No Mark Upon Her (15 page)

There was no easy access to the Buckinghamshire side of the Thames Path. He could have taken the Land Rover as far as the beginning of the footpath that veered off from the Marlow Road, but with the frequency and severity of the vertigo he hadn’t dared drive. So after taking the skiff the few yards across to the mainland, he walked, occasionally using Finn’s sturdy back for support. All the while he half hoped and half feared he would see Tavie.

A few of the people he passed, seeing his unsteady gait, threw him the disgusted looks reserved for drunks, but he didn’t care. He wanted only to see if he was right, or if the man in the trees had been a delusion.

The sun, partially obscured by the clouds moving in from the west, was low in the sky by the time he passed the entrance to Phyllis Court and turned onto the footpath. Finn watched the meadow by Henley Football Club intently—he knew from previous walks that rabbits played there—but he stayed close at Kieran’s heel.

The way seemed endless, and Kieran approached the far end of the last meadow with relief. But this was as far as he and Finn had ever ventured, and when he saw what lay ahead, his heart sank. Here, an inlet of the Thames snaked into the beginnings of a boggy wood, and a narrow plank footbridge provided the only crossing. There was no way round that Kieran could see, so he held the rails as he crossed, stepping as carefully as a child, and he did the same on the next, even narrower, footbridge.

As he walked on, brushing at the overhanging branches that caught at his hair, the path grew less defined, twisting and turning deeper into the woods until it threatened to vanish altogether.

And then he came round one more bend, and he was there. He knew the place at once.

A small bowl of a clearing lay between the path and the river, hemmed by trees and trailing brush. A signpost on one of the trees stated
FISHING LICENSE REQUIRED
. The grass in the clearing looked soft and swampy, and was still vibrantly green, even in late October. In a muddy spot to one side, Kieran thought he could make out a clear footprint.

He didn’t dare go closer, for fear of disturbing evidence, but he thought the flotsam at the water’s edge had been disturbed. When he looked north, through a gap in the trees, he could just make out the white gleam of the folly on the tip of Temple Island. Was this, then, where Becca had died?

The blood rushed to his head. He crouched, his arm across Finn’s shoulders, fighting the dizziness, forcing himself to breathe. Then the skin crawled on the back of his neck.

He knew that feeling. He’d had it in Iraq, when his unit had been observed by hostiles. Someone was watching him. Finn’s ears came up, but he didn’t growl, and Kieran couldn’t tell if the dog had sensed something or was just reading his master’s signals.

Finn whined and butted at him, upsetting his balance. “Okay, okay,” he whispered, steadying himself. Carefully, he stood and looked round, checking the path in either direction, then the dense wood behind him.

Nothing.

He felt a drop of moisture on his cheek, then another. The rain that had been threatening all day was moving in, and the light was fading fast. If he didn’t start back, he’d be limping across those footbridges and through the meadows in near zero visibility, and he hadn’t brought a torch.

He looked once more at the clearing. He was certain now that he hadn’t imagined the man he had seen here. But he was a clapped-out, freaked-out Iraq vet who yesterday had destroyed his only fragile claim to credibility. Who would believe him?

W
hen they’d arrived at the Yard, Kincaid found that his chief was out to lunch and would afterwards be attending a planning meeting in Lambeth.

Kincaid had been tempted to go back to Shepherd’s Bush and have another talk with Gaskill, but he hadn’t wanted to betray Becca’s sergeant’s confidence. So after he and Cullen had grabbed a sandwich in the canteen, he shut himself in his office and did his own research on Angus Craig. He didn’t like what he found.

To some degree, all senior officers in the Met rotated from division to division, filling different positions. But it seemed that Craig had moved more than most, and after a certain point, although he’d risen in rank, his postings had seemed to carry less and less responsibility.

He sat back from the computer, frowning, and rang Superintendent Mark Lamb. Lamb was Gemma’s guv’nor at Notting Hill, but he was also an old friend of Kincaid’s, and someone he trusted to give him a straight opinion.

“Craig?” Lamb said when they’d dispensed with the pleasantries. “Well, off the record, he’s a bit dodgy, really. I’ve worked with him on a few committees. He’s not a man you want to cross. He likes to use his influence, and not always to the betterment of his fellow officers.”

