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—
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
“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
“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,
