No Mark upon Her

weren’t able to give the police much of a description, even with the help of the sketch artist.”

Ros shook her head in obvious frustration. “He was just . . . ordinary. And I wasn’t trying to remember.” She thought for a moment. “I know he was older—he reminded me of my uncle John. Fair-skinned, hair receding a bit. Slightly stocky build. Not tall. But when the police artist put together features, nothing gelled.”

“Had you seen him before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again? It’s been six months.”

Ros looked at Melody, then Gemma, her expression anxious now. “I don’t know. But I think so. It’s not the sort of thing you forget.”

“Okay,” said Melody. “Not to worry. I’m going to show you a photo of a group of men. You tell us if any of them look familiar. It’s that easy.”

From her bag, she took the photo of Angus Craig in a group of other senior officers, all in evening dress. There was nothing about him, Gemma thought, that stood out. Unless you knew.

She realized she was holding her breath.

Taking the photo carefully, Ros studied it, her eyes flicking from one side of the picture to the other. Then she stared straight at it and gave a little gasp.

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. That’s him.” She touched a black-lacquered fingertip to the man who stood dead center in the group. Angus Craig.

Kincaid had returned to the incident room, courtesy of a ride from DC Bell, when he got Gemma’s call.

“We’ve got him,” she said, her voice vibrating with suppressed excitement.

He closed his eyes. It was too good to be true. “In writing?”

“Signed and sworn. Melody took the girl into Notting Hill Station to make her statement. She’s a law student, so she knows what she’s doing. Her name is Rosamond Koether. We explained—Melody explained”—Gemma corrected quickly—“that making a formal identification might cause personal . . . difficulties . . . for her. We suggested that she stay with friends for at least a few days, and not give out her whereabouts. She still insisted on making a statement.”

“Do you think she could pick him out of an identity lineup?”

“Without a doubt. Melody showed her the photo of him in a group at the Commissioner’s Ball. She picked him out without any hesitation. Melody’s sent the statement to Doug at the Yard.”

“Right. Good.” Kincaid struggled to collect himself. He realized he’d believed it was pie-in-the-sky, the idea that a witness could reliably tie Craig to Jenny Hart on the night of her murder.

Of course, the Crown Prosecution Service wouldn’t consider this girl’s statement sufficient for a murder charge, but a judge should deem it merited a warrant for a DNA test, and that was all they needed.

If they were right. God help them if they were wrong.

“Still there, love?” asked Gemma.

“Oh, yes. Miles away. Sorry.” DC Bell, DC Bean, and DI Singla were all watching him curiously. “I think it’s time to have a word with the guv’nor,” he said to Gemma. “Face-to-face.”

Imogen Bell caught him up as he was leaving the station for the car.

He’d merely told the assembled team that he had an urgent lead on another case in London, and that he’d be back with them as soon as possible.

“Can I walk with you?” asked DC Bell. She’d been unable to conceal her relief when he’d rung from Remenham with the news that Freddie Atterton was all right.

When she’d picked them up, however, she’d been decidedly frosty with Atterton until he’d apologized nicely for worrying her, and promised to keep his phone turned on in future.

“Of course,” Kincaid said.

She fell into step beside him, and with her long legs she had no trouble keeping up. The wind blowing down Greys Road scattered strands of her light brown hair across her face, which she pushed away impatiently. “This case in London—is it connected to this one?”

He considered prevaricating, but a glance at her intent face made him decide against it. “I don’t know. It’s possible. But I can’t say anything about it until I know more.”

“It’s a murder, isn’t it? And you have a witness.”

He looked at her more sharply. “Have you ever considered a career in journalism, DC Bell?”

“Sorry.” She didn’t sound at all contrite. “It’s just that—does this case affect Mr. Atterton? If it’s on my watch, I think I should know.”

She was right, Kincaid had to admit. But he couldn’t afford for this lovely young woman to come to Craig’s attention. She had just the sort of confident personality that Craig seemed increasingly driven to crush.

And he certainly couldn’t afford for Craig to get even an inkling of an idea that they actually had something on him.

“Yes, you should know,” he said. “But it’s complicated. And there may be—repercussions. I promise I’ll tell you as much as I can, as soon as I can.”

They’d reached the car park. He stopped, turning to her. “Look, Imogen. I really do have to go. But in the meanwhile, just keep a reasonable eye on Freddie. I think he’ll be more cooperative now. And don’t tell anyone we have a witness in a connected case. Got that?” He jabbed a finger at her for emphasis. “Anyone.”

Although Kieran had badgered all and sundry—especially Tavie, who had no control whatsoever in the matter—about getting back into his boatshed, now that he’d been given permission, he found himself delaying.

After Superintendent Kincaid had left, Kieran tidied the flat, finished the washing, and made himself a cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch although he still felt guilty about eating Tavie’s provisions. Perhaps he’d pick up some things for dinner on his way back . . .

On his way back from the shed.

Sitting at Tavie’s small table, holding his half-finished sandwich, he saw that his hands were shaking, and he realized he didn’t want to go home. Not to stay. Not yet.

He was afraid. Afraid of what he might find, of who he would be, if he’d lost everything that had begun to make him feel like a whole person again.

And he was afraid, full stop. Noise and smoke and flames and panic—they were all still much too close.

But if he didn’t go back now, when would it be any easier?

The dogs were sitting at his feet, gazing up at him expectantly. “All right, you greedy buggers.” Kieran broke the remaining half of the sandwich into two pieces. “Down,” he said, and both dogs dropped like felled marionettes, then inhaled the offered treats in matching gulps.

“Okay. Good dogs. All gone,” he told them, rubbing his slobbery fingers on his jeans as he looked at their eager faces. He had backup, after all, he thought, right in front of him, ready and willing.

And he could make a small deal with himself. That was one of the things he’d learned in these last two years, and he couldn’t afford to forget it. You didn’t have to tackle things all at once. Small steps led to bigger steps.

He would go, but he would take the detective superintendent’s advice and come back to Tavie’s house, at least for tonight. There was no shame in that.

By the time Kieran reached Mill Meadows, both he and the dogs were panting. Having made up his mind to go, he’d jogged, not giving himself a chance to waver, and he’d been grateful that the clear, dry day seemed to be holding his vertigo at bay.

He slowed when he realized there was a man standing on the pedestrian path just across the water from the boatshed, gazing at it.

The man wore jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue T-shirt, but no jacket, in spite of the cool breeze. And even though he appeared slightly disheveled, there was something indefinably elegant about him. When he turned, Kieran recognized him instantly.

It was Freddie Atterton, Becca’s ex-husband.

“I know you,” said Atterton, his glance going from Kieran to the dogs. “I saw you that day, on the search team.”

Kieran felt the hair stand up on his arms. He nodded cautiously. “That’s right.”