No Mark upon Her

bruising, any throttling?”

“Bruising, yes,” said Gemma. “One victim had a shattered cheekbone.”

Kincaid thought of Angus Craig’s powerful arms and shoulders. When he raped, Craig had used surprise, strength, and intimidation, probably in that order. But with Jenny Hart, perhaps he’d been past caring about the intimidation part of the equation. Perhaps his need for violence had passed the point of no return.

Kincaid guessed that up until Jenny Hart, Craig’s rapes had been crimes of opportunity, although he must have gone to functions and pubs hoping he would find a suitable target.

Had Hart been different? Had he known where she drank, and when she was likely to be there? Had he intended murder when he’d met Jenny Hart in the pub that night?

If so, Becca Meredith’s murder seemed a small and rather cautiously executed action. Why had he not surprised her in her home, if he knew she lived alone?

Kincaid answered his own question. Because Craig had known what he was dealing with in Becca Meredith, and he would have known that she wouldn’t be taken defenseless again.

But what Kincaid still didn’t understand was why Craig had chosen to kill Becca Meredith now, rather than a year ago when she’d first threatened to expose him.

What the hell had triggered it? And hadn’t Craig thought Gaskill would be suspicious if Becca died mysteriously? Or was Gaskill so crooked that Craig had felt sure he could depend on him even then . . .

“Earth to Duncan.” Gemma waved a hand in front of his face. “You’re right away with the fairies, love. How about you talk to me.”

“I don’t like this,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t like you or Melody being involved with this. Craig has too much power.” The idea of Gemma having even peripheral contact with the man made him see red.

“I’ll take over the Jenny Hart inquiry from here on,” he went on. “Doug and I will interview the barmaid tomorrow—although it might be better if Doug was out of it as well.”

Gemma gave him the look that meant she wasn’t having it. “And if the guv’nor calls you off before you have the chance?” she asked. “What then? You’ll be dead in the water and nobody will be able to touch Craig. Let Melody do the interview. It’s a legitimate Project Sapphire follow-up, and she doesn’t have to clear it with anyone. If she gets a positive ID, you can take it from there.”

She was right, although he hated to admit it. He drank a little more of his wine, then said reluctantly, “All right. But it’s Melody’s interview, not yours,” he cautioned. “I don’t want you connected with this in any way.”

“Of course not,” said Gemma, but she looked like the Cheshire Cat.

He felt his blood pressure shoot up. “You’ve got to take this seriously, Gemma. Have you really looked at these photos?” Smacking his palm on the stack of papers for emphasis, he said, “I don’t think you realize just how dangerous this man is. I don’t want—”

His phone rang. He’d put it on the table when he sat down to eat, and the vibration made the cutlery rattle against his plate. Geordie lifted his head and growled.

“Bloody hell,” Kincaid muttered as he reached for the offending instrument. “Now what? I swear I’m going to throw the damned thing in the bog next time it rings.”

The tightening in his jaw made him realize he was still waiting for Angus Craig’s ax to fall.

But once again it wasn’t the chief superintendent ringing to pass along Craig’s ire or to give Kincaid an official reprimand.

According to the phone ID, it was Detective Constable Imogen Bell.

“Sir,” she said when he answered, sounding surprisingly diffident. “It’s DC Bell here. Sorry to bother you so late, and you’re probably at home—I checked with the Red Lion but they said you’d gone . . .”

“Never mind where I am, Bell. Out with it.” Meeting Gemma’s inquiring glance across the table, he shrugged in consternation.

“Sorry, sir,” said Bell. “Didn’t mean to pry.” She sounded even more uncomfortable. “It’s just that—I, um, I’ve a little problem here. I seem to . . . well, I seem to have lost Freddie Atterton.”

Chapter Nineteen

Race day draws inexorably closer and it is not anticipation or even elation that is the key sensation for the first-timer. It is fear—not of the impending battle, but fear of losing face, fear of a personal failure to function properly under stress, despite the endless months of practice; fear of letting down crewmates, friends, family and the whole damned tradition of the century and a half old Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race

.

—Daniel Topolski

Boat Race: The Oxford Revival

“Tell me exactly what happened,” he said.

Bell hesitated. “Everything?”

“Yes, everything.” He tried to master his impatience. “You let me decide whether or not it’s important, okay?”

“Okay,” Bell repeated, still a little uncertainly. “Well, after I spoke to you earlier this afternoon, I put together some lunch with the bits that were in the fridge. I thought he should eat something, you know?”

The question was apparently rhetorical, as she went on. “Then, well, there didn’t seem to be anyone else to do it, so I went with Fred—Mr. Atterton—to the undertaker’s. I helped him make the basic arrangements. It was—it was . . . grim. I’m glad I don’t do that every day.”

“Understandable,” Kincaid said encouragingly. “I’m sure you were a great help. Then what did you do?”

“We went back to the flat. I helped him with the obituary. It needed to go in the Times straightaway. And that was— I didn’t realize all the things she’d done. She was quite special, wasn’t she?” An element of hero worship had crept into Bell’s voice.

“She was that,” Kincaid agreed. “But she was also very human, and I suspect that right now Freddie is not inclined to remember her flaws. But we mustn’t forget that she had them.”

As he spoke, Kincaid watched Gemma, who had stood and was quietly putting plates and cups in the sink as she listened to his side of the conversation.

She could be obstinate, he thought, cataloging his wife’s faults. Impulsive. Quick to judge, quick to speak her mind, quick to care passionately about things and people. Slow to make commitments unless she knew she could keep them.

“And he adored her. He wouldn’t have her any other way.

He wondered if Rebecca Meredith had wanted to be loved for her flaws as much as for her accomplishments—and if she’d realized, too late, that she’d had that and had given it up.

“Right,” said Bell, sounding unconvinced. “When we’d finished, it was getting on for supper, and there was nothing left in the fridge but sour milk and some beer. I said I’d go to the shops. He—Atterton—seemed so . . . lost. He couldn’t even put together a shopping list, so I . . . I went to Sainsbury’s.” Bell paused again.

“And?” Kincaid prompted.

“When I got back, he was gone.”

“Just gone? On foot? By car? You’re certain he wasn’t in the flat?”

“I knocked and rang, then I tried his mobile and the landline. By that time I was getting seriously worried, so I tracked down the building manager and had him let me in. I was afraid . . . I was afraid of what I might find. But he wasn’t there. There was nothing disturbed, no note. His car keys were still on the console table by the door. He seems to have just walked out and not come back.”

“Was he drinking?”

“No. In fact, he poured the remains of a bottle of good scotch down the sink. Said the smell made him feel ill.”