No Mark upon Her

Chapter Twenty-five

What is there in the universe more fascinating than running water and the possibility of moving over it? What better image of existence and possible triumph?

—George Santayana

The Lost Pilgrim

Sunday lunchtime found Kincaid still finishing up reports in his office at the Yard. He’d sent Doug Cullen home mid-morning, a little sharply. Doug had been lingering, inventing tasks, looking more anxious and morose by the minute.

“Go,” Kincaid had finally said. “Get on with your house-moving.”

“You’ll need me to proof that for you,” Doug protested, nodding at the computer screen.

“I’m perfectly capable of writing a proper report on my own, thank you.” Kincaid knew exactly what Doug was feeling, but drawing it out was not going to make it better.

“We’ll have a pint next weekend,” he said. “And as soon as you’re settled, we’ll come for dinner, if you’re brave enough to have us, that is.”

“Right,” said Doug. He stuck his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with his keys. “I’ll investigate the takeaway options in Putney.”

“That will keep you busy if your new guv’nor doesn’t give you enough to do.”

Doug gave the joke the weak smile it deserved.

The moment stretched into the sort of awkward silence faced by men who could not find a graceful way to say good-bye.

“I’ll be back,” Kincaid said at last. And then, “You’ll be all right.”

“Right.” Doug nodded and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Thanks. See you, then.” He’d ducked his head and slipped out the door.

Cullen’s departure brought the reality home to Kincaid. He would not be back for two months unless they decided that Charlotte was ready to go into nursery school before then. His life was about to change in ways he couldn’t yet imagine, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

He lingered, gazing at the familiar walls of his office, thinking how many years this job had defined him, and wondering who he would be without it.

And thinking about what had happened the previous afternoon, and how near any one of them might have come to tragedy.

He’d spent the better part of Saturday evening interviewing Ross Abbott at Thames Valley headquarters.

Once subdued and hauled off to the Thames Valley nick, Abbott had gone quiet and refused to say another word without representation.

Studying Abbott in the custody suite, Kincaid had seen the mask come down, the man’s desperation and viciousness wiped away by the cool, plausible, and highly affronted City banker. But there was no hiding the calculation in Abbott’s eyes, and his story, when his slightly befuddled solicitor had finally arrived, had been a masterful work of invention.

He had, he said, been deeply worried about his grieving friend, after Freddie’s irrational behavior earlier that afternoon at the Red Lion. Having not found Freddie at home, he’d gone to the cottage looking for him.

Then, seeing a strange car out front and the cottage door standing slightly ajar, he’d suspected a burglar and had felt obliged to go in. He’d then been threatened by Kieran and his mad dog, and had tried to defend himself.

As for the gun, he said he’d grabbed it from the drawer in Rebecca Meredith’s sideboard, when he’d been searching for something to defend himself against the lunatic with the dog.

“And then you and your mate”—he gave a pointed look at Kincaid and Doug—“came barging in and failed to identify yourselves as police officers. I thought you were part of the gang.”

“Gang?” Kincaid said. He’d looked down at his now definitely worse-for-wear Saturday clothes—muddy chinos, soggy button-down shirt and pullover—and thought wistfully of his soaked leather jacket, hanging up to dry in an anteroom. And Doug, with one earpiece of his glasses bent from the scuffle to subdue Abbott, his now-dry fair hair sticking up like a schoolboy who had just got out of bed, looked even more unlikely. “Gang?” Kincaid repeated, brows elevated as high as they would go. If Abbott could dramatize, he could do him one better. Not even Abbott’s solicitor could repress a smile.

“I think perhaps you need your eyes examined, Mr. Abbott,” Kincaid continued. They had not actually identified themselves as police, so he stepped carefully over that one for the moment.

“As for the gun, your wife has already told police that it was her illegally obtained firearm, and that you took it from the house without her knowledge. That, in my book, goes down as intent to harm.”

He’d then reiterated, for the tape, what they knew about Becca Meredith’s visit to the Abbotts’ the previous Saturday, and why Abbott had then put in motion a plan to murder her.

