he found the right page and began. “ ‘What a curious feeling!’ said Alice, ‘I must be shutting up like a telescope.’

“And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this, ‘for it might end, you know,’ said Alice to herself, ‘in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?’ ”

“Poof,” Kincaid interjected, and blew out an imaginary flame.

“You put that in,” said Charlotte. “That’s not fair, making things up.”

“The man who wrote the story, Lewis Carroll, made it all up. The whole thing.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew big, then she shook her head. “Even Alice?”

“Including Alice.”

“No,” Charlotte said with absolute certainty. “That’s silly. It’s Alice’s story. Do you think Alice liked getting littler?”

Kincaid gave the question consideration. “I don’t know. Would you?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No. I want to get bigger.”

This gave Kincaid a pang, but he said, “Then you should close your eyes and go to sleep, because the sooner it’s tomorrow, the closer it will be to your birthday.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“All right.” Charlotte shut her eyes tight, but after a moment they flew open again. “Will you stay until I’m fast asleep?”

“Yes. I promise.”

“Will you check on me after?”

“Yes. Now snuggle up, and sweet dreams.” He pulled up the duvet again, and this time Charlotte covered his hand with hers and kept it tucked under her chin.

After a moment, her eyelids fluttered, then closed, and to his amazement he felt her hand relax and saw that she was drawing the deep regular breaths of sleep.

Looking down at her hand atop his, he thought he had never seen anything so lovely. Her tiny, pale brown fingers were loosely curled, her nails like pink pearls. He felt such wonder that this child had come unexpectedly into his life, and that she had begun to love him. And he never wanted to do anything that would make him less than the father she deserved.

Very, very gently, he brushed his lips against her cheek and eased his hand free.

Looking up, he saw Gemma standing in the doorway, watching them. She smiled. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“It was Alice.” He stood. “What about Toby?”

“Reading something a bit less challenging. A Pirates of the Caribbean comic.”

“As long as it’s not the Daily Mirror.”

“Not yet, anyway.” She studied him. “Come down to the kitchen. I’m just going to put the kettle on, and you’re going to tell me what happened today.”

They sat in the kitchen, the dogs settled contentedly under their feet. Gemma’s Clarice Cliff teapot held pride of place on the table between them, but they drank out of chipped, mismatched mugs, treasures acquired on Saturday browses through Portobello Market. Kincaid had checked on Toby and Kit, and then, when he’d taken the dogs out, he’d discovered that it was still raining lightly and that the temperature had dropped. The kitchen’s dark blue Aga radiated a comforting heat.

Marshaling his thoughts, he told Gemma everything they’d learned that morning about Rebecca Meredith’s death, and then, more slowly, he related the gist of his conversation with Denis Childs. “I don’t want to take this case,” he said when he’d finished.

“You’d resign as SIO?” Gemma looked shocked. “But you can’t.”

“I’m supposed to be going on leave, in case you’ve forgotten.”

She sighed. “No, of course not. And I want you finished with this as much as you do. But to walk away from a case like this—you know what it would do to your career.”

“Would you have me . . . adjust”—his lips twisted—“the direction of an investigation to protect a senior officer in the Met?”

“No, but—” Gemma met his eyes with the honest gaze he loved. “What about Rebecca Meredith? Don’t you want to know who killed her? Doesn’t she deserve an answer, regardless of the consequences?”

“You do realize just how bad the consequences could be if it turns out that Craig killed her? And what we have at stake?” His gesture took in the house, and the children snug in their rooms upstairs.

Gemma divided the dregs of the pot between their cups, then added the last of the milk from the little Clarice Cliff jug. After a moment, she said, “I have more faith in Denis Childs than that. This senior officer—what did you say his name was? Craig?”

“Angus Craig. A good Scottish name that I’d be inclined to like under other circumstances, but—” He broke off when he saw Gemma wasn’t listening. “What—”

“Sandy-haired? Not too tall, a bit burly?” Her voice had gone up an octave.

“I’ve only met him a few times, but that would describe him. Why—”

“Oh, my God.” Gemma’s eyes were wide. “Rebecca Meredith said he offered her a lift, then asked to come in to use the loo?”

