No Mark upon Her

rudeness, and he wanted to see what line Craig would take about Becca Meredith if unprompted.

Craig took the bait. “Tragic, this business with DCI Meredith,” he said. “But I understand the ex-husband is the likely suspect.” He didn’t say who exactly had given him to understand this.

The likely suspect? Kincaid felt as though he’d fallen into a Christie novel. “Really, sir?” He kept his tone at mild surprise. “That’s news to me. If, by the likely suspect, you mean Mr. Atterton, he is helping us with our inquiries. However, we have no solid evidence that he was involved in Rebecca Meredith’s death.”

Crossing his ankles, Kincaid did his best to keep his expression bland. A throb of anger had begun behind his temples. “But then I understand that you know Mr. Atterton. In fact, you had a breakfast appointment with him on Tuesday morning. It’s too bad you weren’t able to make it. I’m sure someone with your knowledge and experience could have provided Freddie Atterton with some much-needed support and advice when he discovered his ex-wife was missing.”

For just an instant, calculation was visible in Craig’s face, then he arranged his expression into one of slight disdain. “I’d met the man, yes, but I’d no idea at the time that he’d been married to DCI Meredith. Nor did I know that his investment schemes were just that—schemes.”

“So you did some checking on Freddie Atterton after you arranged to meet him at Leander?”

“Of course I did, Superintendent. I was a police officer for more than thirty years, in case you’d forgotten.”

Kincaid had certainly not forgotten. “And that’s why you didn’t show up on Tuesday morning?” He gave a little shrug of disapproval. “You might have rung to cancel.”

Craig stared at him as if he’d gone utterly daft. “Superintendent, are you criticizing my manners? Atterton is little better than a con man and hardly deserved the courtesy. If you must know, I was put out with myself for having been taken in, even briefly.” He put his large hands on the edge of his desk and pushed his chair back, a signal that the interview was over. “And you, I think, are supposed to be investigating a murder, not wasting my time.”

Kincaid, however, was not going to be dismissed. “I understand that you knew DCI Meredith rather better than you did her ex-husband.” The pulse in his temples increased to a sledgehammer-like pounding as his heart rate shot up.

He had just crossed his Rubicon, and there would be no going back.

“What are you talking about?” said Craig softly, all pretense of civility gone from his voice.

“I’m talking about the fact that DCI Meredith accused you of rape. And that Peter Gaskill, her superior officer, convinced her not to file charges against you. But her agreement was based on the fact that he promised her that measures would be taken against you within the force.”

The florid color had drained from Craig’s face. “How dare—”

“But that didn’t happen, did it?” Kincaid said, leaning forward, holding Craig’s gaze. “And Becca Meredith only learned the extent to which those promises had been broken a few weeks ago. I wonder what she threatened to do, and what you would have done to keep her quiet.”

Craig’s burly chest expanded as he took a breath. “That woman was certifiably mad. She’s lucky she wasn’t thrown out of the force for making accusations of that sort. Gaskill and I both showed her clemency she didn’t deserve.”

“Oh, but it’s not quite that simple, sir.” Kincaid used the title as a mockery. The room suddenly seemed very warm, and he had to fight the temptation to move away from the fire. “Because Rebecca Meredith knew the way things worked,” he said. “So before she went to Gaskill, she had a rape test done. She listed the assailant as unknown, but the DNA sample was kept as evidence. Gaskill knew that. You knew that. The question is whether or not Becca Meredith had decided to risk her career by using that evidence against you.”

“DNA samples mean nothing. I had sex with the woman, yes. But she was asking for it,” Craig said viciously, “and there was no way the bitch was ever going to prove otherwise.”

Kincaid supposed he should have felt vindicated by Craig’s admission, but the venom in the man’s voice made him feel sick. Were those the things Craig would have said about Gemma if he’d been successful in his attempt to assault her? And about other women, who had been guilty of no more than trust?

“Peter Gaskill did her a favor by convincing her not to tell the world what a slut she was,” Craig went on. He clasped his right hand round the large glass paperweight on his desk, his fingers clenching and unclenching. “She’d have ruined her career and sullied the reputation of the force.”

Kincaid couldn’t contain his sarcasm. “While yours would have remained unblemished?”

“You are impertinent, and I’ve had just about enough of this.” Craig’s color had come back in full strength. His face was almost purple with fury. The dog’s barking, which had been an ongoing counterpoint to their conversation, suddenly escalated, perhaps in response to the menace in its master’s tone.

Craig scowled and swore. “Bloody dog. I’m going to kill it one of these days.”

Then, turning his attention back to Kincaid, he said, “Now, Superintendent, I think you can see yourself out. But don’t think I won’t be reporting you to your superiors or that you won’t bear the consequences for this intrusion.”

Kincaid stood slowly. “You, sir, are not above rules, or the force of the law.” He wondered, God help him, if that were true, but there was no help for it now. “And just so we are clear, are you telling me you had nothing to do with the murder of Rebecca Meredith?”

“Of course I didn’t.” Craig’s disdain was scathing. “I’m warning you, Superintendent. Don’t make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me where you were on Monday evening, sir,” Kincaid said, ignoring the threat. “Between, oh, let’s say four o’clock and six.”

He saw Craig bite back his first retort, saw the swift calculation again in the pale eyes, as if he were weighing what he had to lose by answering. Then Craig said, “I was here until five. After that, I had a drink in the pub. That’s my usual routine.”

“That would be the Stag and Huntsman?”

Craig gave him a curt nod. “That’s right.”

“And before that, is there anyone who can verify that you were at home?”

“My wife.” Craig bit off the words as if they were shards of glass.

“I’ll need to speak to her,” Kincaid said.

“She’s not at home. If she were, the damned dog wouldn’t be yapping.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to come back. Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” Kincaid turned as if to go, then swung back. “Oh, one more thing, sir. Last night, about eight o’clock. Where were you?”

He saw the surprise in the widening of Craig’s eyes, in the minute relaxation of the muscles round his mouth.

Craig hadn’t been expecting the question, and Kincaid stood struck just as dumb, wondering if he had made a dreadful, irretrievable mistake.

“I was at a meeting in London,” said Craig, with a gleam of malice. “With people you would do well not to cross.”

Chapter Seventeen

“I mean, look at rowing. There are extremely compelling reasons to stop during a race, and in almost every race I can remember I’ve thought to myself ‘If only I could stop rowing I would never want anything again. I would rest forever. I don’t care what the consequences are of my stopping. Nothing can be as bad as this.’ ” [Jake Cornelius]

—Mark de Rond

The Last Amateurs