No Mark upon Her

Denis. What sort of allegations are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kincaid had been dismissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Including Alice.”

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

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