No Mark upon Her

Chapter Four

Depending on the season, the Thames flows between (for the most part) wild and unwalled riverbanks hurriedly and muddily, or peacefully and translucently. On certain days its waters resemble a fine mass of shimmering, metallic, luminous blue. On some evenings it looks like a mirror reflecting the sky from which it seems to issue.

—Rory Ross with Tim Foster

Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney 2000 Coxless Four

“An Astra,” said Kit. “An Astra Estate. And green. What could possibly be worse?”

Duncan Kincaid glanced at his son sitting beside him in the passenger seat, long legs sprawled into the foot well, and bit his tongue on old adages about horses and gifts. He reminded himself that he had hated being patronized when he was Kit’s age. He also remembered what it was like to be fourteen, when nothing mattered more than what others thought.

Kit had been unusually quiet as they drove up through Somerset and Wiltshire, concentrating on his iPod Touch rather than the beautiful autumnal scenery. It was only now, when they had joined the M4 and passed through the unexciting edges of Swindon, that he’d stirred and removed his earphones.

“That’s a bit ungracious, don’t you think?” Kincaid said moderately.

“I’m not being seen getting out of it at school.” Kit’s expression was mulish. “And I’m certainly not going to drive it.”

Kincaid was beginning to lose patience. “You’ve got a few years before you even need to think about driving, so let’s worry about that one when we get to it,” he said, although he was sure his mum and dad had been thinking exactly that when they had offered Duncan and Gemma their old car. The Astra Estate was old, solid, comfortable, and supremely safe—all things anathema to a fourteen-year-old boy.

His dad had presented the car with all the glee of a first-time parent playing at Father Christmas. Kincaid suspected that if it hadn’t been for the rain, he might actually have wrapped it in ribbon. “Your mother wants something greener,” he’d said, then chuckled at his own inadvertent humor. “More ecologically correct, that is. Not that the Astra’s bad, mind you. But we thought you could use the extra carrying space, now that you have Charlotte with you.”

Kincaid had to admit he was right. The three kids had been stuffed into the back of Gemma’s Escort on the journey down to Somerset, and there had been tears and tantrums aplenty. They did need a bigger car, but he’d been too busy with work and the recent demands of family life to really give the matter serious consideration, not to mention that Gemma’s recent unpaid leave had seriously cut into their budget—as would his.

He still had his old MG, although he seldom drove it these days. The maintenance on it was a nightmare, but he was reluctant to sell it for the pittance it was worth. He had once rashly promised Kit that he would keep the Midget until he learned to drive, and he hated going back on a promise to his son. Now, however, the thought of Kit actually driving the little car horrified him—only slightly more than contemplating what it would cost to insure him if he did so.

His dad had given him an easy out. “I could come up to London and drive the Midget back to Cheshire,” Hugh had offered. “Keep it in the garage, do some restoration. Get it in tip-top shape.” When Kincaid, who had never seen his dad do more than change a tire, raised an eyebrow, Hugh had given him a sly wink. “Never too old,” he’d added.

Gemma had hugged Hugh, then his mum, Rosemary, who had left her packing to join in the surprise. “You are dears,” Gemma said. “But are you sure? How will you get back to Nantwich?”

“Not to worry,” Rosemary assured her. “Jack will run us to the train. And the new car’s ordered—it should be waiting for us when we get home.”

Looking at his parents, it had seemed to Kincaid that his father was a little thinner, and his mother a little grayer, than when he had seen them last. They were unfailingly generous, taking into their lives first Kit, the grandson whose existence they had not even imagined, then Toby, and now Charlotte. He loved them for it, and he realized that he told them so too seldom.

He’d given his mother a kiss on the cheek and his father a manly sort of hug-with-handshake. “Thank you. The car’s brilliant. And it means we’ll be able to come visit you more often.”

Toby had begun jumping up and down, shouting, “The dogs can come now, too, the dogs can come, too,” and was soon joined in the jumping by Charlotte. Jack and Winnie stood on the porch, holding Constance and grinning.