“Bollocks,” said Abbott. “Absolute bollocks. And you can’t prove a bit of it.”

“Oh, I think we can. And we can prove you attacked Kieran Connolly. We’ve impounded your car, and a forensics team have taken your clothes from your house, as well as your single scull from Henley Rowing Club. I know you think you’re clever, Mr. Abbott, but there will be traces you missed. You will have left fiber at the scene of Becca Meredith’s murder, and perhaps petrol in the boat. Not to mention the fact that Kieran Connolly will identify you as the man he saw lying in wait in the spot where Meredith was killed.

“As for what happened at the Remenham cottage, you have four very credible witnesses who will be happy to testify as to your actions and intent.”

He spoke, however, with more conviction than he felt. A good defense barrister could get round trace evidence unless it was DNA—juries loved DNA—and he’d heard from Gemma that Chris Abbott was already denying everything she’d told Gemma and Melody, including possession of the gun.

It would be a long and painstaking business to put together a case against Abbott that would stick, but at least the man would do no further damage.

The medics who had arrived at the cottage along with the police had been surprised to find they had a canine rather than a human patient, but they were Tavie’s colleagues and had willingly loaded Finn, Tavie, and Kieran into the ambulance. Tavie had arranged for the vet who worked with the SAR team to meet them at her clinic.

DC Imogen Bell had arrived with the local coppers and offered quite solicitously to give Freddie a lift home, although it had seemed to Kincaid that Freddie was suddenly much less in need of looking after.

They had all been high on adrenaline the first few hours after Ross Abbott’s arrest. But now Kincaid felt more shaken than he liked to admit, and he kept wondering if he should have handled things differently. Had he let his anger over the Craigs’ deaths affect his judgment? He’d endangered his partner and three civilians. And yet, if he’d waited for tactical backup, he felt very sure that both Kieran Connolly and Finn would be dead.

So why was the decision weighing on him so heavily?

Maybe, he thought, maybe it was time he had a break.

A shadow fell across his office. He looked up, startled, to find Chief Superintendent Childs standing in his doorway. Childs, for such a big man, always seemed to move soundlessly.

Unlike yesterday at the Craigs’, Childs was perfectly turned out in his usual bespoke dark suit, his Remembrance Day poppy bright as a spot of blood in his lapel.

“Sir,” said Kincaid, starting to stand.

“No, stay as you are.” Childs waved Kincaid back into his chair. “But I won’t sit, if you don’t mind.” Kincaid’s visitor’s chairs were not made to fit Denis Childs.

“Sir, what are you doing in on a Sunday?”

“A meeting with the commissioner.” He studied Kincaid for a moment. “I suppose all’s well that ends well with the Meredith case. A good result.”

Kincaid was not about to be patted on the back. “Ross Abbott would have had no motive to kill Becca Meredith if not for Angus Craig.”

“I told the commissioner you’d say that.” Childs sighed. “He feels, however, that making public the ordeals of the female officers involved would only do them more harm. That is, if any of the women would agree to it, and I think it unlikely.”

Kincaid stared at him. “You can’t mean to sweep Jenny Hart’s murder under the carpet as well.”

“The DNA from the crime scene will be compared with Craig’s,” Childs said obliquely, and Kincaid took that to mean that the results of the comparison might conveniently fail to be released.

“What about a DNA test on Chris Abbott’s youngest son?”

Childs shook his head. “I doubt very much that his mother would agree to that. Or that a magistrate would grant a warrant against her wishes. And what exactly do you feel that would accomplish?

“Even if DCI Abbott is found not to have been aware of her husband’s actions, or of his intentions, do you not think her life will be difficult enough without having the legitimacy of her child brought into question?” Childs went on. “Not to mention the damage done to the child. Let it go, Duncan. Spend some time with your family, and when you come back, this will all seem much less complicated.”

Meaning, Kincaid thought, that he had better be less difficult. It was a dismissal, and for an instant, he wondered if he would have an office to come back to.

