No Mark upon Her

Chapter Twenty

We are all proudly wearing the OUBC Race Day kit. Today we earn the highest sporting honour of our university, the Oxford Blue. Only a select number of sports are eligible and a Blue can be awarded only in competition against Cambridge . . . To be awarded the rowing Blue you must pass the Fulham Wall, about two minutes down the course. The cruelty of sinking would be doubled if it happened before that point. [David Livingston]

—David and James Livingston

Blood Over Water

The Churchill Arms was just as cluttered as Melody had described it. It was also packed, suffocatingly warm, and reeked of boiled veg and roasted meat.

Gemma was early, so she’d slipped inside to absorb a bit of the atmosphere while she waited for Melody. Patrons were carrying drinks onto the pavement, so it was easy enough for her to stand to one side of the crush milling about the door. Having dressed casually, in a skirt and boots, she attempted a studied nonchalance, and thought it was a good thing she’d never had to work undercover.

It was a beautiful, crisp day, and having asked Betty Howard to watch Charlotte and Toby for a few hours, Gemma had walked the short distance from Notting Hill to the Churchill Arms. She’d glanced down Campden Street, where Jenny Hart had lived, and like Melody, she’d felt chilled at the thought of the murderer striking so close to home. The initial call would have gone to Kensington Station; otherwise it would have come across Gemma’s desk. Not that she’d have got any further than the major crimes team that had eventually been assigned to the case. They’d done a good job with what they had.

She kept thinking of Melody—young, attractive, single—a perfect target for Angus Craig. Maybe it was a good thing for Melody’s sake that Craig seemed to have upped his game, going after more senior female officers.

Now, of course, Melody was forewarned, but there were too many other potential victims who were not. They needed to put the bastard out of action altogether, and soon.

Gemma watched the waitstaff, moving busily between bar and kitchen and tables in the pub’s crowded rooms, and wondered which of the girls might be their witness.

“Boss,” said Melody in her ear, and Gemma started. “You still look like a copper,” Melody added, giving her a quick and nervous smile.

“Same to you. And you nearly gave me heart failure. Have you got the photos?”

“Of course.” Melody touched her handbag, which was capacious enough to carry off a good bit of the pub’s Churchill memorabilia. “That’s the manager,” she added, nodding at a tall young woman behind the bar. “Theresa.”

“And the other girl?” Gemma asked.

“Let’s find out. And I’m just going to introduce you as my colleague, okay? No names. Just in case—well, let’s not go there.”

Gemma stopped her friend with a touch on the arm. “Melody, are you sure about this? It could mean—you could seriously damage your career by doing this. Or worse.”

“If she doesn’t ID him, we’ve nothing to lose. It was just a dead-end Sapphire lead. If she does give us a positive, I’ll do whatever it takes. Same as you.” Melody’s conviction was absolute.

“Right,” said Gemma, and followed her to the bar. She stood back as Melody talked to the manager. The noise level in the pub was so high that she caught only a few words, but when she saw the manager nod towards the girl who was pulling pints at the bar’s far end, her heart sank.

The barmaid was plump and freckled, with bleached blond hair pulled up in a knot on top of her head, and a splatter of colorful tattoos down her bare arms. When she came over, at the manager’s signal, Gemma saw that the girl was older than she’d first thought, perhaps in her mid-twenties.

“Ros,” said the manager. “These are the ladies from the police.”

Gemma moved in close enough to hear Melody ask, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“There’s an empty table back by the kitchen,” the barmaid answered. “Quieter there.” Turning, she led them through a maze of rooms into, much to Gemma’s surprise, a little indoor garden. It was quieter and cooler, and the three of them squeezed themselves round a small table in the corner.

“The ferny grotto, I call it,” said Ros. Her accent, Gemma realized, was educated and middle class.

“Theresa said you wanted to talk to me about Jenny Hart,” the girl continued, looking at them earnestly. Gemma added forthright and confident as bonuses to the accent, and her hopes rose.

She felt no embarrassment for her bias—she’d been on the job long enough to know that a middle-class witness was automatically given more credence. And, she thought, studying Ros more closely, if you put a long-sleeved blouse on the girl, she might clean up very well.

“So you remember Jenny Hart?” asked Melody.

“Of course I do,” Ros said with some asperity. “She came in two or three nights a week, at least, and I served her if I could.” She shook her head, looking stricken. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard what had happened to her.”

“How did you come to know her name?” asked Gemma, forgetting for a moment that she was playing the subordinate role.

Melody gave her a quelling glance and added, “It’s a busy place, and you must serve hundreds of customers in a day.”

“Not that many women come in regularly on their own. And she was friendly, always had a nice word for all the staff.”

“Did you know she was a police officer?” Melody asked.

“Not until one night a few months before she was—before she died. There was a bit of aggro—couple of blokes old enough to know better started a row over a football match. Jenny stood up—straight as a die after two martinis, mind you—pulled out her warrant card and gave them their marching orders.” Ros smiled at the recollection. “They marched, too. She was not going to be messed about and they could tell.