The only one not enthusiastic had been Kit, who stood with arms crossed, frowning. Kit had begged to go back to Cheshire with his cousins, Duncan’s sister Juliet’s children, for the rest of the half-term break. But as much as Kincaid loved his niece, Lally, he hadn’t liked the idea of the two teenagers on their own without his or Gemma’s supervision. Not that he and Gemma had kept them from getting into real trouble before, he thought with the shudder that always accompanied the memory of the previous Christmas.

Now, he looked at Kit, fidgeting and scowling beside him, and wondered if there was more bothering him than the car and the end-of-holiday blues.

As they’d had two cars to drive back to London, Gemma had taken Toby and Charlotte in the Escort, and Kincaid had thought that taking Kit in the Astra would give them some quality time together.

“Maybe we could go to Nantwich over Christmas,” he said, realizing the rashness of the suggestion even as he made it. He felt sure that Gemma would want to be at home—it would be Charlotte’s first Christmas as part of their family. “Or afterwards,” he amended. “Boxing Day. We might stay a few days between Christmas and New Year’s.”

Kit looked a little mollified, then frowned again. “What if Lally and Sam have to spend their hols with their dad? He wants them to live with him all the time, you know.” He shot a glance at Kincaid through the hair that was falling into his eyes. “Now that Aunt Jules is seeing that policeman.”

“What?” Kincaid had to make an effort to concentrate on an overtaking lorry. “Juliet’s seeing a copper? She never said a word.” But now it occurred to him that his sister had seemed happier and more relaxed, and that several times he’d caught her smiling for no apparent reason when she thought no one was looking, and checking her phone for messages. But a copper?

Then the light dawned. “Surely not Ronnie Babcock, the old fox,” he said aloud, grinning. Ronnie Babcock had been his schoolmate, and was now a senior detective in the Cheshire Constabulary. Ronnie, who had risked his life for them the previous Christmas, was as tough as old boots, and on the surface as different from Juliet as chalk from cheese. But his sister was tough in her own way, and there was no doubt Ronnie was a man she could respect.

“Lally’s dad doesn’t like him,” said Kit. “And he says Aunt Juliet’s a—” Kit paused, obviously thinking better of repeating verbatim what he’d been told. “Uncle Caspar says the ink’s barely dry on the divorce papers,” he amended.

Caspar Newcombe, Kincaid’s former brother-in-law, had good reason not to like Ronnie Babcock. And it had nothing to do with Juliet or jealousy, which Kit knew as well as anyone. Nor was it likely that Caspar Newcombe, considering his current legal troubles, would have a chance of gaining full custody of the children.

“Your Aunt Jules is free to see anyone she wants, Kit. And you know that Sam and Lally weren’t happy when their mum and dad were living together.”

Kit shrugged.

“They’ll be fine, Kit. They’ll all adjust. You’ll see,” Kincaid said, addressing what he suspected was the heart of his son’s disquiet. Kit associated change with loss, and he projected himself into other people’s situations with a fierce empathy that would be dangerous if he didn’t learn to set some emotional boundaries.

Kincaid was beginning to think it was a very good thing that he was going to be spending more time, not just with Charlotte, but with Kit and Toby. He’d have to make sure that the boys got their share of attention.

“Let’s do something special after school one day next week,” he suggested. “Maybe we could go to the Natural History Museum.”

Kit glanced at him. “You’re really going to stay home?” He sounded carefully nonchalant.

“Stay-at-home-dad, that’s me.”

“You don’t know what Charlotte likes for her tea.”

“I’ll find out, won’t I? But I’m counting on you to help me out with this.”

Kit nodded, looking gratified, and Kincaid was about to inquire into Charlotte’s mysterious preferences when his mobile rang. He glanced at the number, swore under his breath, then switched to hands-free. It was his boss, Chief Superintendent Denis Childs.

“Sir,” he said. Then, “Guv, you know I’m taking a few days’ holiday this week.”

But Childs knew that, of course, and had worked out exactly where he was likely to be at that moment. And as he listened, Kincaid realized he might as well give in gracefully. When his guv’nor wanted a personal favor, there was no one more determinedly persuasive. Resistance was futile, and besides, he knew Childs wouldn’t ask if he didn’t feel it was important.

