No Mark Upon Her (3 page)

Her battered black Nissan 4×4 sat in the drive.
Becca had no interest in cars either, except as a means to pull a boat. If the
Nissan wasn’t mud-spattered, it was only because the rain had washed it off. Her
trailer had been pulled up on the patch of lawn beside the drive, and the
Filippi was not on it.

Just as Freddie opened the Audi’s door, thunder
clapped and the sky opened up. He sprinted for the cottage, sliding into the
porch as if he’d just made a wicket and shaking the water from his hair.

No lights showed through the stained glass in the
door. The bell didn’t work—he’d never managed to fix it—so he banged on the wood
surround with his fist.

“Becca. Becca! Answer the bloody door.”

When there was no response, he fumbled for his keys
and put the heavy door key in the lock.

“Becca, I’m coming in,” he called as he swung the
door open.

The cottage was cold and silent.

Her handbag sat on the bench below the coat rack,
where she always dropped it when she came in from work. A gray suit jacket had
been tossed carelessly beside it, but otherwise, the sitting room looked
undisturbed. Her yellow rowing fleece was missing from the coat hook, as was her
pink Leander hat.

He called out again, glancing quickly into the
kitchen and dining room. A stack of unopened mail sat on the buffet, a rinsed
cup and plate in the sink, and on the worktop a bag of cat food for the
neighbor’s cat she sometimes fed.

The cottage felt, in some way he couldn’t explain,
profoundly empty of human presence. But he climbed the stairs and looked into
the bedroom and the bathroom. The bed was made, the skirt that matched the
jacket he’d seen downstairs lay across the chair, along with a white blouse and
a tangled pair of tights.

The bath was dry, but the air held the faintest
trace of Dolce & Gabbana’s Light Blue cologne, one of Becca’s few
vanities.

He opened the door to the spare room that had once
been his office, whistling in surprise when he saw the weights and the
ergometer. She was serious about training, then. Really serious.

So what the hell had she gone and done?

Clattering back down the stairs, he grabbed a spare
anorak from the coat hook and went out into the garden, ducking his head against
the driving rain. Becca’s neighbor’s lawn had the river frontage, but he checked
it just in case she’d pulled the boat up there. Seeing nothing but upturned
garden furniture, he ran back to the cottage and pulled his phone out with cold
and fumbling fingers. Thunder rumbled and shook the cottage.

Becca wouldn’t thank him for ringing her boss,
Superintendent Peter Gaskill, but he couldn’t think what else to do next. He
didn’t know Gaskill well, as Becca had been assigned to his team a short time
before the divorce, but he’d met the man at police functions and the occasional
dinner party.

Freddie’s call was shunted through by the
department’s secretary. When Gaskill picked up, Freddie identified himself, then
said, “Look, Peter, sorry to bother you. But I’ve been trying to reach Becca
since yesterday, and I’m a bit worried. I wondered if perhaps there’d been an
emergency at work . . .” It sounded unlikely even as he said it. He
explained about the boat, adding that Becca didn’t seem to have been home since
the previous evening, and that her car was still in the drive.

“We had a staff meeting this morning, an important
one,” Gaskill said. “She didn’t show or return my calls, and I’ve never known
her to miss a meeting. You’re certain she’s not at home?”

“I’m in the cottage now.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, as
if Gaskill was deliberating. Then he said, “So what you’re telling me is that
Becca went out on the river last night, in the dark, alone in a racing shell,
and that neither she nor the boat have been seen since.”

Hearing it stated so baldly, Freddie felt chilled
to the bone. Any arguments about her competency died on his lips. “Yes.”

“You stay there,” Gaskill told him. “I’m calling in
the local force.”

T
wo
families, for the most part strangers to one another, had spent a long weekend
cooped up together in the rambling vicarage that anchored the hamlet of Compton
Grenville, near Glastonbury in Somerset, while rain rumbled and poured and the
water rose around them. The scene, thought Detective Inspector Gemma James, had
had all the makings of an Agatha Christie murder mystery.

“Or maybe a horror film,” she said aloud to her
friend and new cousin-in-law, Winnie Montfort, who stood at the old farmhouse
sink in the vicarage kitchen, up to her elbows in suds. Winnie, a Church of
England vicar, was married to Duncan Kincaid’s cousin Jack.