He stood so that he met Childs’s eyes directly. “Sir.”

“Good man.” Childs brushed his lapel. “I must dash. Diane’s kept Sunday lunch waiting.” He started towards the door, then turned back, casually. “Oh, by the way, I heard this morning that the DCI heading one of the murder teams in Lambeth had a massive coronary yesterday. Poor chap. It’s touch and go at the moment, I think. But someone will have to fill his post for the time being, and Gemma’s name has been put forward as acting DCI. Would she be interested, do you think?”

Temporary promotion? Heading a murder team?

It smacked of a bribe, Kincaid thought. And yet Gemma was both capable and deserving. He couldn’t take the opportunity away from her, and certainly he could never tell her he thought the offer was a convenient sweetener designed to keep him quiet.

“Sir,” he said. “That would be entirely up to her.”

Doug Cullen stood in the middle of the sitting room of his new house in Putney, disconsolately surveying the boxes he and Melody had ferried over from the old flat the day before. He hadn’t thought he had much in the way of possessions, but the things seemed to have found a way of multiplying, and now he had no idea what to do with them.

He’d scheduled a half day off work tomorrow to oversee the removal van bringing the rest of his bits and bobs. Not that that was likely to win him any points with his new guv’nor, but his lease on the old flat was up as of today and he’d had no choice.

Perhaps having the bigger pieces of furniture would help, he thought, although really, there wasn’t much point in doing more than making a place to eat and sleep until he’d tackled the painting and decorating.

He sat down on one of the sturdier boxes, his chin in his hand, wondering if he’d made a dreadful mistake with the whole house idea, when there was a rap on the door.

Guiltily, he jumped up, as if he’d been caught slacking, then chided himself as he went to the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and besides, it was his house and he could sit on a bloody box if he liked.

But when he opened the door, he felt a flush of surprise and pleasure. It was Melody, carrier bag in hand.

“You’ll have to fix the bell, you know,” she said. “It doesn’t work.”

“Do come in, why don’t you?” he snapped back, instantly irritated. “I’ll add it to the list.”

Unperturbed, Melody followed him into the sitting room and surveyed his lack of progress. “Feeling a bit overwhelmed, I take it? I thought maybe you could use some help.”

“Sorry,” said Doug, abashed. “You’re right. I can’t quite figure out where to start.”

“This should help.” Melody opened the carrier bag and pulled out a bottle of champagne. It was, Doug saw, already chilled. And expensive. “And I thought you might not have glasses here yet,” she added as she removed two champagne flutes carefully wrapped in a tea towel.

Yet, thought Doug. Trust Melody to unthinkingly bring champagne that he could never afford, but try to be tactful about the fact that she knew he wouldn’t own champagne glasses.

“I thought we could toast to new beginnings,” she said, a little more tentatively. “New house, new boss.”

“Brilliant. Thanks.” Doug wasn’t sure how he felt about either of those things at the moment, but at least, thanks to his former girlfriend, he knew how to open a bottle of champagne properly. Taking bottle and glasses into the kitchen, he peeled back the foil, then used the tea towel to cover the cork as he eased it out.

There was a soft pop of escaping gas as the cork came free, then he tilted the pale gold liquid deftly into the glasses.

“You’ve missed your calling,” teased Melody as she accepted hers.

“Headwaiter? That’s a thought,” he said as he lifted his own glass. “Probably better pay and easier hours.”

“Cheers.” Melody clinked the lip of her glass against his. “And I hear you were a bit of a hero yesterday, so we should drink to that, too.”

“Me?”

“With the arrest and everything. I wish I’d been there,” Melody added on a wistful note.

“No, you don’t,” said Doug, more harshly than he intended. He couldn’t tell her how ashamed he felt, remembering how he’d stood there, frozen as a dummy, while Ross Abbott waved his gun at them. He should have been the one to tackle Abbott, and instead he’d let his guv’nor risk his life.

It didn’t bear thinking about.

