No Mark upon Her

the stronger personality in both relationships, and that she’d liked it that way, consciously or not.

“Maybe she didn’t want to hurt you,” he suggested. “Or . . .” He thought for a moment, then said, “She told Kieran she didn’t want anyone to know about their relationship because it could be used against her. Do you have any idea what she meant?”

“Used against her?” Freddie shook his head. “No. She certainly didn’t mean by me.”

“You wouldn’t have asked her to deed the title of the cottage back to you?”

“God, no. And even if I had, I gave it to her in the divorce settlement, free and clear. I wouldn’t have had a legal leg to stand on.”

Freddie’s certainty made Kincaid wonder if he had considered asking her to give the cottage back and then abandoned the idea.

In favor of murder?

But Freddie would have to have known that Becca hadn’t changed her will, and given what Kincaid had learned about Becca Meredith, he thought it highly unlikely that she’d shared such details with anyone. Unless, of course, Freddie had just gambled on her not wanting to leave her assets to her mother, and had doubted she’d leave a generous bequest to a stray cats’ home.

Kincaid considered the man sitting before him—shocked, exhausted, frightened. He’d seen murderers who were all of those things, so it was conceivable that Freddie Atterton had murdered his ex-wife and yet could still display those emotions unfeigned.

But Kincaid couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. There were too many things that didn’t add up, and if Freddie had a genuine alibi for last night, it would mean that the attack on Connolly was unrelated to Becca Meredith’s murder. And that, he thought, was beggaring belief.

When the SOCOs had arrived, he’d left Doug to oversee the collection of evidence and the arrangements for towing Freddie’s Audi. Excusing himself, he’d found a quiet space in the old brewery courtyard and rung Detective Constable Imogen Bell.

“Sir,” she said, “is everything all right?”

“Fine. Sorry if I was a bit abrupt earlier. DC Bell, have you had any training in family liaison?”

“Just the basics. Challenging, I thought.”

“Yes, it can be. So . . . how would you fancy a temporary spot of tea-making and hand-holding?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Bell said, with the barest hint of amusement, “I take it that is not a gender-biased assignment. Sir.”

Kincaid grinned. “I am firmly of the opinion that a bloke can make tea and hold hands just as well as any woman, if not better. But in this particular case, I have to admit I think your gender might be to our advantage.”

He’d remembered that Imogen Bell had reminded him of the photos he’d seen of a younger Becca Meredith. And if Becca Meredith’s taste in men had run to type, he thought it worth seeing if the same held true for her ex- husband.

Freddie Atterton had all the symptoms of a man badly in need of a confidant. It was the least Kincaid could do to provide one.

Doug Cullen came out of Freddie Atterton’s flat a few minutes after Imogen Bell had gone in. “Well, she’ll soon get him sorted,” he told Kincaid, who had stayed in the courtyard to field phone calls. “And I wouldn’t want to be in her way while she does it. Think he’ll tell her anything?”

“It’s always possible,” Kincaid answered noncommittally.

Doug studied him for a moment. “You don’t think he did it, do you?”

Kincaid gestured at the Hotel du Vin across the street, delaying an answer. “Let’s get some lunch. I’m starving.” The hotel was part of a boutique chain, and the food was reputed to be good.

“Brilliant idea,” Doug agreed. “I’ve been starving ever since I watched the rowers at Leander scarfing down plates of eggs and baked beans.” Doug set off towards the hotel with alacrity, and they were soon seated on the leather sofas in the hotel’s trendily appointed bar.

They both ordered the day’s special, a fish pie made with smoked haddock and vegetables in a creamy Cheddar sauce, and Kincaid chose tea instead of the pint he would have preferred. He needed a clear head.

When the barmaid had brought their drinks, Doug pushed his glasses up on his nose and fixed a steady gaze on Kincaid. “I take that as a no,” he said, as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted.

Shrugging, Kincaid stirred milk into his tea. “Freddie Atterton had an obvious motive—financial gain. And maybe a less apparent one—jealousy. He had the expertise, and possibly the opportunity, to have murdered Becca on Monday evening.”

“But if he had a legitimate alibi for the attack on Kieran—”

“Exactly,” Kincaid said. When he’d rung the incident room while waiting for Doug, he’d requested checks on Freddie’s phone records, and a confirmation call to Becca’s mother. “It means either the attack on Kieran was random—which I don’t for one moment believe—or it wasn’t Freddie that Kieran saw by the river. But that’s not the only thing.” He stopped to give the barmaid, a pretty girl in her twenties sporting a bare midriff and pierced navel, a smile of thanks as she brought their cutlery.

Lowering his voice as a couple took a nearby table, he continued, “None of the scenarios with Freddie as the killer explain what Becca did on Friday night.

“Why did she leave her car in London and take the train? Why was she short-tempered with Kieran when he came to the cottage on Saturday? Why did she miss training that same morning? What did she have to do in London on Saturday?

“These were all breaks in her pattern, and I don’t like breaks in pattern.” Kincaid sipped at his tea, grimacing as he found it lukewarm. He hated tepid tea.

“And the thing I like least of all,” he said, returning his cup to the saucer with unnecessary force, “is Freddie just happening to strike up an acquaintance with Angus Craig days before Becca was murdered.”

“Craig’s doing?”

Kincaid arranged his knife and fork precisely on his serviette. “I think he made a big mistake with Rebecca Meredith. He was poaching on his home territory, and he picked a victim who was tougher than he expected. Maybe he had too much to drink that night and was careless. But whatever the reason, I’ll guarantee you he made it his business afterwards to find out everything about her.”

The barmaid brought their entrees, and Kincaid felt a bit deflated when it was Doug she smiled at, not him.

The small casseroles of fish pie were topped with golden mashed potatoes and smelled delicious. When Kincaid dug in with his fork, steam escaped in a cloud.

Doug lifted a bite and blew on it, something Kincaid felt sure his mother had taught him not to do. “But if he knew who Freddie was,” Doug said, “why approach him now?”

“Maybe Becca stirred the pot. We need to know when she found out that Craig had been retired with honors, and that Gaskill—and whoever Gaskill reported to—had not kept their promise to her. And we need to know something else.”

Setting down his knife and fork without tasting the dish, Kincaid pulled out his phone and dialed back the number in his caller ID.

“DC Bell? Kincaid here. You’re still in the flat?”

“Yes, sir. Making some progress here. The kitchen and Mr. Atterton are both tidied up.” She sounded quite pleased with herself. “I’m about to help Fre—Mr. Atterton—make some of the necessary phone calls.”

“SOCOs gone?”

“Yes, sir. I think they got everything they needed, and the lads said to tell you that they’ll go over the car as soon as possible.”

“Thanks, detective. Good work.” Kincaid paused, realizing he needed to be circumspect. “DC Bell, could you ask Mr. Atterton which evening last week he met the gentleman in the bar?”

“Um, right, sir.” There was a muffled murmur of conversation, then Bell came back clearly on the line. “He says he thinks it was Thursday.” He could hear curiosity in her voice, but he thanked her without further comment and rang off.

“Thursday,” Kincaid repeated in answer to Doug’s querying look.

Wincing as he nibbled on a piece of smoked haddock, Doug whistled through his teeth, then said, “Hotter