Nodding, he took in the details, then said, “Right. I’ll get back to you,” and rang off.

He felt Kit’s stare even as the connection went dead. “We’ve got to make a stop in Henley,” he explained. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Kit looked away, his face expressionless. “Gemma won’t be best pleased,” he said.

Gemma, Kincaid thought, was not the only one who was going to be unhappy.

The Jolly Gardeners was very jolly indeed, thought Doug Cullen. The front beer garden could double as a nursery, and as they’d not yet had a hard frost, many of the plants and hanging baskets were still in bloom. But the furniture was wet from the morning’s rain, the wind swung the baskets like metronomes, and the only occupants of the patio were die-hard smokers huddled at one of the tables nearest the building.

Ushering Melody inside, he saw that the pub’s interior was as appealing as the outside—brick walls, wood floors, a long, gleaming bar, and simple but comfortable-looking mismatched furniture. There was no television in sight, and the pub was pleasantly busy for a weekday lunchtime.

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief, pleased with his choice. When they’d picked a table near the garden windows—Doug carefully avoiding the snogging sofa—and Melody was examining the menu on the blackboard above the fireplace, he studied her. Now that she’d taken off her coat, he tried to work out what seemed different about her since he had last seen her.

She’d abandoned her usual severely tailored suit, for one thing, and wore casual trousers with a cherry-colored cardigan that set off her dark hair and pale skin. Her hair looked a bit less sleekly tamed as well, but perhaps that was just the wind, or his imagination.

“Very gastro pub,” Melody said, but she seemed pleased. “And I’ve just realized I’m starving. I think I’ll have a burger. And after that, if I’ve the room, the Eton Mess.”

“That’s a summer pudding,” he said.

“Nevertheless, it’s on the menu, and I want it. I thought you were indulging me.”

“So I am.” Unable to concentrate on the menu, Doug opted for a ploughman’s. When he’d ordered the meals and half pints for them both at the bar, he carried the beer back to the table carefully, trying not to slosh it.

“Cheers.” Melody lifted her glass, and he clinked his against it. “To your new house.”

“And your new job.” He touched his glass to hers once more, then sipped. “So how is the job?”

“I’ve missed Gemma. But when the posting for Project Sapphire came up, it sounded interesting, and I’ve loved it.”

Just the idea of interviewing victims of sexual assault made Doug feel uncomfortable. “Isn’t it hard, talking to women about what’s happened to them?”

“Not only women,” she corrected. “Men, too, although it happens less often, and they’re more reluctant to file a report.” She paused, sipping a little more of her beer as the barmaid brought their cutlery, then continued, “And yes, of course it’s hard. But the fact that they’ve come forward is progress. And besides, I’m mostly working cold cases. I try to find matches between newly reported assaults and unsolved cases. When we get a result, it’s brilliant. We may be able to put away a guy who’s been preying on women for years.”

Their food arrived, and as Melody ate bites of her oozing hamburger with surprising delicacy, Doug wished he’d ordered something a bit less crumbly than the ploughman’s. The Cheddar and Stilton were delicious, the bread crusty and warm, but every time he took a bite he showered himself with crumbs.

Making a futile attempt to brush off his tie, he looked up and saw a glint of amusement in Melody’s eyes. Instead of bristling, he smiled back. “Can’t take me anywhere. Not that I expect to be going anywhere much,” he added, sobering. “They’re sticking me on Superintendent Slater’s team while Duncan’s on leave.”

“You don’t fancy him?”

“He doesn’t fancy Duncan, nor me by association. He’s a by-the-book kind of guy.”

“And you’re not?” Melody looked surprised.

“No, I’m bloody well not,” he said, instantly defensive.

She put down her knife and fork and frowned at him. “Doug, I’ve never seen such a stickler for the rules as you. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s part of what makes you good at your job.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” His tone was accusing, but he couldn’t call it back.

“I don’t make a habit of breaking rules,” she said sharply. “And when I have, I’ve regretted it. You know that.” The camaraderie between them had vanished like smoke. “And as for Duncan,” she added, “he may bend little rules now and again, but he doesn’t break the big ones.”

