No Mark Upon Her (6 page)

Tavie shielded her eyes from the glare on the water, leaning forward perilously as she peered into the nest of tree trunks and debris. When she stiffened, Kieran dropped to his knees beside her.

Tavie turned to him, pushing him back as if she could keep him from seeing what she had seen. But it was too late.

Beneath the surface, tendrils of dark hair moved like moss, and white fingers, slightly curled, drifted back and forth as if waving, signaling for help.

“No,” said Kieran. “No.” And the roaring overtook him.

Chapter Four

Depending on the season, the Thames flows between (for the most part) wild and unwalled riverbanks hurriedly and muddily, or peacefully and translucently. On certain days its waters resemble a fine mass of shimmering, metallic, luminous blue. On some evenings it looks like a mirror reflecting the sky from which it seems to issue.

—Rory Ross with Tim Foster

Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney 2000 Coxless Four

“A
n Astra,” said Kit. “An Astra Estate. And green. What could possibly be worse?”

Duncan Kincaid glanced at his son sitting beside him in the passenger seat, long legs sprawled into the foot well, and bit his tongue on old adages about horses and gifts. He reminded himself that he had hated being patronized when he was Kit’s age. He also remembered what it was like to be fourteen, when nothing mattered more than what others thought.

Kit had been unusually quiet as they drove up through Somerset and Wiltshire, concentrating on his iPod Touch rather than the beautiful autumnal scenery. It was only now, when they had joined the M4 and passed through the unexciting edges of Swindon, that he’d stirred and removed his earphones.

“That’s a bit ungracious, don’t you think?” Kincaid said moderately.

“I’m not being seen getting out of it at school.” Kit’s expression was mulish. “And I’m certainly not going to drive it.”

Kincaid was beginning to lose patience. “You’ve got a few years before you even need to think about driving, so let’s worry about that one when we get to it,” he said, although he was sure his mum and dad had been thinking exactly that when they had offered Duncan and Gemma their old car. The Astra Estate was old, solid, comfortable, and supremely safe—all things anathema to a fourteen-year-old boy.

His dad had presented the car with all the glee of a first-time parent playing at Father Christmas. Kincaid suspected that if it hadn’t been for the rain, he might actually have wrapped it in ribbon. “Your mother wants something greener,” he’d said, then chuckled at his own inadvertent humor. “More ecologically correct, that is. Not that the Astra’s bad, mind you. But we thought you could use the extra carrying space, now that you have Charlotte with you.”

Kincaid had to admit he was right. The three kids had been stuffed into the back of Gemma’s Escort on the journey down to Somerset, and there had been tears and tantrums aplenty. They did need a bigger car, but he’d been too busy with work and the recent demands of family life to really give the matter serious consideration, not to mention that Gemma’s recent unpaid leave had seriously cut into their budget—as would his.

He still had his old MG, although he seldom drove it these days. The maintenance on it was a nightmare, but he was reluctant to sell it for the pittance it was worth. He had once rashly promised Kit that he would keep the Midget until he learned to drive, and he hated going back on a promise to his son. Now, however, the thought of Kit actually driving the little car horrified him—only slightly more than contemplating what it would cost to insure him if he did so.

His dad had given him an easy out. “I could come up to London and drive the Midget back to Cheshire,” Hugh had offered. “Keep it in the garage, do some restoration. Get it in tip-top shape.” When Kincaid, who had never seen his dad do more than change a tire, raised an eyebrow, Hugh had given him a sly wink. “Never too old,” he’d added.

Gemma had hugged Hugh, then his mum, Rosemary, who had left her packing to join in the surprise. “You are dears,” Gemma said. “But are you sure? How will you get back to Nantwich?”

“Not to worry,” Rosemary assured her. “Jack will run us to the train. And the new car’s ordered—it should be waiting for us when we get home.”

Looking at his parents, it had seemed to Kincaid that his father was a little thinner, and his mother a little grayer, than when he had seen them last. They were unfailingly generous, taking into their lives first Kit, the grandson whose existence they had not even imagined, then Toby, and now Charlotte. He loved them for it, and he realized that he told them so too seldom.

He’d given his mother a kiss on the cheek and his father a manly sort of hug-with-handshake. “Thank you. The car’s brilliant. And it means we’ll be able to come visit you more often.”

Toby had begun jumping up and down, shouting, “The dogs can come now, too, the dogs can come, too,” and was soon joined in the jumping by Charlotte. Jack and Winnie stood on the porch, holding Constance and grinning.