“Any problems with female officers in particular?” Kincaid asked.

“There were whispers,” Lamb said reluctantly. “I don’t want to tell tales out of school, and I never had anything concrete. But I got the impression that the female officers avoided him whenever possible.”

“You don’t mean just an old-fashioned bias against working with women, I take it?”

“I think it was more than that. Hang on.” Lamb murmured to someone in the background. “Look, I’ve got to go. But tell Gemma we’re looking forward to having her back next week.”

“Will do,” said Kincaid, and rang off.

There was a tap on his office door and Cullen came in. “I’ve been on to Henley,” he said, taking the visitor’s chair. “I’ve assigned a family liaison officer to Freddie Atterton, although Atterton had already made the official identification before I could get the FLO to accompany him.

“I’ve had a word with the press officer and said the usual—
deepest regrets, one of our finest officers, putting all our resources towards finding an explanation for DCI Meredith’s tragic death, etc., etc
. But they want you in your finest in Henley tomorrow morning for a five-minute stint with the cameras.”

Kincaid nodded. He didn’t like doing interviews, but it was a necessary, and sometimes useful, part of an investigation. It was a good thing he would get home tonight for a change of clothes. “Anything new from the forensics teams, or this afternoon’s interviews?”

Shaking his head, Cullen said, “Not yet. What about this Angus Craig business, guv?”

“I don’t think we can take that any further until I’ve had a word with the chief.” He glanced at his watch. It was almost five. His patience with his chief superintendent was evaporating, but he wasn’t leaving until he’d seen him. “I’m going to stay on a bit, Doug, but you go home. I expect you have boxes to deal with. When are you out of your flat?”

Cullen grinned. “This weekend. Good thing I don’t have much to pack.”

“You’d best take advantage of a lull, then. We’ll make an early start for Henley in the morning.”

After Cullen left, Kincaid shuffled papers with one eye on the clock. He was just about to go knock on the chief’s door when Childs’s secretary rang and summoned him.

Kincaid entered the chief superintendent’s office without ceremony, and when Childs gestured towards his usual chair, he shook his head.

“I won’t keep you long, sir.”

Childs’s usually implacable gaze sharpened. “What’s going on, Duncan? Is there a development?”

Kincaid had worked under Denis Childs for more than six years, and they’d been on first-name terms for much of that time. Not only did he consider Childs a personal friend, but they were also connected through the house in Notting Hill, which Kincaid and Gemma leased from Denis’s sister. At the moment, however, he wasn’t inclined towards informality.

“Sir, were you aware that there was some sort of connection between Deputy Assistant Commissioner Angus Craig and Rebecca Meredith?”

Childs looked startled. “Did Peter Gaskill tell you that?”

A heavy man, Childs had made an effort to lose weight in the past year, and now his skin seemed to sag on his body, as if it had belonged to someone a size larger. The resulting fleshy folds around Childs’s dark almond-shaped eyes had not made his expression any easier to read, but from his response, Kincaid assumed that he had known something.

Avoiding an answer that would implicate Sergeant Patterson, he said, “What I’d like to know is why
you
didn’t tell me. If there was some relationship between Rebecca Meredith and DAC Craig, it seems the fact that Craig lives a mile from where Meredith’s body was found might be relevant. That’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Duncan. And you’re shooting in the dark, aren’t you?” Childs looked at him speculatively. “You don’t really know anything.” Then he sighed and folded his pudgy hands together on the pristine surface of his large and shiny desk. “But I know you well enough to know that you won’t leave it alone now.”

“Leave what alone, exactly?”

“Something that I’d hoped would not become an issue. Something that needs to be handled very delicately. I wouldn’t say that DCI Meredith had a
relationship
with Craig. But she had made certain . . . allegations . . . regarding Craig’s behavior towards her. I’m sure they have nothing to do with her death, but if they became public knowledge, it could be very ugly for the Met.”

“Ugly?” Kincaid thought of the sight of Rebecca Meredith’s body. “I can’t think of many things uglier than what looks like the murder of one of our senior officers. I think you’d better tell me exactly what’s going on here, Denis. What sort of allegations are you talking about?”

