—Brad Alan Lewis
When Kincaid reached Henley, he drove down New Street into Thames Side, past the Hotel du Vin and Freddie Atterton’s flat. He pulled the Astra into a parking spot facing the river, from where he could see the lights of Henley Bridge, and on the far side, Leander.
It was now fully dark, but he imagined the scene as it would have looked on Monday, a little earlier in the evening—the light fading on the river, the sliver of a boat, ghostly white in the dim light, pushing away from Leander’s landing raft.
Rolling down the Astra’s window, he listened, imagining the quiet splish of the oars, the rhythmic creak of the shell’s seat as it moved up and down on the runners, the
Reluctantly, he turned his gaze from the river and switched his phone on, checking for messages. There was nothing from Chief Superintendent Childs, but his relief was short-lived as he thought out the implications.
Did that mean that Craig had not complained about Kincaid’s visit and accusations? That he was waiting to see if his threats had been enough to warn Kincaid off?
And if that was the case, was that further evidence of his guilt?
Or was it just that Craig was marshaling his support and the retaliation was yet to come?
No matter, Kincaid thought, whether Craig struck back now or later—he had no more evidence against Craig than he had before he’d spoken to him. In fact, with Craig’s possible alibis for both Monday evening and Wednesday night, he had even less.
He gazed out at the river again, putting together the timeline as he’d worked it out. If Becca had left Leander a little after half past four, she’d have rounded Temple Island and started back upriver sometime between five and half past.
Could Craig have murdered Becca at five o’clock, then walked, wet and muddy, back to his car, driven back to Hambleden, got himself cleaned up, and strolled blithely into the pub before six?
Certainly not without his wife’s knowledge, if she’d been at home, but Kincaid thought he could safely say that they would not get a damning statement from Edie Craig.
It would take physical evidence to tie Craig to the crime—matching hair, fiber, or footprints from the scene of Becca’s murder to his car or person. But even that would be questionable, as they had no absolute proof that Becca had been killed at the spot Kieran had indicated. In any case, there was nothing concrete enough against Craig to allow Kincaid to float a request for comparison.
And even if he could pin Becca’s murder on Craig, it looked as if Craig had a solid alibi for the time of the attack on Kieran’s boatshed.
But if Craig hadn’t attacked Kieran, who had? Not Freddie Atterton, if the phone records and his former mother-in-law confirmed his alibi.
Kincaid debated staying in Henley. Should he have another word with Freddie? Question Kieran again? He felt boxed in—but he knew there was something on the other side of the wall, if he could only see it. And if he asked the right people the right questions. But who and what?
The air blowing down the river was cold. He shivered and rolled up his window, having almost made up his mind to put up at the Red Lion, when his phone rang. It startled him so much that he almost dropped it, but when he’d fumbled it right side up, he saw that it was Doug.
“Guv,” said Doug as soon as Kincaid answered. “I’m just back at the Yard. I’ve—”
“Have you seen the chief super?” Kincaid interrupted.
“No, but—”
“Well, make yourself invisible. I’ve put my foot in a wasp’s nest and I don’t want you getting stung.”
There was a moment’s silence as Doug digested this. Then he said, “I’m in your office, and I think the chief has gone for the day.” Carefully he added, “Um, I take it the visit didn’t go well?”
“Depends on your point of view.” Kincaid made an effort to keep his voice calm. “I have absolutely no doubt that he raped Rebecca Meredith. He as much as admitted it. But I’m not seeing anything that will let us tie him to her murder.”
“What about Connolly’s boatshed?”
Kincaid shifted uncomfortably. “Craig was surprised when I asked him where he was on Wednesday night. I don’t think he knew what had happened. And, apparently, at the time, he was in London, meeting with
“Ah. Would one of those important people happen to have been Peter Gaskill?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“That’s one of the things I was calling to tell you,” Doug said with an air of satisfaction. “I’ve done some checking. Seems they’re very matey, your friend and Gaskill. As in, Gaskill owes Craig his promotion.”
“You didn’t talk to Gaskill, did you?” Kincaid asked with a jolt of alarm.
“No. I’d have avoided him in any case, but he was out this afternoon. Golfing.”
“Is that so?” Kincaid found he wasn’t surprised. “What a coincidence. Our friend was golfing as well. Who did you talk to?”
“DC Bisik. It seems Sergeant Patterson was right about it not being a good idea to be seen talking to us. She was seconded to another division by the end of the day yesterday.”
“What?” Kincaid’s hand tightened on the phone. “Where?”
“Dulwich. I’ve checked with the station there. She reported for duty this morning, although the inspector seemed rather surprised to find that he needed another detective sergeant.”
Gaskill’s doing, no doubt, Kincaid thought. And probably Craig’s, setting in motion a chain of commands that had resulted in DS Patterson’s quick removal. He wondered how many of the links in the chain were willing participants.
“She’d gone home by the time I rang the station. Bisik gave me her mobile number,” Doug continued, “but she’s not answering.”
“No,” Kincaid said. “I doubt that she would.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I suspect she learned her lesson about talking out of school.”
“Well, we need to speak to her again, regardless. The thing is, Bisik could only think of one thing that was different about Becca’s day on Friday. Another female officer came in, a DCI from Vice. Apparently she was an old mate of Becca’s. Bisik wasn’t introduced to her, but he had the impression that Kelly Patterson was. He also had the idea that Becca and this copper might have gone out for drinks.
“Gaskill would know who she was, I’m sure, but I doubt you want me asking him,” Doug added. “Nor the guv’nor.”
“No.” Kincaid thought about their strategy. “If Patterson doesn’t return your calls tonight, can you be at her station first thing in the morning? Unofficially.”
He couldn’t quite get his head round the fact that he couldn’t go to his own chief superintendent with this. How much did Childs know? Was he privy to all of Craig’s and Gaskill’s maneuvering, or was he merely following orders he’d been given?
Kincaid still found it hard to believe that the man he’d thought he knew, and thought of as his friend, as well as his superior, would countenance protecting Craig if he knew the truth about him.
Should he try to—
“Hang on,” said Doug. “E-mail just came in on your computer. It’s the lab results from the SOCOs on Freddie Atterton’s car and the things they took from his flat.” There was a moment’s pause as Doug read, and Kincaid could imagine him pushing his glasses up on his nose. Then Doug went on. “You can say
“And”—there was a spark of excitement in Doug’s voice—“in the debris against the bank, they found a chip of paint that matches the Filippi’s hull.”
“So she