“Sorry,” he said, again. “Cheers.” He tipped back half his glass, then sputtered as the bubbles went up his nose.

“Easy with that stuff.” Melody smiled, but he detected a hint of concern beneath it. “I’ll tell you what. The boxes can wait. Let’s have a look at the garden. Then I believe you owe me an uninterrupted lunch, Sergeant Cullen, with an Eton Mess for afters. We can make sock monkeys together.”

“Sock monkeys?” He looked at her as if she’d gone completely round the twist. Was this some sort of weird proposition?

“At the Jolly Gardeners,” Melody explained. “I saw the notice when we were there before. You can make sock puppets while you’re having Sunday lunch. They even provide the socks.” She finished her glass, her cheeks going slightly pink. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Dougie?”

Where was it, indeed? Doug thought his life had suddenly taken an unexpectedly surreal turn. But, then, what did he have to lose?

“Okay,” he said. “The boxes can wait. Sock monkeys. Why ever not?”

Freddie had mopped the mud and blood off the cottage floor. Yesterday’s storms had blown through and left the day washed sparkling clean, so he’d opened the windows to air the place out and turned on the central heating to take away the chilly damp that seemed to have settled into the bones of the cottage since Becca’s death.

He swept and tidied, and when he found the photo lying facedown on the carpet, he looked at it for a long moment, then put it away in a drawer. He didn’t want to think about Ross Abbott again, at least not until the trial.

He’d taken his revenge last night. It had been swift and sweet, and he felt no remorse.

He’d rung every one of the crew of their year’s Blue Boat and told them what Ross had done in the Boat Race. That would be enough. While Ross’s career might survive a murder trial, the power of the rowing grapevine would send his reputation up in flames.

A token, against Becca’s life, but fitting that Ross Abbott should lose the thing that mattered to him most.

Freddie, however, wasn’t at all sure what mattered to him anymore. It came to him, as he looked round the cottage, that he loved this place, and felt at home here in a way he never had in the Malthouse flat. Once the legal criteria had been met, he could sell the flat and move back into the cottage. Maybe he could make a Guy Fawkes bonfire of the Malthouse furnishings, he thought wryly.

Would he mind sharing this house with Becca’s ghost? he wondered. As he stood quietly, he realized he’d come to see that in spite of their flaws and their mistakes, they had loved each other. And in some odd, bittersweet way, it helped salve his grief. He would be all right here.

But although Becca’s generosity would leave him once more financially stable, he found he’d lost all interest in developing property or in moving in the circles where nothing one had was ever quite good enough.

What, then? Convincing people to invest money in one scheme or another was all he’d ever done. He had no real or useful skills.

Through the open window, he heard the sound of tires on tarmac. When he looked out, a battered Land Rover was stopping on the verge by the cottage.

It was Kieran’s car—he recognized it from yesterday—and tied on the roof rack was the canvas-covered but unmistakable slender shape of a single shell.

Freddie went out and met Kieran at the garden gate.

“I thought you might be here,” said Kieran, looking pleased, and Freddie realized it was the first time he’d seen him smile. It transformed his thin face, and Freddie knew he’d glimpsed the man Becca had known.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “How’s Finn?”

“Stitched, bandaged, and a bit groggy from the pain meds. But the vet says he’ll be okay. We just have to keep him from overdoing things until he heals. Tavie’s home keeping an eagle eye on him.”

The last was said with such easiness that Freddie thought Kieran might not be needing the boatshed as a place to live anytime soon. He felt glad for him, and a little envious.

“I’ve been cleaning up the shed,” Kieran went on, “seeing what’s salvageable. And I thought”—he nodded towards the roof rack—“as it survived by a miracle, it was time someone gave the boat a trial run.”

He walked round the Land Rover and pulled the canvas free. The rich mahogany hull of Becca’s boat shone in the sun, and Freddie felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Will you help me get her down?” asked Kieran. “I don’t think Becca’s neighbors will mind if we launch from their raft.”