“So how do you know where to draw the line?” Doug asked, wanting to reestablish the connection he had so clumsily broken. “I’m not trying to take the mickey here. I really want to know. Every time I think I’ve got it right, I seem to screw up.”

Melody sat back, picked up her cutlery again, fiddled with a bit of lettuce on her plate. She met his eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, without her usual assurance. “Surely it depends on the situation.”

“But you must be able to set some sort of—”

His phone rang. Why the hell hadn’t he put it on Silent? Grimacing, he started to ignore it, then remembered he was still officially at work.

“You’d better answer it.” Melody pushed her plate away.

When he saw the ID, Doug muttered, “Bloody hell.”

“Somehow,” said Melody, “I think you’re going to owe me an Eton Mess.”

Gemma had spent the hour since Kincaid’s phone call alternately grumbling to herself and trying to jolly the restless and increasingly cranky children in the Escort’s backseat. When her phone rang, she’d been a few minutes behind Kincaid on the M4. Toby and Charlotte had insisted on stopping at the first services on the motorway, although she suspected their demands had more to do with the siren lure of sweets than a need for the toilet.

“You simply cannot have let Denis Childs talk you into taking a case,” she’d said, trying to keep her voice level when he’d explained his change of plans. “Not today. Not this week.”

“I’m not taking a case. I’m simply seeing if there is a case. Look, Gem, I’m sorry. But it’s not far out of the way. Kit can go home with you, and I’ll follow on as soon as I’ve got things sorted.” He sounded contrite, reasonable, and persuasive, all of which irritated her more.

There had been no choice but to agree to meet him, as she couldn’t very well leave Kit cooling his heels at a crime scene. Or a potential crime scene. “And what would he have done if I hadn’t been so conveniently to hand?” she’d muttered when she’d hung up. “Dropped Kit off on the roadside somewhere?”

“Who’s going to leave Kit on the road, Mummy?” said Toby, and she realized there had been a sudden cessation of the teasing and giggling in the backseat.

“I want Kit,” chimed in Charlotte, sounding apprehensive. “Where’s Kit?”

“And you’ll have him soon enough, lovey,” Gemma reassured her. “We’re just going to pick him up in a bit, and have a nice drive.”

“We’re already having a drive.” This from Toby, as always the logician.

“Well, a different drive. You’ll see.”

“What about Daddy, then? Is he going to walk?”

Gemma had never insisted that Toby call Duncan Dad, but lately he’d been copying Kit and she certainly hadn’t discouraged it. Toby’s dad had run out on them when Toby was a tiny infant, and Duncan had been a part of their lives as long as Toby could remember, so it seemed only natural for him. It had been harder, she supposed, for Kit, who had not known that Duncan was his father until his mother died three years ago.

At the moment, however, she could think of other, more appropriate monikers for her newly wedded husband, but she kept them to herself. “He’s going to stay with the new car.”

“I want to ride in the new car,” said Toby, happy to go back to the grievance that had occupied him for the first part of the return journey. “Why did Kit get to?”

“Because I needed you to be my navigator. And now I need you to watch for the motorway signs. Junction 10.”

Toby was quite proud of his ability to read the numbers on the motorway signs, and he settled back contentedly enough to watch for their exit, counting to himself in a singsong.

By the time Gemma reached the junction, however, there was no sound from the back at all, and when she glanced round she saw that both children had fallen asleep. Just brilliant, she thought. They’d wake up when she stopped for Kit, then they’d be fractious the rest of the way to London.

And poor Kit. He was bound to be disappointed, not only deprived of time alone with his dad but having to be collected by the roadside like an inconvenient parcel.

Leaving the motorway, she concentrated on remembering Kincaid’s brief directions, but it was easy enough to follow the road signs towards Henley. By the time she reached Wargrave, the dual carriageway had shrunk to a narrow road that dipped and turned though high banks of hedges and avenues of golden trees. A pub, St. George and the Dragon, flashed by on her left, and beside it she glimpsed the river and the bright colors of moored narrowboats. As the village vanished behind her, she felt she was sinking inexorably into the heart of the countryside, and she had an uneasy sense of déjà vu.