And Gemma was now married to Detective
Superintendent Duncan Kincaid, a fact that still caused her a flutter of wonder
when she reminded herself of it. Married. Really and truly. And three times,
which Duncan still made a point of teasing her about. She touched her ring,
liking the physical reminder.

They’d begun as professional partners, Gemma a
detective sergeant assigned to Duncan’s Scotland Yard Major Crimes team. When
their relationship had become personal—much against Gemma’s better judgment in
those early days—Gemma had applied for detective inspector. Her promotion had
been a mixed blessing. It had ended their working partnership, but it had
allowed them to make their personal relationship public.

Still, Gemma had harbored deep reservations about
commitment. They had both failed at first marriages; they both had sons who had
been subjected to enough change and loss. And she had resisted, sometimes
obstinately, what she saw as a loss of autonomy.

But Duncan had been patient, and with time Gemma
had come to see that what they had was worth preserving at any risk.

So, at last, on a lovely day the past August,
they’d had an informal blessing of their partnership in the garden of their home
in London’s Notting Hill. A few weeks later, they’d made it legal in the Chelsea
register office.

And now, in late October, with the older children
on half-term break from school, Winnie and Jack had invited Duncan and Gemma and
their respective families to Compton Grenville so that Winnie could give their
marriage the formal celebration she felt it deserved.

The ceremony in Winnie’s church on Saturday
afternoon had been everything Gemma had wanted; simple, personal, and heartfelt,
it had sealed their partnership in a way that was somehow different. Third
time’s the charm, as Duncan kept telling her. And perhaps he was right, because
now circumstances had brought another child into their lives, little
not-quite-three-year-old Charlotte Malik.

Winnie turned from the mountain of breakfast
dishes, the result of the gargantuan farewell breakfast she’d made for the
weekend’s guests. “A horror film? What?” Winnie, having wiped suds on the end of
her nose, looked comically quizzical.

The green and tomato-red vicarage kitchen was a
comfortable, and comforting, place, and Winnie was a good friend who had seen
Gemma through some difficult times.

On this Tuesday morning, with the visit almost over
and everyone gone except Duncan’s parents, Gemma and Winnie had finally snagged
a moment alone for a gossipy postmortem of the weekend. Gemma had offered to do
the washing-up, but Winnie had insisted that Gemma enjoy a last few minutes with
Winnie and Jack’s baby daughter.

Gemma settled little Constance more comfortably in
her lap. “Well, maybe horror film is a bit steep,” she amended, smiling. But her
amusement faded as she thought about the blot on an otherwise perfect weekend.
“Sometimes,” she said, “my sister is just a bitch.”

Winnie stripped off her washing-up gloves and came
to sit at the table beside her, reaching for Constance. “Here, don’t throttle
the baby by proxy.”

“Sorry,” Gemma said sheepishly. She kissed
Constance’s fuzzy head before handing her over. “It’s just that she’s
infuriating. Cyn, I mean, not Constance.”

“Well, I can understand Cyn feeling a little
uncomfortable this weekend. She and your parents were the outsiders—”

“Uncomfortable?” Gemma shook her head. “You’re too
diplomatic. That’s a nice way of saying she behaved like an absolute harpy.”
Before Winnie could protest, she went on. “But it’s not just that. She’s been
horrible since we found out Mum was ill.” Their mother, Vi, had been diagnosed
with leukemia the previous spring. “I realize that’s Cyn’s way of dealing with
her own worry. I can understand that, even though I want to strangle her. But
now, with Charlotte, there’s no excuse.”

“What about Charlotte?” Winnie asked, her kind face
suddenly creased with concern.

“I think Cyn told her kids not to play with her.
Didn’t you notice?”

“Well, I did think they seemed a little
. . . awkward—”

“How could she? They’re going to be cousins, for
heaven’s sake.” The anger in Gemma’s voice made Constance screw up her little
face in a frown. Gemma took a calming breath, then reached out to stroke the
baby’s cheek with a finger. “Sorry, lovey.” Constance had Winnie’s English-rose
complexion, Jack’s bright blue eyes, and the downy beginnings of Jack’s blond
hair.

