No Mark upon Her

As he drove into London, he stopped at home and changed into his Paul Smith gray suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. It was the best he could do for armor.

Gemma and all the children—according to the latest family update texted from Kit—were at their friend Erika Rosenthal’s, making German brown-sugar cookies for Charlotte’s party tomorrow.

Kincaid had no excuse to tarry, and he knew he had to catch Chief Superintendent Childs before he left for the weekend.

He drove to the Yard, gathered the file on Jenny Hart and a copy of Rosamond Koether’s statement from Doug, and took the lift up to Chief Superintendent Childs’s office.

Childs’s secretary sent him straight in.

The surface of his guv’nor’s desk was clear as usual, and as always, Childs didn’t seem to be doing anything. As Denis Childs was the most efficient superior officer he knew, Kincaid had sometimes wondered if the man simply had a computer wired to his brain.

“Sir.” He gave Childs a nod in greeting.

“Oh, dear,” said Childs, steepling his fingers. “How very formal of you.” He looked Kincaid up and down. “And the suit. Very nice, the conservative touch, but I suspect this means you’ve come to tell me something you think I won’t like. Do sit down, Duncan”—he waved at a chair—“and don’t pace about in my office again. It makes my neck hurt. What have you got there?” Childs’s eyes went to the papers in Kincaid’s hand.

Sitting down, Kincaid handed over the file and statement. Then he crossed his ankles and folded his hands in his lap. It was a Childs pose, used by his boss to convey a complete lack of nerves, and Kincaid hoped he did it half as well.

Childs went through the Jenny Hart case quickly, but with a slight frown, and Kincaid had the feeling he’d seen the material before. When he came to the end, he gave Kincaid a quick glance that might have been surprise.

Then he turned to Rosamond Koether’s statement. As he read, he went very still. When he’d finished, he looked up at Kincaid.

“Is this credible?”

“According to Melody Talbot. And I have complete confidence in her judgment.”

Childs settled back in his chair. “I sense Gemma’s hand in this. And yours. Why else would Project Sapphire suddenly follow up on what seemed a dead-end case?”

“Project Sapphire were looking for cases that matched the pattern of the rape alleged by DCI Rebecca Meredith,” Kincaid admitted. “At my request. But DC Talbot certainly did not expect to find this.” Kincaid gestured at the Hart file.

“Were there other cases that fit the pattern as well?” Childs asked.

“Yes, several. But only one murder.”

Childs considered Kincaid with his slow, inscrutable gaze. Then something flickered deep in his brown eyes, and Kincaid recognized it.

It was rage.

“An unexpected result,” said Childs quietly. “Jenny Hart was a good officer. And a friend. She served under me when she was a detective constable.” He tapped his fingers on his desk. “You’ve requested a warrant for DNA comparison? And not from one of that lot, I hope.” He cast a scathing glance at the photo of Craig amongst the senior officers in evening dress.

“Yes, sir.” Kincaid tried to contain his surprise, both at Childs’s revelation about DCI Hart, and at his comment about Craig and his cronies. “It should be coming through any moment.”

“You realize this doesn’t get you any closer to Rebecca Meredith,” said Childs. “Or the attack on the boat builder. What was his name? Connolly.”

This, Kincaid thought, was the reason there were never any papers on Childs’s desk. Childs remembered everything that came across it.

Kincaid had also begun to suspect that Denis Childs knew about his visit to Craig—that, in fact, Childs knew everything that he had done since the beginning of the investigation. “I realize that,” he answered. “But if this”—he gestured towards the Hart file—“pulls Craig’s fangs, then perhaps his alibis for Meredith and Connolly won’t look quite so tidy. All I need is a crack, enough to get a warrant to search his car and belongings.”

He leaned nearer the polished expanse of Childs’s desk. “Craig thought he was untouchable. And I think that will have made him careless.” Kincaid studied his boss. “You were on to this from the beginning, weren’t you? You knew about Becca Meredith’s accusations, and when she was found dead a mile from Craig’s door, you suspected him. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I always have the utmost confidence in your abilities, Duncan,” Childs said. “You know that.”

Kincaid felt a surge of anger, adrenaline fueled. “You let me take the heat for going after Craig.”

“I counted on you to take action where I couldn’t, and not to be intimidated by Angus Craig.”

If that was a compliment, Kincaid wasn’t in the mood to take it that way. “Why push me towards Freddie Atterton, if you thought it was Craig all along?”

Shrugging, Childs said, “There are always those who would prefer the obvious solution. I obliged them. I thought it would make you stubborn.”

Kincaid realized he was clenching his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t like being used.”

Childs frowned, and when he spoke, his voice held a rare flash of temper. “Would you rather I’d assigned the case to some dunderhead who would have arrested Freddie Atterton? And do you not see what would have happened if I’d directed you towards Craig?

“I think it very likely someone would have stopped you, one way or another. Then if you had managed to pin Meredith’s murder on Craig, my involvement would have been obvious. And it would have been used in Craig’s favor by his defense.

“As it is, you did your job, and we have an unexpected”—Childs touched Jenny Hart’s file—“conclusion.” His eyes gleamed.

Kincaid’s phone beeped with a text. “Sorry,” he said. “But that should be Cullen.” He slipped the phone from his jacket pocket and read the message, then looked back at Childs. “We’ve got the warrant.” He couldn’t keep the jubilation from his voice. “I’m going to serve the bastard tonight.”

“No,” said Childs. “You’re not.”

“What?” Kincaid stared at him, thinking he’d misheard.

“You are not going to serve the warrant. Not yet.”

“I don’t believe this.” Kincaid shook his head in astonishment. After everything Childs had said about Craig, was he suddenly changing his mind? “Why the bloody hell not?”

Ignoring the insubordination, Denis Childs pulled up the knot on his tie. Then he heaved his bulk from his chair.

With Childs looming over him, Kincaid suddenly felt he might be felled by a mountain.

“Because,” answered Childs, looking down at him, “I am going to pay a call on retired Deputy Assistant Commissioner Craig.”

He sighed, pinching his lips together in an expression of distaste. “I suppose I shall be obliged to take Superintendent Gaskill with me, although he won’t like it. But that way, Peter Gaskill, the little worm, will know he’s gone far enough.”

“You’re going to serve Angus Craig? An officer of your rank?”

“No.” Childs sounded infinitely patient. “As one senior officer to another, I’m going to give Angus Craig the opportunity to come into the Yard and provide a DNA sample. Voluntarily. Just to clear this inconvenient little matter up.”

He reached for the Burberry hanging neatly on the coat rack behind his desk. “It’s a necessary courtesy, Duncan. I’d be pilloried if I didn’t make the gesture. And—” Childs paused, and Kincaid once again saw a flash of the emotion that moved beneath his chief superintendent’s implacable facade, like a shark’s fin just breaking the surface.

“And,” Childs went on, sounding profoundly unperturbed, “I want to see his face.”