Before she could pursue the thought, she was turning into the Henley Road, the river before her.

Crossing the bridge, she only glimpsed the river, the view broken by the railings so that it looked like a juddery old film. Then she was across it, and the town center flashed by her; the pretty flower-bedecked pub by the bridge, the square of the church tower, a blur of shops and restaurants, the bulk of the town hall sitting astride the top of the square as if asserting its proprietary rights.

She turned right as she left the town behind, and was soon running along another narrow, leafy road cloaked in autumnal colors, her sense of prickly familiarity increasing.

She slowed at the signpost for Hambleden, as Kincaid had directed, then braked sharply as she rounded the next bend. The police cars were clustered on the verges, positioned at odd angles as if they had been scooped willy-nilly from the narrow lane and dropped. Their blue lights strobed like distress signals aimed at the lowering gray sky.

This time she had no doubt she’d reached the crime scene. The green Astra sat among the Thames Valley Police patrol cars, as plain as a female peacock against the bright blue and yellow Battenburg livery of the official vehicles.

Kit was leaning against the Astra, hands in the pockets of his anorak, his downcast face brightening when he saw her.

Gemma lowered her window and showed her identification to the uniformed constable on the scene, then eased her Escort onto the verge as close to the Astra as she could. The children hadn’t stirred, so she slipped quietly out of the car, holding her finger to her lips as she walked towards Kit.

“I don’t want to wake them if I can help it,” she said. Then, glancing at the Astra, she grinned at Kit. “It is a bit hideous, isn’t it?”

“A bit?” He shook his head in disgust, but his face relaxed into what might almost have been a smile.

“Will you watch the little ones while I find your dad and see what’s going on?” she asked.

“He wouldn’t let me go with him,” said Kit, but he sounded more resigned than sullen. He pointed towards a narrow passageway that ran between the redbrick houses nearest the formation of police cars. “It’s through there. The river’s just the other side but you can’t see it from here.”

Gemma gave his arm a pat. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” She glanced once more at the children, still sleeping soundly. “Kit, if they wake, make sure to keep them in the car,” she added.

She followed Kit’s directions, ducking into the graveled passageway. After a moment, she rounded a bend and saw the Thames spread before her, wide and still except where the water cascaded over the weir.

From the near bank, a metal-railed concrete walkway zigzagged across the water, traversing the river, then the weir, until it reached the lock on the far side, and as Gemma gazed across it, she realized at last why the drive from Henley had seemed so familiar.

She had been here before.

There had been a body in this place, in this lock, a case that had led to secrets in the heart of the Chiltern Hills—a case that had propelled her and Duncan from a comfortable relationship as working partners into something much more complicated, something that had terrified her.

And there had been a woman involved, Julia Swann, an enigmatic artist whose relationship with Duncan had been, Gemma suspected, more than professional.

But that had been a long time ago. And water under the bridge, Gemma told herself, appreciating the irony as she stepped out onto the narrow walkway. She moved quickly, keeping her eyes off the roiling water as she reached the weir. As the walkway twisted, she realized she could see people clustered on the far bank, beyond the lock.

There were uniformed officers on the path on either side of the lock, discouraging the groups of curious bystanders who were beginning to gather. A child pointed, and as Gemma followed his gesture, she saw two dogs in orange SAR vests, a German shepherd and a black Labrador retriever, and their handlers, a man and a woman in black uniforms. She couldn’t read the insignia on the handlers’ jackets, but assumed they were volunteer search and rescue. The woman stood, the German shepherd sitting beside her, but the man sat with his head in his hands, the Labrador nudging at his arm.

A few yards from them, Kincaid was instantly recognizable, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket in a posture reminiscent of Kit’s, his hair ruffled by the gusty wind blowing down the river. Beside him stood a small Asian man in an ill-fitting buff-colored overcoat that screamed copper—he might as well have been wearing a uniform.