Pushing back his chair, Childs said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Duncan, sit down. You’re giving me a headache looming over me like that.”

Reluctantly, Kincaid pulled out the steel and leather visitor’s chair and sat on the edge.

Childs pursed his lips, as if sampling something unpleasant. “A year ago, DCI Meredith told Peter Gaskill that Angus Craig had offered her a lift after some sort of do—a leaving party, I think. He said her cottage was on his way, and when they arrived, he asked to come in for a moment. And then he—assaulted—her.”

Kincaid had never seen his boss hesitate over a word choice before. “That’s media-speak—
assaulted
. What
exactly
did Rebecca Meredith say?”

“She said”—Childs turned his chair slightly, so that he was facing the window rather than looking directly at Kincaid—“she said he raped her. And then—at least according to Meredith—he told her that if she made a complaint, she would lose her job. She had a DNA sample taken, then went to Gaskill.”

“And what,” Kincaid asked, “did Superintendent Gaskill do about it?”

Childs swiveled towards him again, his expression pained. “Peter Gaskill told her the sensible thing, which was that if her allegations were made public, the whole affair would degenerate into a
he said–she said
slanging match. She had no way to prove that the sex was not consensual and that she hadn’t afterwards changed her mind. It would tarnish the reputation of the force, and it would ruin her career. No male officer would want her anywhere near his team.

“He promised her that Craig would be asked to retire immediately, and quietly, so that no other female officers would be put at risk, and that Craig would receive some sort of censure within the Met.”

Kincaid simply stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

The usually unflappable Childs frowned at him and snapped, “Could you have come up with a better solution, Duncan? The force has had enough negative publicity the last few years—you know that. Senior officers have made public accusations of racism, sexual intolerance, and incompetence against their peers. Rebecca Meredith’s story would have been disastrous. And it
would
have ruined her career without accomplishing anything.”

Kincaid felt as though he couldn’t breathe. “But now she’s dead, so there’s no need to worry about her career, I take it? And what about other female officers? Or other women, for that matter?”

“You’re assuming that Meredith’s allegations were true. We have no way of knowing that. Craig denied it, of course.”

“Of course he did.” Kincaid stood, as if movement might contain his rising temper. “Why would Meredith make up something like that? That would have been suicidal.

“And Craig didn’t take immediate retirement, by the way—I looked it up this afternoon. He only stepped down two weeks ago. He’s still listed as a consultant. Oh, and he just happened to receive honors. That’s some censure.

“Becca Meredith must have been livid when she found out. And felt horribly betrayed by her superiors.”

A furrow creased Childs’s wide brow. He straightened the Montblanc on his leather desk blotter before he met Kincaid’s eyes. “Don’t blow this out of proportion, Duncan. There’s a bit more to it. Rebecca Meredith made life difficult for herself, and for those around her, as I’m sure you will come to see. And she had her own agenda. She wanted to row, and she wanted to do it on a fully funded leave of absence.”

“I don’t believe this,” Kincaid said, looking at Childs in astonishment. “Are you telling me that Rebecca Meredith was blackmailing the Met?”

“I’m saying that an offer had been made to her, and that she was considering it.”

“An offer.” Had Rebecca Meredith wanted to row that badly? Or had she just been looking for a way to salvage something from the damage Craig had done to her life? “And if she had turned it down?” he asked.

“Then we would all have dealt with the consequences.” Childs gave a weighty sigh.

Kincaid turned away and walked to the window. Without looking at his boss, he said, “Why, exactly, were you so determined that I should take this case?”

“Because you’re my best officer. Because I thought you could get to the bottom of things. And I thought I could count on you to be discreet.”

It was fully dark, and rain had begun to fall, blurring the lights of Victoria and Westminster beyond. Kincaid gazed out the window, struggling to find coherent words through the haze of his anger. “Angus Craig had both the motive and the physical proximity to have murdered Rebecca Meredith. Did you expect me to ignore that?”

“I expected you to do your job professionally and thoroughly. I still do. And I expect you not to make unsubstantiated allegations against another officer.