But Charlotte, with her caramel curls and
light-brown skin, was every bit as beautiful, and a wave of fury swept over
Gemma at the idea that anyone could think differently, or treat her differently,
because of her color. “I heard Cyn call Charlotte something unrepeatable,” she
admitted. “I could just kill her.”

“Gemma, you must have been prepared—”

“Oh, we were warned, all right. The social worker
was very thorough. ‘Mixed-race children are sometimes not accepted by adoptive
parents’ extended families,’ ” she quoted. “But I suppose I’d seen too many
rainbow children
adverts,” she added with a
sigh. If her sister had been rude, her parents had remained standoffish with the
child, which upset Gemma deeply. “Charlotte’s been through enough without
this.”

She and Duncan had become foster parents to the
little girl in August, after their investigation into the disappearance of her
parents.

“How is she doing, really?” Winnie asked, jiggling
Constance, who was beginning to fuss. “This weekend has been so hectic that I’ve
never really had a chance to ask, or to say how lovely she is.”

“Yes,” said Gemma, her voice softening. “She is,
isn’t she?” Her arms felt suddenly empty without the baby, and she watched
Winnie holding her daughter with an affection tinged only very slightly with
envy. “But—” She hesitated, listening to the happy childish shrieks coming from
the back garden. Charlotte’s excited shouts rose unmistakably over the boys’.
Perhaps, thought Gemma, she
was
overreacting, making
too much of normal adjustment issues.

“But?” prompted Winnie, settling Constance over her
shoulder.

“She doesn’t sleep well,” Gemma confessed. “She
dreams, I think, and sometimes when she wakes, she’s inconsolable. She—” Gemma
stopped, making an effort to steady her suddenly wobbly voice. “She calls out
for her mummy and daddy. It makes me feel so—so—” She shrugged.

“Helpless. Yes, I can imagine. But she’s becoming
very attached to you. I’ve seen that.”

“Sometimes a bit too attached, I’m afraid.
Downright clingy.”

She and Duncan had agreed that they’d take family
leave in turns until they felt Charlotte was secure enough in her new situation
to attend child care during the day.

Gemma had gladly taken the first stint, but she was
due to return to her post as detective inspector at Notting Hill Police Station
the following week, and she felt a little guilty over how much she was looking
forward to work and adult company. She worried whether she was really doing the
right thing in planning to go back to work. “I just hope Duncan will be able to
cope on his own.”

“Give the man credit,” Winnie said with a grin,
nodding towards the garden, where Duncan and Jack were stomping in puddles with
the children. “He seems to be doing pretty well. He obviously adores Charlotte.
And if the two of you are going to make this commitment, she needs to be as
bonded to him as she is to you.” She gave Gemma a searching glance. “You
are
sure about this? There must be other placements
that would keep her out of her grandmother’s clutches.”

Gemma leaned forward, hugging herself to stop an
involuntary shiver. “I cannot imagine being without her,” she said with complete
certainty. “And I wouldn’t trust anyone else to keep her safe, although I don’t
think it’s likely that Charlotte’s family is going to have much leverage anytime
soon.”

Charlotte’s grandmother and her uncles had been
arrested in August, and it looked as though they would be playing Happy Families
in prison for a good while to come.

“We’re officially fostering for the time being,”
Gemma went on. Hesitating, she added, “But we intend to apply for permanent
custody, and eventually adoption. I just hope my family will come round, and
that nothing will happen to muck up Duncan’s leave—”

She was interrupted by a loud crash, then the clump
of feet in the hall.

“Toby, boots off,” Gemma heard Duncan shout, but it
was too late. Her six-year-old son cannoned through the door, his red Wellies
mud-spattered, his blond hair sticking straight up in damp spikes. He looked, as
usual, like an imp from hell.

The door swung open again, this time revealing
Charlotte, who had obediently removed her boots. In her striped socks and pink
mac, she ran straight to Gemma and climbed into her lap. She wrapped her arms
round Gemma’s neck in a fierce hug, as she did whenever they had been separated
for more than a few minutes. But when she looked up, she was beaming, her face
flushed and her eyes sparkling. Gemma thought she had never seen the child look
happier.

“I jumped biggest,” Charlotte announced.