No Mark upon Her

Would she have told him? she wondered.

And what would she have done at the time, if Angus Craig had raped her, then threatened her with the loss of her job? She’d had a child to support, with no help from a deadbeat ex-husband. And she’d been passionate about her work—had wanted more than anything to prove herself, to get ahead in the force.

But everything Peter Gaskill had told Becca Meredith would have been true for Gemma as well. She’d been seen leaving the pub with Craig. She wouldn’t have been able to prove that she hadn’t agreed to have sex with him, then changed her mind afterwards.

And if it had got as far as court, which was highly unlikely, Craig’s defense would have made mincemeat of her reputation. She’d too often seen what defense lawyers could do to women who pressed rape charges. Even bruises and vaginal tearing could be put down to liking it rough. And once the suggestion had been planted, the truth no longer mattered.

After something like that, even if the Met had been unable to fire her, she would have become a pariah.

Rebecca Meredith had more rank and clout, and even that hadn’t helped her.

Kincaid’s urgent voice brought her back to the present. “Gemma, are you sure he didn’t—”

“No, no, he never touched me. But—I wonder—what if Becca’s ex knew what happened? Or found out? Would he have felt the same as you?”

“Maybe. He seemed very protective of her.” Kincaid shook his head. “But then it would have been Craig he killed, not Becca.”

“What if he was jealous?”

“Jealous enough to kill her because she’d been raped?” He grimaced. “Possible, but twisted. And I don’t think Freddie Atterton is twisted.”

“You like him, don’t you? Atterton?”

Shrugging, Kincaid said, “I suppose I do. But more than that, I don’t like the idea of him being a convenient scapegoat for the Yard’s dirty laundry. Innocent until proven guilty. I’d put my money on Craig in a heartbeat.”

Gemma stood, gathered their cups, and began rinsing them in the sink. Then she closed the tap and turned back to him. “Craig, yes. I can see that. What I don’t understand is why now? Becca Meredith reported the incident to Peter Gaskill a year ago.”

“I’m thinking she found out he’d retired with commendations, and a gong to boot,” Kincaid said, pushing back his chair and reaching down to stroke Geordie’s ears. “She put her faith in her superior officer and he betrayed it. She must have been furious. I’m surprised she didn’t kill Gaskill.”

Hands still dripping, Gemma came back to the table and sat down. “Yes, but angry as she must have been, she was still just as powerless. Why would Craig kill her?”

Kincaid gave the dog a last pat, then stared past Gemma, his eyes unfocused. “Unless—unless she had more ammunition or new ammunition. Unless she’d found some way to prove that what happened to her wasn’t consensual. Or—look at the timeline . . .” He ran his hand through his hair, his habit when he was thinking, making the ends stand up like hedgehog bristles.

“If you were a target four years ago, and Meredith was raped a year ago,” he went on, “what was Craig doing in the years in between? And even in the years before that?” Kincaid looked at her, his gaze sharp now. “If this is his pattern, I’d stake my life he’s a repeater. You and Becca Meredith can’t have been his only targets.” He leaned across the table and gripped her fingers so hard she winced. “What would you have done, Gem?”

She thought it out, as repugnant as it was. “I wouldn’t have had anyone to turn to, no one I at least thought I could trust, the way Becca did Peter Gaskill. And I’d have known, like Becca, that it would end my career if I went public, no matter the outcome. But I’d have wanted—something—something that might one day give me the power to—to damage him.”

She thought of other women, police officers with husbands or children, with careers they’d worked hard to achieve, or just paychecks that put much-needed food on the table. “What if some of the others—and I think you’re right, we have to assume there are others—what if they filed rape reports, but listed the assailant as unknown? Then there would be a record, and DNA on file, if there was ever a chance to use it against him.”

And if any of the women had done so, had they lived in silence afterwards, for months? Years? Would the lie have corroded the very fabric of their lives?

Inspiration struck Gemma. “I could ask Melody,” she said. “She’s working with Project Sapphire. We could check the files. Unsolved cases. There would be a profile, and more than just his targeting of female police officers.” Gemma shifted restlessly in her chair as she thought it through. “If a woman lied about something like that, she’d put as much truth in the report as possible. It’s human nature, the easiest way. So there would be similarities in the reports, if you knew what you were looking for.”

Kincaid nodded. “You might turn up something. Would Melody be willing to keep this confidential? This is one occasion when I’d just as soon we went outside channels.” His expression told her that his disagreement with Denis Childs was not going to be easily dismissed.

“But we’re making one really big assumption here,” he went on, “which is that Craig only targets police officers. If he operates outside the box, we’re talking needle in a haystack.”

“Oh, God.” Gemma thought of other women, more lives tainted, ruined. Then she shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. He has to have leverage. It’s the job that gives him that. And he’ll look for it.”

She closed her eyes, trying to recall the details of that evening in the pub, four long years ago. Her mates had been teasing her about being newly and officially single. Craig could easily have overheard. And by asking a few innocent questions, he could have learned that she’d just been promoted and was ambitious about her job. But apparently no one had mentioned Toby.

Something occurred to her. “He was playing a bit close to home, wasn’t he, with Becca Meredith? And I don’t mean just geographically. She was a DCI and less likely to be intimidated by his threats. I was only a lowly sergeant when he meant to try it with me, and just barely that. Maybe, with Becca, he was getting too comfortable.”

“Or pushing the envelope, more likely,” Kincaid said. “Needing more risk, more stimulation. And if he was matey with Gaskill, he must have thought he was home fr—” His phone rang. “Damn.” He fished it from his jeans pocket and checked the caller ID. “It’s Singla, the DI from Henley. I’ll have to take it.”

She watched his face as he listened to the tinny voice issuing from the phone speaker. The crease deepened between his brows. He glanced at the kitchen clock, then back at her, nodding even though his caller couldn’t see. “Right. I’m on my way,” he said. But when he ended the call, he sat and stared at Gemma, looking puzzled.

“What’s happened?” she asked. “Have they arrested Atterton?”

“No. No, he’s fine, as far as I know. But it sounds as though someone’s just tried to murder one of the SAR team.”

Chapter Twelve

Low areas collect scent, just as they do water. As with looping, a scent pool may produce an alert that the dog cannot work to its source because of shifting winds. These alerts must be marked on both the handler’s and the Control maps.

—American Rescue Dog Association

Search and Rescue Dogs: Training the K-9 Hero

Tavie and Ian managed to get Kieran as far as the lawn of the next-door cottage before the engine began pumping a jet of water onto the burning shed. But from there he refused to budge. He sank to the ground, his arm round Finn, blood and tears streaming down his face as he watched the flames turn to black smoke.

Tavie looked a question at Ian.

“We’re far enough, I think,” he said. Lights were appearing on the river as other residents arrived in boats and some ferried part of the brigade crew across. “They’ll have it damped down soon.”