Kieran pulled a pair of oars from the back of the Land Rover, then together they lifted the shell and carried it down to the water. The shell seemed weightless to Freddie, the wood warm as a woman’s skin.

“I’ve made some adjustments to the rigging,” Kieran said as they turned the boat over and set it gently in the water beside the small floating raft. Kieran placed an oar across the shell’s midsection to hold it steady, then looked up at Freddie. “You’d better take your shoes off. I’ve attached a pair of my trainers to the footboard. They should fit you well enough.”

Freddie stared at him. “You want me to take her out? But—”

“Who better?” said Kieran. “And I’d like your opinion. I need to know if this whole idea was utterly daft.”

“But I haven’t rowed in . . .”

“Don’t worry. You won’t have forgotten how.”

Freddie looked at the shell, then at the Thames, gleaming back at him, still as a pond.

Wordlessly, he pulled off his shoes and stepped into the boat. Sliding his feet into the trainers, he found that they did indeed fit. He took the second oar from Kieran and fastened both in their gates, then moved the seat backwards and forwards a few inches, testing the action of the rollers.

Then Kieran gave him a push and he was out into the current and moving downstream. His hands fit the oar grips as if molded to them, and as the oars bit into the water at the catch, he felt the boat lift.

Muscle memory took over. Drive, release, drive, release, and he was at one with the boat and the boat was singing over the water.

Droplets slung from the rising oars spattered his face, the water a cold benediction. A bubble of joy rose in his chest, and he realized that not since he was a child had he rowed just for the pleasure of it.

And then he saw that there was one place his skills might be of use. He had the old barn right on the river, a place that could be put to better use than luxury flats. It would, in fact, make a perfect boat builder’s workshop.

He’d spent years talking investors into buying property. Why couldn’t he convince rowing enthusiasts to invest money in something much more useful—beautiful, one-of-a-kind boats. And in the builder who made them.

If Kieran would have him as a partner.

By early Sunday evening, the Notting Hill household was a beehive of activity, not all of it productive.

The boys were wound up over tomorrow’s return to school after half-term. Toby expressed this by imitating a human Ping-Pong ball, zooming round the house and sometimes literally bouncing off the walls.

Kit, who had hardly spoken a word to anyone since their return from Glastonbury, was suddenly voluble, rattling on about a biology project he hadn’t finished and spreading books and papers all over the kitchen table, although Kincaid couldn’t detect any actual work being done.

As for Gemma, ever since Kincaid had returned from the Yard, she’d been rushing round the house like a dervish, tidying, organizing, and making reams of complicated lists which she then tacked up on every available surface.

Charlotte, unsettled by the activity, clung to Gemma whenever possible and periodically burst into tears. They had told her about the coming change in routine as casually as possible, just saying that she and Duncan would have some special time together for a few hours every day while Gemma went to the police station and the boys were at school.

“You will remember that she doesn’t like Marmite?” said Gemma, sticking yet another list to the fridge door with a Quidditch-broom magnet. Aware that she was being talked about, Charlotte wrapped her arms round Gemma’s leg and whimpered. “Just butter on her toast in the morning,” Gemma went on, “and no marms in her orange juice.”

“Marms?” Duncan shook his head over that one. Then, exasperated, he said, “For heaven’s sake, Gemma, you’re not going on the QE2. And none of this is rocket science. I’m sure we’ll manage perfectly well.”

Gemma gave him a surprised glance, then suddenly looked so appalled that he was sure someone, somewhere, had made a critical mistake.

“Dinner,” she said. “With everything else, I completely forgot. We’ve nothing for dinner.”

“Pizza!” shouted Toby, and everyone else, including Kit, groaned.

“Not again,” said Kit. “I don’t think I can face another pizza.”

Kincaid grinned. “Never thought I’d hear that. The earth just rocked on its axis.” And, he thought, it was time that he started as he meant to go on. Opening the kitchen cupboard, he peered in. “There’s spaghetti and a jar of pasta sauce. Kit, the dogs need a run, if you can tear yourself away from your project. While you’re out, you can go to Tesco Express and pick up a salad and some Italian sausage.”

