sent Doug Cullen home mid-morning, a little sharply. Doug had been lingering, inventing tasks, looking more anxious and morose by the minute.
“Go,” Kincaid had finally said. “Get on with your house-moving.”
“You’ll need me to proof that for you,” Doug protested, nodding at the computer screen.
“I’m perfectly capable of writing a proper report on my own, thank you.” Kincaid knew exactly what Doug was feeling, but drawing it out was not going to make it better.
“We’ll have a pint next weekend,” he said. “And as soon as you’re settled, we’ll come for dinner, if you’re brave enough to have us, that is.”
“Right,” said Doug. He stuck his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with his keys. “I’ll investigate the takeaway options in Putney.”
“That will keep you busy if your new guv’nor doesn’t give you enough to do.”
Doug gave the joke the weak smile it deserved.
The moment stretched into the sort of awkward silence faced by men who could not find a graceful way to say good-bye.
“I’ll be back,” Kincaid said at last. And then, “You’ll be all right.”
“Right.” Doug nodded and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Thanks. See you, then.” He’d ducked his head and slipped out the door.
Cullen’s departure brought the reality home to Kincaid. He would not be back for two months unless they decided that Charlotte was ready to go into nursery school before then. His life was about to change in ways he couldn’t yet imagine, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
He lingered, gazing at the familiar walls of his office, thinking how many years this job had defined him, and wondering who he would be without it.
And thinking about what had happened the previous afternoon, and how near any one of them might have come to tragedy.
He’d spent the better part of Saturday evening interviewing Ross Abbott at Thames Valley headquarters.
Once subdued and hauled off to the Thames Valley nick, Abbott had gone quiet and refused to say another word without representation.
Studying Abbott in the custody suite, Kincaid had seen the mask come down, the man’s desperation and viciousness wiped away by the cool, plausible, and highly affronted City banker. But there was no hiding the calculation in Abbott’s eyes, and his story, when his slightly befuddled solicitor had finally arrived, had been a masterful work of invention.
He had, he said, been deeply worried about his grieving friend, after Freddie’s irrational behavior earlier that afternoon at the Red Lion. Having not found Freddie at home, he’d gone to the cottage looking for him.
Then, seeing a strange car out front and the cottage door standing slightly ajar, he’d suspected a burglar and had felt obliged to go in. He’d then been threatened by Kieran and his mad dog, and had tried to defend himself.
As for the gun, he said he’d grabbed it from the drawer in Rebecca Meredith’s sideboard, when he’d been searching for something to defend himself against the lunatic with the dog.
“And then you and your mate”—he gave a pointed look at Kincaid and Doug—“came barging in and failed to identify yourselves as police officers. I thought you were part of the gang.”
“Gang?” Kincaid said. He’d looked down at his now definitely worse-for-wear Saturday clothes—muddy chinos, soggy button-down shirt and pullover—and thought wistfully of his soaked leather jacket, hanging up to dry in an anteroom. And Doug, with one earpiece of his glasses bent from the scuffle to subdue Abbott, his now-dry fair hair sticking up like a schoolboy who had just got out of bed, looked even more unlikely. “Gang?” Kincaid repeated, brows elevated as high as they would go. If Abbott could dramatize, he could do him one better. Not even Abbott’s solicitor could repress a smile.
“I think perhaps you need your eyes examined, Mr. Abbott,” Kincaid continued. They had not actually identified themselves as police, so he stepped carefully over that one for the moment.
“As for the gun, your wife has already told police that it was her illegally obtained firearm, and that you took it from the house without her knowledge. That, in my book, goes down as intent to harm.”
He’d then reiterated, for the tape, what they knew about Becca Meredith’s visit to the Abbotts’ the previous Saturday, and why Abbott had then put in motion a plan to murder her.
“Bollocks,” said Abbott. “Absolute bollocks. And you can’t prove a bit of it.”
“Oh, I think we can. And we can prove you attacked Kieran Connolly. We’ve impounded your car, and a forensics team have taken your clothes from your house, as well as your single scull from Henley Rowing Club. I know you think you’re clever, Mr. Abbott, but there will be traces you missed. You will have left fiber at the scene of Becca Meredith’s murder, and perhaps petrol in the boat. Not to mention the fact that Kieran Connolly will identify you as the man he saw lying in wait in the spot where Meredith was killed.
“As for what happened at the Remenham cottage, you have four very credible witnesses who will be happy to testify as to your actions and intent.”
He spoke, however, with more conviction than he felt. A good defense barrister could get round trace evidence unless it was DNA—juries loved DNA—and he’d heard from Gemma that Chris Abbott was already denying everything she’d told Gemma and Melody, including possession of the gun.
It would be a long and painstaking business to put together a case against Abbott that would stick, but at least the man would do no further damage.
The medics who had arrived at the cottage along with the police had been surprised to find they had a canine rather than a human patient, but they were Tavie’s colleagues and had willingly loaded Finn, Tavie, and Kieran into the ambulance. Tavie had arranged for the vet who worked with the SAR team to meet them at her clinic.
DC Imogen Bell had arrived with the local coppers and offered quite solicitously to give Freddie a lift home, although it had seemed to Kincaid that Freddie was suddenly much less in need of looking after.
They had all been high on adrenaline the first few hours after Ross Abbott’s arrest. But now Kincaid felt more shaken than he liked to admit, and he kept wondering if he should have handled things differently. Had he let his anger over the Craigs’ deaths affect his judgment? He’d endangered his partner and three civilians. And yet, if he’d waited for tactical backup, he felt very sure that both Kieran Connolly and Finn would be dead.
So why was the decision weighing on him so heavily?
Maybe, he thought, maybe it was time he had a break.
A shadow fell across his office. He looked up, startled, to find Chief Superintendent Childs standing in his doorway. Childs, for such a big man, always seemed to move soundlessly.
Unlike yesterday at the Craigs’, Childs was perfectly turned out in his usual bespoke dark suit, his Remembrance Day poppy bright as a spot of blood in his lapel.
“Sir,” said Kincaid, starting to stand.
“No, stay as you are.” Childs waved Kincaid back into his chair. “But I won’t sit, if you don’t mind.” Kincaid’s visitor’s chairs were not made to fit Denis Childs.
“Sir, what are you doing in on a Sunday?”
“A meeting with the commissioner.” He studied Kincaid for a moment. “I suppose all’s well that ends well with the Meredith case. A good result.”
Kincaid was not about to be patted on the back. “Ross Abbott would have had no motive to kill Becca Meredith if not for Angus Craig.”
“I told the commissioner you’d say that.” Childs sighed. “He feels, however, that making public the ordeals of the female officers involved would only do them more harm. That is, if any of the women would agree to it, and I think it unlikely.”
Kincaid stared at him. “You can’t mean to sweep Jenny Hart’s murder under the carpet as well.”
“The DNA from the crime scene will be compared with Craig’s,” Childs said obliquely, and Kincaid took that to mean that the results of the comparison might conveniently fail to be released.
“What about a DNA test on Chris Abbott’s youngest son?”
Childs shook his head. “I doubt very much that his mother would agree to that. Or that a magistrate would grant a warrant against her wishes. And what exactly do you feel that would accomplish?
“Even if DCI Abbott is found not to have been aware of her husband’s actions, or of his intentions, do you not