“Yes. Gemma, what—”

She stopped him, her words coming out in a rush. “It was after I’d passed my sergeant’s exam, a month or two before I was assigned to you. I went to a party at a pub in Victoria. I don’t remember the occasion—it very well may have been a leaving do for someone—but I was encouraged to go by some new mates at the Yard.

“All in all, a nice enough evening, but by the time things broke up, it was pissing down rain. I hadn’t taken my car in because I didn’t want to drink and drive, and as the group was breaking up someone said the Central Line to Leyton had been shut down.” Gemma hesitated. “He offered me a lift.”

“You mean Craig?”

“One and the same, I’m certain of it. He was very—solicitous. Courteous in a sort of paternal way. And a deputy assistant commissioner to boot . . . I suppose I was flattered.” She swallowed and rotated her mug a quarter turn on the scrubbed pine table. “So I accepted. We made chitchat on the drive, about nothing in particular. Films, I think. Then, when we got to Leyton, he asked if he could come in. He’d said he wasn’t over the limit, but he’d had a pint or two, and you know, he’d gone a bit out of his way to drive me home and he needed to use the loo.

“So I said of course, although I was horrified thinking of the state of the house, and I invited him in.”

Kincaid shifted uneasily in his chair, disturbing Geordie, their cocker spaniel, who had been sleeping on his feet. Geordie gave a disgruntled whumf and resettled himself. “Go on,” Kincaid said tightly, not taking his eyes from Gemma’s face. He didn’t like where this was going at all.

“I hadn’t said anything about my personal situation—why would I, to a senior officer I didn’t know? I was uncomfortable enough with being a newly divorced single mother, and I was hoping it wouldn’t damage my career prospects.” She glanced at him, then looked away. “So I suppose he assumed I was alone.

“But that night my mum had come over to look after Toby, and of course Toby had thrown a total wobbly and had refused to go down. So when Craig walked into the house and saw my mum pacing the sitting room with a red-faced, tear-streaked toddler over her shoulder, he turned round and walked right back out again with barely a good night.

“I thought it was odd, but that maybe he was embarrassed at having asked to use the loo, or that maybe he thought he’d step in a dirty nappie if he came any further.” She shrugged. “And then I forgot about it. I never ran into him after that. But—”

“But what?” said Kincaid, feeling cold. He knew he was constructing the same scenario.

“What if my mum hadn’t been there that night? What if—what if Angus Craig meant to do to me what he did to Rebecca Meredith?”

By the time Kieran made it back to the boatshed, it was well past dark. Soaked through and shivering, he felt light-headed, as if his brain was disconnected from his body. His ears had begun to ring, which was often a sign that the vertigo was about to get worse.

Switching on a light, he rubbed Finn’s wet coat with a towel, then poured the dog some dry food. But the thought of making something for himself brought the hovering nausea on again.

When had he last eaten? The protein bar before they’d started yesterday’s search? No wonder he was feeling wonky.

He sank down onto the camp bed, images stuttering through his mind like frames in a bad film reel. He knew he should get dry, at least, but the steps required to achieve such a simple thing seemed beyond his capabilities.

And he knew he should tell someone what he had seen, but who?

He didn’t think Tavie would even talk to him, much less hear him out. The policeman from the Yard? He’d seemed like the sort of man who might listen, but Kieran didn’t know how to get in touch. He couldn’t imagine trying to explain himself to an officer at the local nick, even if he could get himself there.

His head swam and he gripped the edge of the bed, bracing for the onset of full-tilt vertigo. When it didn’t come, he breathed a sigh of relief. Finn finished the last scrap of his food and came over to lie on the floor at his feet, head on his paws, eyes intent on Kieran’s face.

Kieran waited, counting to himself. The seconds passed. He began to think that maybe he was going to be okay—or at least well enough to clean himself up, then get down a sandwich and some coffee. Then maybe he could work out what to do about the man on the bank.

He’d gingerly started to stand when he heard a soft splash from outside the shed. Finn’s ears came up in inquiry. The dog tilted his head and growled low in his throat, the hackles rising on his back.

Then the world exploded.