Two white-suited crime-scene techs worked in the lee of the tangle of trees and brush at the water’s edge below the lock, one snapping away with a camera at something on the ground. As Gemma drew nearer, she saw that there was a man kneeling between them, obscuring the object of their interest.

He wore jeans and a scruffy leather jacket, and his blue-black hair was gelled into spikes—all in odd contrast to the medical bag beside him—and she recognized him, too. Rashid Kaleem, the Home Office pathologist they had worked with on the case involving Charlotte’s parents.

Looking up, Kincaid caught sight of her. He lifted a hand in greeting, then said something to the overcoated man, who turned and gave her a brief glance. Gemma realized she must look as scruffy as Rashid. She wore jeans as well; her hair was pulled up in a haphazard ponytail, and, unprepared for the torrential rain in Glastonbury, she’d borrowed an old Barbour from Winnie. But then she hadn’t expected to be making an appearance at a murder inquiry.

When she reached the towpath, both men came to meet her.

“Gemma, this is Inspector Singla,” Kincaid said.

She held out her hand. “Gemma James.”

Singla touched her fingers as briefly as courtesy would allow, then frowned at Kincaid. “Superintendent, I’m not sure it is appropriate for a civilian—”

“My wife,” Kincaid said with the careful emphasis that Gemma knew meant the man had already begun to try his patience, “is a detective inspector with the Met. And I would appreciate her professional opinion.”

She looked towards Rashid and the SOCOs. Kincaid had told her nothing except that Denis Childs wanted him to have a look at what might be a suspicious death. “What’s happened here?” she asked, meaning Why did it need the intervention of a senior officer from the Met? From DI Singla’s expression, he couldn’t have agreed more. “Who’s the victim?”

It was Kincaid who answered. “DCI Rebecca Meredith. West London, Major Crimes.”

Gemma stared at him. A Met officer. A senior female Met officer. Not good. Not good at all.

Glancing at the shape on the ground between Rashid and the SOCOs, she caught a glimpse of neon yellow clothing, a tangle of dark, matted hair. “They pulled her out of the river? Possible suicide?”

“Not unless she decided to take a dive out of a rowing boat.” Rashid had come to stand beside them, giving Gemma a quick grin, and she saw that the slogan on the black T-shirt beneath his open jacket read PATHOLOGISTS HAVE MORE FUN.

“She was a rower?”

“She’s wearing rowing gear, and they”—Rashid nodded at the SAR handlers—“found her shell caught in the bank, about a mile upstream. I’d guess that’s where she went out of the boat.”

“Any signs of trauma?” Kincaid asked.

“Some possible contusions on the head, but I can’t tell you if the wounds are ante- or postmortem until I get her on the table.”

“I want to have a closer look in situ before you transport her,” Kincaid said, then turned to Gemma. “Do you—”

“I’ve got to get back.” She was suddenly very aware of time passing. “I’ve left the little ones with Kit, in case you’ve forgotten?”

“Sorry.” He gave an apologetic grimace. “I’ll ring you.” He touched her arm, moving her slightly aside. “Look, love, I’m sure this won’t take—”

She shook her head. The SAR handlers had come up to them, and she felt that their domestic discussion was uncomfortably public. “We’ll talk about it later.” The dogs’ tails were wagging, so she held out a hand for them to snuffle. The female handler, a small, blond woman who would have looked elfin if not for the gravity of her expression, gave her a tight smile.

The man was tall, dark-haired, his face drawn and pale. His Labrador watched him anxiously, brow furrowed in doggy concern.

“We’ve got a team securing the boat,” said the woman. “I’m Tavie, by the way. Tavie Larssen. Thames Valley Search and Rescue. This is Kieran Connolly.” She nodded towards her companion. He didn’t speak.

Kincaid glanced at the sky, and Gemma saw that the clouds were building again, blotting out what remained of the afternoon light. “I want to see where you found the boat, before it gets too dark,” he said, looking at Singla. “Inspector, if you could arrange—”

“I’m going with you.” It was the dark-haired handler, Kieran. His voice sounded stretched to breaking. “I want to see the boat.”

As they all turned to stare at him, his dog whined and licked his hand. “I’m a rower,” he said. “I can tell you what happened.”