No Mark upon Her

Ross ignored him, his attention now focused on Freddie. “You’re a shit, Freddie Atterton. You were always a prick with your supercilious it’s all about the crew crap. That was fine for you, because you were better than the rest of us. Did you think I didn’t know you were sneering at me?” Ross bared his teeth in a smile. “I’ve wanted to hurt you for fifteen years, and now I’ll be more than happy to shoot you, too.”

The gun steadied, leveled at Freddie.

Kincaid tensed, calculating how fast he could reach Ross, praying Freddie would keep him focused a moment longer.

But it was Kieran who spoke. “Why are you talking about Craig and this bastard’s wife? He killed Becca because she knew the truth about him.”

Ross swung back towards Kieran, but Kieran seemed oblivious to the gun. “He cheated in the Boat Race,” he said. “Becca told me. He sabotaged another rower to get his position, and he lost Oxford the race. But his wife was Becca’s friend, and Becca promised her she wouldn’t tell.”

“That bitch,” Ross shouted. The gun wobbled, then steadied again, this time aimed at Kieran. “That’s a lie, you—”

But Freddie moved towards him, his voice cold with disgust. “So that’s what it was, Ross. Did you slip him laxatives? I always suspected, you know. It was just too convenient, that food poisoning, but I couldn’t just come out and accuse a crewmate, could I? It wouldn’t have been sporting, and we couldn’t have that.

“But Becca—so Becca knew all along.” Freddie didn’t hide his satisfaction. “Becca used it against you in the end, didn’t she? When Chris refused to help her bring down Craig, she threatened to tell.

“And that was the one thing you knew would ruin you utterly, wasn’t it, Ross, old buddy? You betrayed your boat, your crewmates. No one would touch you if they knew. You’d have been blackballed for life. You’ve been trading on that Blue for fifteen years, with all your deals and your sucking up to anyone it impressed, and she was going to take it all away from you. So you killed her, you sniveling little cow—”

“Shut up.” Ross looked round wildly, then turned back to Freddie. “Just shut the fuck—”

But Freddie came closer. “And you needed that next deal desperately, didn’t you, Ross? Everything was crumbling. Your credit card wasn’t declined by mistake in the bar, was it? You were the one drowning.”

One look at Ross Abbott’s expression told Kincaid that if Freddie had meant to make Ross give up, the strategy had gone horribly wrong. Behind Freddie, he saw Doug’s white, frightened face, and he knew he had to stop this, whatever the cost.

“Ross, we can work this—” he began, but Freddie seemed determined to throw petrol on the fire.

“You don’t seriously think you’re going to kill all of us and walk away?” Freddie taunted him. “After what you’ve done?”

“Just watch me,” said Ross, and pointed the gun at Freddie’s chest.

There was a flurry of motion as Finn managed to free himself from Kieran’s grasp. A black blur, the dog launched himself at Ross.

Ross spun and fired, more from surprise than intent, it seemed to Kincaid in a fraction of disjointed thought.

The dog went down with a squeal of pain. Ross staggered back towards the door, as if shocked by the gun’s recoil, and Kieran sprang to his feet with a scream of rage and horror.

Kincaid dived towards Ross, aiming for his gun arm, just as another figure hurtled through the front door, swinging a long stick.

He, no—his brain registered, she—Tavie, it was Tavie, and it wasn’t a stick, it was an oar. The oar made a thwacking sound as it connected with Ross’s shoulder. The gun flew out of his hand, skittering across the floor and under a table.

Kincaid plowed into Ross. He heard the grunt of pain and the whoosh of exhaled breath as Ross hit the floor beneath him. Then Kincaid had him pinned, and Freddie and Doug were piling onto him, grabbing for Ross’s thrashing arms and legs. Freddie got Ross by his thinning hair and smacked his head against the floor.

“Stop! Both of you, stop! Just hold him,” Kincaid shouted, but Freddie, his face tight with fury, got in another good thump.

Tavie stood over them like a small ninja, the oar raised to strike again, but the cracks on the head seemed to have stunned Ross momentarily.

“Hold him,” grunted Kincaid, reaching for his belt. Ross had gone down on his stomach, and Kincaid meant to keep him that way. Handcuffs, he thought. Why did he never have bloody handcuffs?

Then Tavie lowered the oar and reached in her pocket. “Here,” she said, sounding surprised. “It’s Tosh’s lead. I brought it by accident.” She handed him the supple length of leather.

As Kincaid wrapped the lead round Ross’s wrists and yanked hard, Freddie said wonderingly, “That’s Becca’s old Oxford oar. Where did you—”

“It was in a bin at the side of the porch. The first thing that came to—” Tavie stopped with a gasp as she glanced past him, then her voice rose in a wail of distress. “Oh, God! Finn!”

It was then that Kincaid realized Kieran wasn’t with them. When he looked up, he saw Kieran on the floor in the middle of the room, cradling Finn in his lap.

Kincaid couldn’t see any blood, but the dog was panting, the whites of his eyes showing. As Tavie knelt beside them, Kieran lifted a hand from the dog’s dark coat, and it came away bright red.

“No,” whispered Kieran, looking up at Tavie imploringly. “Please, no. I can’t—I can’t tell how bad it is.”

While Tavie ran her small, deft hands over the dog, talking quietly, Kincaid levered himself off Ross. Freddie held Ross’s shoulders down. Doug sat on Ross’s feet, his phone out, shouting for backup to hurry the hell up, for an ambulance, and for God’s sake a vet.

Ross spat a stream of curses at them all and Freddie steadily and repeatedly told him to shut up or he’d bloody thump him again.

They were all, Kincaid thought with a delayed sense of astonishment, okay.

Except the dog.

Finn, who had identified Becca’s killer. Finn, who had tried his best to protect them. Kincaid couldn’t bear the thought of Kieran, who had lost so much, losing him, too.

Crossing the room, Kincaid scooped the gun from under the table. Then, keeping an eye on Ross and his captors, he knelt by Tavie and Kieran.

She was using Kieran’s sweater as a compress, and the oatmeal-colored wool was soaked with blood. But it was the dog’s shoulder she was treating, not his head or chest.

“Is he—”

Looking up, Tavie brushed her hair back from her forehead with her free hand, leaving a red smear. “It’s messy, and I’m more used to treating people, but I think it’s just a flesh wound. I can see entry and exit through the shoulder, and the bullet seems to have missed bone and organs.”

“Good boy,” whispered Kieran, and Finn’s tail thumped. Kieran’s voice was still shaky, but his hands were not, and he was assisting Tavie with steady confidence.

“It’s all right,” said Kieran, more strongly, as if reassuring himself. But it was Tavie’s eyes he met. “Everything is going to be all right.”

Chapter Twenty-five

What is there in the universe more fascinating than running water and the possibility of moving over it? What better image of existence and possible triumph?

—George Santayana

The Lost Pilgrim

Sunday lunchtime found Kincaid still finishing up reports in his office at the Yard. He’d