“After that, we talked more. I was thinking of going into criminal justice, and she was nice enough to give me advice.”

“And did you?” asked Melody. “Go into criminal justice?”

“No. I’m reading law.”

Gemma didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or horrified. The fact that this young woman was clever was certainly in their favor—the fact that she would understand what she was getting into might not be.

Melody opened her bag, and Gemma’s heart sped up. Even though they’d moved away from the rooms with open fires, she suddenly felt much too warm.

“Ros,” said Melody. “You told the police that Jenny was here the night she was killed. And that you thought you saw her talking to a man. Can you tell me about that?”

Ros nodded. “It was a Saturday—well, you know that. Place was packed to the gills. I served Jenny a couple of martinis at the bar. Vodka with just a whisper of vermouth, and a twist—just the way she liked them. I remember she looked tired.” Ros shifted in her chair and crossed her tattooed forearms across her chest.

“People were shoving to get served, so after the second drink, she moved back a bit. Then I saw her talking to a bloke.” Ros frowned. “I got the impression that she knew him—I’m not sure why. When you work in a bar and you watch people all the time, you just get a feel for the body language. This was different from a stranger pickup.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I think this guy bought her a drink, but I’m not sure. I didn’t serve him. Then I lost sight of them. That’s all,” Ros added, sounding as if she was terribly disappointed in herself. “When the police came to talk to us after they’d found her body, I couldn’t believe it. If I’d only paid more attention—”

“Stop,” said Melody. “Right now. You mustn’t even begin to think that way. Nothing that happened was your fault. But you can help us now.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “You weren’t able to give the police much of a description, even with the help of the sketch artist.”

Ros shook her head in obvious frustration. “He was just . . . ordinary. And I wasn’t trying to remember.” She thought for a moment. “I know he was older—he reminded me of my uncle John. Fair-skinned, hair receding a bit. Slightly stocky build. Not tall. But when the police artist put together features, nothing gelled.”

“Had you seen him before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again? It’s been six months.”

Ros looked at Melody, then Gemma, her expression anxious now. “I don’t know. But I think so. It’s not the sort of thing you forget.”

“Okay,” said Melody. “Not to worry. I’m going to show you a photo of a group of men. You tell us if any of them look familiar. It’s that easy.”

From her bag, she took the photo of Angus Craig in a group of other senior officers, all in evening dress. There was nothing about him, Gemma thought, that stood out. Unless you knew.

She realized she was holding her breath.

Taking the photo carefully, Ros studied it, her eyes flicking from one side of the picture to the other. Then she stared straight at it and gave a little gasp.

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. That’s him.” She touched a black-lacquered fingertip to the man who stood dead center in the group. Angus Craig.

Kincaid had returned to the incident room, courtesy of a ride from DC Bell, when he got Gemma’s call.

“We’ve got him,” she said, her voice vibrating with suppressed excitement.

He closed his eyes. It was too good to be true. “In writing?”

“Signed and sworn. Melody took the girl into Notting Hill Station to make her statement. She’s a law student, so she knows what she’s doing. Her name is Rosamond Koether. We explained—Melody explained”—Gemma corrected quickly—“that making a formal identification might cause personal . . . difficulties . . . for her. We suggested that she stay with friends for at least a few days, and not give out her whereabouts. She still insisted on making a statement.”

“Do you think she could pick him out of an identity lineup?”

“Without a doubt. Melody showed her the photo of him in a group at the Commissioner’s Ball. She picked him out without any hesitation. Melody’s sent the statement to Doug at the Yard.”

“Right. Good.” Kincaid struggled to collect himself. He realized he’d believed it was pie-in-the-sky, the idea that a witness could reliably tie Craig to Jenny Hart on the night of her murder.

Of course, the Crown Prosecution Service wouldn’t consider this girl’s statement sufficient for a murder charge, but a judge should deem it merited a warrant for a DNA test, and that was all they needed.

If they were right. God help them if they were wrong.

“Still there, love?” asked Gemma.

“Oh, yes. Miles away. Sorry.” DC Bell, DC Bean, and DI Singla were all watching him curiously. “I think it’s time to have a word with the guv’nor,” he said to Gemma. “Face-to-face.”

Imogen Bell caught him up as he was leaving the station for the car.

He’d merely told the assembled team that he had an urgent lead on another case in London, and that he’d be back with them as soon as possible.

“Can I walk with you?” asked DC Bell. She’d been unable to conceal her relief when he’d rung from Remenham with the news that Freddie Atterton was all right.

When she’d picked them up, however, she’d been decidedly frosty with Atterton until he’d apologized nicely for worrying her, and promised to keep his phone turned on in future.

“Of course,” Kincaid said.

She fell into step beside him, and with her long legs she had no trouble keeping up. The wind blowing down Greys Road scattered strands of her light brown hair across her face, which she pushed away impatiently. “This case in London—is it connected to this one?”