The only one not enthusiastic had been Kit, who stood with arms crossed, frowning. Kit had begged to go back to Cheshire with his cousins, Duncan’s sister Juliet’s children, for the rest of the half-term break. But as much as Kincaid loved his niece, Lally, he hadn’t liked the idea of the two teenagers on their own without his or Gemma’s supervision. Not that he and Gemma had kept them from getting into real trouble before, he thought with the shudder that always accompanied the memory of the previous Christmas.

Now, he looked at Kit, fidgeting and scowling beside him, and wondered if there was more bothering him than the car and the end-of-holiday blues.

As they’d had two cars to drive back to London, Gemma had taken Toby and Charlotte in the Escort, and Kincaid had thought that taking Kit in the Astra would give them some quality time together.

“Maybe we could go to Nantwich over Christmas,” he said, realizing the rashness of the suggestion even as he made it. He felt sure that Gemma would want to be at home—it would be Charlotte’s first Christmas as part of their family. “Or afterwards,” he amended. “Boxing Day. We might stay a few days between Christmas and New Year’s.”

Kit looked a little mollified, then frowned again. “What if Lally and Sam have to spend their hols with their dad? He wants them to live with him all the time, you know.” He shot a glance at Kincaid through the hair that was falling into his eyes. “Now that Aunt Jules is seeing that policeman.”

“What?” Kincaid had to make an effort to concentrate on an overtaking lorry. “Juliet’s seeing a copper? She never said a word.” But now it occurred to him that his sister had seemed happier and more relaxed, and that several times he’d caught her smiling for no apparent reason when she thought no one was looking, and checking her phone for messages. But a copper?

Then the light dawned. “Surely not Ronnie Babcock, the old fox,” he said aloud, grinning. Ronnie Babcock had been his schoolmate, and was now a senior detective in the Cheshire Constabulary. Ronnie, who had risked his life for them the previous Christmas, was as tough as old boots, and on the surface as different from Juliet as chalk from cheese. But his sister was tough in her own way, and there was no doubt Ronnie was a man she could respect.

“Lally’s dad doesn’t like him,” said Kit. “And he says Aunt Juliet’s a—” Kit paused, obviously thinking better of repeating verbatim what he’d been told. “Uncle Caspar says the ink’s barely dry on the divorce papers,” he amended.

Caspar Newcombe, Kincaid’s former brother-in-law, had good reason not to like Ronnie Babcock. And it had nothing to do with Juliet or jealousy, which Kit knew as well as anyone. Nor was it likely that Caspar Newcombe, considering his current legal troubles, would have a chance of gaining full custody of the children.

“Your Aunt Jules is free to see anyone she wants, Kit. And you know that Sam and Lally weren’t happy when their mum and dad were living together.”

Kit shrugged.

“They’ll be fine, Kit. They’ll all adjust. You’ll see,” Kincaid said, addressing what he suspected was the heart of his son’s disquiet. Kit associated change with loss, and he projected himself into other people’s situations with a fierce empathy that would be dangerous if he didn’t learn to set some emotional boundaries.

Kincaid was beginning to think it was a very good thing that he was going to be spending more time, not just with Charlotte, but with Kit and Toby. He’d have to make sure that the boys got their share of attention.

“Let’s do something special after school one day next week,” he suggested. “Maybe we could go to the Natural History Museum.”

Kit glanced at him. “You’re really going to stay home?” He sounded carefully nonchalant.

“Stay-at-home-dad, that’s me.”

“You don’t know what Charlotte likes for her tea.”

“I’ll find out, won’t I? But I’m counting on you to help me out with this.”

Kit nodded, looking gratified, and Kincaid was about to inquire into Charlotte’s mysterious preferences when his mobile rang. He glanced at the number, swore under his breath, then switched to hands-free. It was his boss, Chief Superintendent Denis Childs.

“Sir,” he said. Then, “Guv, you know I’m taking a few days’ holiday this week.”

But Childs knew that, of course, and had worked out exactly where he was likely to be at that moment. And as he listened, Kincaid realized he might as well give in gracefully. When his guv’nor wanted a personal favor, there was no one more determinedly persuasive. Resistance was futile, and besides, he knew Childs wouldn’t ask if he didn’t feel it was important.

Nodding, he took in the details, then said, “Right. I’ll get back to you,” and rang off.