Kit rolled his eyes at the project comment, but said, “Okay. No prob.”

“Spag bol,” Toby chanted. “Spag bol, spag bol—”

“That sounds disgusting,” Gemma scolded him, although she looked relieved at having had the dinner issue taken out of her hands. “Say it properly. Spaghetti bolognese.” She gave it an exaggerated Italian emphasis.

“Sounds like eyeballs,” said Kit wickedly. “Eyeballs and worms, just in time for Halloween. Yum.”

Charlotte began to wail. “Don’t want eyeballs.”

But the boys were poking each other and dancing round the kitchen making scary noises, and that in turn made the dogs begin to bark.

“Enough!” said Kincaid, his level of tolerance breached. He hadn’t quite shouted, but for a moment, at least, the pandemonium stopped.

“Okay. Sorry, Dad.” Kit held out his hand. “But you have to gimme the cash, mon.”

This time it was Kincaid who rolled his eyes, but he pulled a note from his wallet and handed it over.

“I want sweeties,” chimed in Toby. “I want to go.”

“No. And no.” Kincaid was not going to hear any argument. “You get your books in your backpack for school in the morning.”

Kit called the dogs, and when Kincaid heard the sound of their nails clicking on the bare floor, he suddenly realized he’d forgotten all about Edie Craig’s dog. Barney.

Going into the hall, he fished in his jacket pocket until he found the crumpled piece of paper with the neighbor’s name on it. The files hadn’t revealed any close kin for either of the Craigs, but something would have to be done about the dog.

He’d take Charlotte to Hambleden, he decided, one day when the boys were at school. He’d talk to the barman at the pub again, and perhaps the vicar. And if no one in the village wanted Barney, perhaps Tavie would know someone who did.

It seemed the least he could do for Edie Craig, and he felt, once again, how badly he had failed her.

“Dad?” said Kit softly. He’d clipped on the dogs’ leads but had stopped at the door, watching him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Kincaid smiled and tucked the paper back in his pocket, but this time he folded it neatly. “You’d better hurry or there’ll be riots below decks.”

He watched Kit and the dogs out the door, then went back into the kitchen, trying to remember where he’d seen an onion and some garlic for the spaghetti sauce. He would get the hang of this, he thought, with a little practice.

“The yellow bowl to the right of the sink,” said Gemma, and grinned at him.

“How did you—”

But before he got any further, her phone rang. He knew, even before she answered, what the call was.

While she retrieved the mobile from beneath Kit’s schoolwork, Kincaid shooed Toby from the room. “Go put your jammies out on the bed,” he said. “You can have the skull ones, for Halloween.”

Then he detached Charlotte from Gemma’s leg, hefting her onto his hip. “If you’re really, really good,” he whispered in her ear, “we’ll play airplane after dinner. Or maybe before,” he amended, thinking perhaps that flying a child upside down after spag bol was not the best idea.

“Before,” said Charlotte firmly, for entirely different reasons.

“Oh, hi, Mark, how are you?” Gemma was saying. She sounded pleased but a little uncertain.

Mark Lamb, Kincaid thought. Gemma’s boss, and his old police-college mate. They’d made Lamb emissary.

Gemma was listening, nodding, but her face had gone very still.

“I’ll read you a story after dinner, then,” Kincaid murmured to Charlotte.

“Alice?”

“Alice always.” He wondered how soon he would know the entire book by heart. “Always Alice.”

Charlotte giggled and buried her face against his shoulder.

“Right,” said Gemma into the phone. She was looking at him now, her brows lifted in surprise. “That’s too bad,” she responded to the faint voice issuing from the mobile’s speaker. “But of course I’ll be glad to help out. Right. Lambeth. Tomorrow morning. First thing. Thanks, sir. I’ll see you, then.”

Gemma clicked off, then stood with the phone still in her hand, staring at it with a stunned expression.

Then she looked up at Kincaid, and the smile lit her face like a sunrise.

“I’ve got a new job,” she said.