He considered prevaricating, but a glance at her intent face made him decide against it. “I don’t know. It’s possible. But I can’t say anything about it until I know more.”

“It’s a murder, isn’t it? And you have a witness.”

He looked at her more sharply. “Have you ever considered a career in journalism, DC Bell?”

“Sorry.” She didn’t sound at all contrite. “It’s just that—does this case affect Mr. Atterton? If it’s on my watch, I think I should know.”

She was right, Kincaid had to admit. But he couldn’t afford for this lovely young woman to come to Craig’s attention. She had just the sort of confident personality that Craig seemed increasingly driven to crush.

And he certainly couldn’t afford for Craig to get even an inkling of an idea that they actually had something on him.

“Yes, you should know,” he said. “But it’s complicated. And there may be—repercussions. I promise I’ll tell you as much as I can, as soon as I can.”

They’d reached the car park. He stopped, turning to her. “Look, Imogen. I really do have to go. But in the meanwhile, just keep a reasonable eye on Freddie. I think he’ll be more cooperative now. And don’t tell anyone we have a witness in a connected case. Got that?” He jabbed a finger at her for emphasis. “Anyone.”

Although Kieran had badgered all and sundry—especially Tavie, who had no control whatsoever in the matter—about getting back into his boatshed, now that he’d been given permission, he found himself delaying.

After Superintendent Kincaid had left, Kieran tidied the flat, finished the washing, and made himself a cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch although he still felt guilty about eating Tavie’s provisions. Perhaps he’d pick up some things for dinner on his way back . . .

On his way back from the shed.

Sitting at Tavie’s small table, holding his half-finished sandwich, he saw that his hands were shaking, and he realized he didn’t want to go home. Not to stay. Not yet.

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.

By 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.

It 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.”

Kincaid 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.”

He leaned nearer the polished expanse of Childs’s desk. “Craig thought he was untouchable. And I think that will have made him careless.” Kincaid studied his boss. “You were on to this from the beginning, weren’t you? You knew about Becca Meredith’s accusations, and when she was found dead a mile from Craig’s door, you suspected him. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I always have the utmost confidence in your abilities, Duncan,” Childs said. “You know that.”

Kincaid felt a surge of anger, adrenaline fueled. “You let me take the heat for going after Craig.”

“I counted on you to take action where I couldn’t, and not to be intimidated by Angus Craig.”

If that was a compliment, Kincaid wasn’t in the mood to take it that way. “Why push me towards Freddie Atterton, if you thought it was Craig all along?”

Shrugging, Childs said, “There are always those who would prefer the obvious solution. I obliged them. I thought it would make you stubborn.”

Kincaid realized he was clenching his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t like being used.”

Childs frowned, and when he spoke, his voice held a rare flash of temper. “Would you rather I’d assigned the case to some dunderhead who would have arrested Freddie Atterton? And do you not see what would have happened if I’d directed you towards Craig?

“I think it very likely someone would have stopped you, one way or another. Then if you had managed to pin Meredith’s murder on Craig, my involvement would have been obvious. And it would have been used in Craig’s favor by his defense.

“As it is, you did your job, and we have an unexpected”—Childs touched Jenny Hart’s file—“conclusion.” His eyes gleamed.

Kincaid’s phone beeped with a text. “Sorry,” he said. “But that should be Cullen.” He slipped the phone from his jacket pocket and read the message, then looked back at Childs. “We’ve got the warrant.” He couldn’t keep the jubilation from his voice. “I’m going to serve the bastard tonight.”

“No,” said Childs. “You’re not.”

“What?” Kincaid stared at him, thinking he’d misheard.

“You are not going to serve the warrant. Not yet.”

“I don’t believe this.” Kincaid shook his head in astonishment. After everything Childs had said about Craig, was he suddenly changing his mind? “Why the bloody hell not?”

Ignoring the insubordination, Denis Childs pulled up the knot on his tie. Then he heaved his bulk from his chair.

With Childs looming over him, Kincaid suddenly felt he might be felled by a mountain.

“Because,” answered Childs, looking down at him, “I am going to pay a call on retired Deputy Assistant Commissioner Craig.”

He sighed, pinching his lips together in an expression of distaste. “I suppose I shall be obliged to take Superintendent Gaskill with me, although he won’t like it. But that way, Peter Gaskill, the little worm, will know he’s gone far enough.”

“You’re going to serve Angus Craig? An officer of your rank?”

“No.” Childs sounded infinitely patient. “As one senior officer to another, I’m going to give Angus Craig the opportunity to come into the Yard and provide a DNA sample. Voluntarily. Just to clear this inconvenient little matter up.”

He reached for the Burberry hanging neatly on the coat rack behind his desk. “It’s a necessary courtesy, Duncan. I’d be pilloried if I didn’t make the gesture. And—” Childs paused, and Kincaid once again saw a flash of the emotion that moved beneath his chief superintendent’s implacable facade, like a shark’s fin just breaking the surface.

“And,” Childs went on, sounding profoundly unperturbed, “I want to see his face.”