He felt Kit’s stare even as the connection went dead. “We’ve got to make a stop in Henley,” he explained. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Kit looked away, his face expressionless. “Gemma won’t be best pleased,” he said.

Gemma, Kincaid thought, was not the only one who was going to be unhappy.

T
he Jolly Gardeners was very jolly indeed, thought Doug Cullen. The front beer garden could double as a nursery, and as they’d not yet had a hard frost, many of the plants and hanging baskets were still in bloom. But the furniture was wet from the morning’s rain, the wind swung the baskets like metronomes, and the only occupants of the patio were die-hard smokers huddled at one of the tables nearest the building.

Ushering Melody inside, he saw that the pub’s interior was as appealing as the outside—brick walls, wood floors, a long, gleaming bar, and simple but comfortable-looking mismatched furniture. There was no television in sight, and the pub was pleasantly busy for a weekday lunchtime.

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief, pleased with his choice. When they’d picked a table near the garden windows—Doug carefully avoiding the snogging sofa—and Melody was examining the menu on the blackboard above the fireplace, he studied her. Now that she’d taken off her coat, he tried to work out what seemed different about her since he had last seen her.

She’d abandoned her usual severely tailored suit, for one thing, and wore casual trousers with a cherry-colored cardigan that set off her dark hair and pale skin. Her hair looked a bit less sleekly tamed as well, but perhaps that was just the wind, or his imagination.

“Very gastro pub,” Melody said, but she seemed pleased. “And I’ve just realized I’m starving. I think I’ll have a burger. And after that, if I’ve the room, the Eton Mess.”

“That’s a summer pudding,” he said.

“Nevertheless, it’s on the menu, and I want it. I thought you were indulging me.”

“So I am.” Unable to concentrate on the menu, Doug opted for a ploughman’s. When he’d ordered the meals and half pints for them both at the bar, he carried the beer back to the table carefully, trying not to slosh it.

“Cheers.” Melody lifted her glass, and he clinked his against it. “To your new house.”

“And your new job.” He touched his glass to hers once more, then sipped. “So how
is
the job?”

“I’ve missed Gemma. But when the posting for Project Sapphire came up, it sounded interesting, and I’ve loved it.”

Just the idea of interviewing victims of sexual assault made Doug feel uncomfortable. “Isn’t it hard, talking to women about what’s happened to them?”

“Not only women,” she corrected. “Men, too, although it happens less often, and they’re more reluctant to file a report.” She paused, sipping a little more of her beer as the barmaid brought their cutlery, then continued, “And yes, of course it’s hard. But the fact that they’ve come forward is progress. And besides, I’m mostly working cold cases. I try to find matches between newly reported assaults and unsolved cases. When we get a result, it’s brilliant. We may be able to put away a guy who’s been preying on women for years.”

Their food arrived, and as Melody ate bites of her oozing hamburger with surprising delicacy, Doug wished he’d ordered something a bit less crumbly than the ploughman’s. The Cheddar and Stilton were delicious, the bread crusty and warm, but every time he took a bite he showered himself with crumbs.

Making a futile attempt to brush off his tie, he looked up and saw a glint of amusement in Melody’s eyes. Instead of bristling, he smiled back. “Can’t take me anywhere. Not that I expect to be going anywhere much,” he added, sobering. “They’re sticking me on Superintendent Slater’s team while Duncan’s on leave.”

“You don’t fancy him?”

“He doesn’t fancy Duncan, nor me by association. He’s a by-the-book kind of guy.”

“And you’re not?” Melody looked surprised.

“No, I’m bloody well not,” he said, instantly defensive.

She put down her knife and fork and frowned at him. “Doug, I’ve never seen such a stickler for the rules as you. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s part of what makes you good at your job.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” His tone was accusing, but he couldn’t call it back.

“I don’t make a habit of breaking rules,” she said sharply. “And when I have, I’ve regretted it. You know that.” The camaraderie between them had vanished like smoke. “And as for Duncan,” she added, “he may bend little rules now and again, but he doesn’t break the big ones.”

“So how do you know where to draw the line?” Doug asked, wanting to reestablish the connection he had so clumsily broken. “I’m not trying to take the mickey here. I really want to know. Every time I think I’ve got it right, I seem to screw up.”

Melody sat back, picked up her cutlery again, fiddled with a bit of lettuce on her plate. She met his eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, without her usual assurance. “Surely it depends on the situation.”