No Mark Upon Her (16 page)

“And now,” added Childs, levering his still considerable bulk up from his chair, “I’m afraid I’ve got family obligations. Diane’s sister has come to stay for a fortnight. Damned nuisance.” He moved towards the door, but turned back as he reached it. “Oh, and Duncan, I expect you to keep me informed.”

Kincaid had been dismissed.

“ ‘O
Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool?’ ” read Kincaid a few hours later, doing his best to sound like Alice. “ ‘I am very tired of swimming about—’ ”

“No.” Charlotte slipped her hand under his and turned the pages back. “Read t’other part again.”

“You mean the part about the little girl who was covered from her toes to her nose?” He sat at the head of her small white bed, book in his lap, and she had scooted over to make room for him.

Having left the Yard straight after his interview with Denis Childs, he’d come home to find the household in the full chaotic flow of evening routine.

“What are you doing home?” Gemma had asked when he’d finally managed to kiss her, having been boisterously greeted by both the dogs and the younger children. “I thought you’d be back in Henley for at least another night.”

“Got a date with the milkman again?” he’d quipped.

But Gemma had seen his face. Frowning, she said, “What’s happened? Is—”

He’d shaken his head as Toby broke in. “Who’s the milkman? We don’t have a milkman.”

“Never you mind,” Kincaid told him. “And don’t interrupt your mum.”

Toby was undeterred. “Kit’s making a stir-fry. He let me chop. Want to help?”

“Help you chop your fingers off? Of course I do.” And so he had let the current of home life sweep him up while he tried to sort out his thoughts.

It had been his turn to read to Charlotte while Gemma gave Toby his bath. It was Charlotte who had chosen the book, Kit’s old copy, found on the sitting-room bookshelf. Kincaid had raised an eyebrow at Gemma when he saw it. “Isn’t she a bit young for
Alice
?”

Gemma shrugged. “Not according to her. She won’t have anything else at the moment. And I’m rather liking it.”

“You didn’t read it as a child?” he’d asked, surprised. But Gemma’s family had not been readers, and the children’s books were proving a voyage of discovery for her.

Now Charlotte giggled as he pulled the duvet up to the tip of her nose, but she promptly tugged it down again and tapped the book. “No. The Drink Me part.”

Obediently, he found the right page and began. “ ‘What a curious feeling!’ said Alice, ‘I must be shutting up like a telescope.’

“And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this, ‘for it might end, you know,’ said Alice to herself, ‘in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?’ ”

“Poof,” Kincaid interjected, and blew out an imaginary flame.

“You put that in,” said Charlotte. “That’s not fair, making things up.”

“The man who wrote the story, Lewis Carroll, made it all up. The whole thing.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew big, then she shook her head. “Even Alice?”

“Including Alice.”

“No,” Charlotte said with absolute certainty. “That’s silly. It’s Alice’s story. Do you think Alice liked getting littler?”

Kincaid gave the question consideration. “I don’t know. Would you?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No. I want to get bigger.”

This gave Kincaid a pang, but he said, “Then you should close your eyes and go to sleep, because the sooner it’s tomorrow, the closer it will be to your birthday.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“All right.” Charlotte shut her eyes tight, but after a moment they flew open again. “Will you stay until I’m fast asleep?”

“Yes. I promise.”

“Will you check on me after?”

“Yes. Now snuggle up, and sweet dreams.” He pulled up the duvet again, and this time Charlotte covered his hand with hers and kept it tucked under her chin.

After a moment, her eyelids fluttered, then closed, and to his amazement he felt her hand relax and saw that she was drawing the deep regular breaths of sleep.

Looking down at her hand atop his, he thought he had never seen anything so lovely. Her tiny, pale brown fingers were loosely curled, her nails like pink pearls. He felt such wonder that this child had come unexpectedly into his life, and that she had begun to love him. And he never wanted to do anything that would make him less than the father she deserved.

Very, very gently, he brushed his lips against her cheek and eased his hand free.

Looking up, he saw Gemma standing in the doorway, watching them. She smiled. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“It was
Alice
.” He stood. “What about Toby?”

“Reading something a bit less challenging. A
Pirates of the Caribbean
comic.”

“As long as it’s not the
Daily Mirror
.”

“Not yet, anyway.” She studied him. “Come down to the kitchen. I’m just going to put the kettle on, and you’re going to tell me what happened today.”

T
hey sat in the kitchen, the dogs settled contentedly under their feet. Gemma’s Clarice Cliff teapot held pride of place on the table between them, but they drank out of chipped, mismatched mugs, treasures acquired on Saturday browses through Portobello Market. Kincaid had checked on Toby and Kit, and then, when he’d taken the dogs out, he’d discovered that it was still raining lightly and that the temperature had dropped. The kitchen’s dark blue Aga radiated a comforting heat.

Marshaling his thoughts, he told Gemma everything they’d learned that morning about Rebecca Meredith’s death, and then, more slowly, he related the gist of his conversation with Denis Childs. “I don’t want to take this case,” he said when he’d finished.

“You’d resign as SIO?” Gemma looked shocked. “But you can’t.”

“I’m supposed to be going on leave, in case you’ve forgotten.”

She sighed. “No, of course not. And I want you finished with this as much as you do. But to walk away from a case like this—you know what it would do to your career.”

“Would you have me . . . adjust”—his lips twisted—“the direction of an investigation to protect a senior officer in the Met?”

“No, but—” Gemma met his eyes with the honest gaze he loved. “What about Rebecca Meredith? Don’t you want to know who killed her? Doesn’t she deserve an answer, regardless of the consequences?”

“You do realize just how bad the consequences could be if it turns out that Craig killed her? And what we have at stake?” His gesture took in the house, and the children snug in their rooms upstairs.

Gemma divided the dregs of the pot between their cups, then added the last of the milk from the little Clarice Cliff jug. After a moment, she said, “I have more faith in Denis Childs than that. This senior officer—what did you say his name was? Craig?”

“Angus Craig. A good Scottish name that I’d be inclined to like under other circumstances, but—” He broke off when he saw Gemma wasn’t listening. “What—”

“Sandy-haired? Not too tall, a bit burly?” Her voice had gone up an octave.

“I’ve only met him a few times, but that would describe him. Why—”

“Oh, my God.” Gemma’s eyes were wide. “Rebecca Meredith said he offered her a lift, then asked to come in to use the loo?”

“Yes. Gemma, what—”

She stopped him, her words coming out in a rush. “It was after I’d passed my sergeant’s exam, a month or two before I was assigned to you. I went to a party at a pub in Victoria. I don’t remember the occasion—it very well may have been a leaving do for someone—but I was encouraged to go by some new mates at the Yard.

“All in all, a nice enough evening, but by the time things broke up, it was pissing down rain. I hadn’t taken my car in because I didn’t want to drink and drive, and as the group was breaking up someone said the Central Line to Leyton had been shut down.” Gemma hesitated. “He offered me a lift.”

“You mean Craig?”

“One and the same, I’m certain of it. He was very—solicitous. Courteous in a sort of paternal way. And a deputy assistant commissioner to boot . . . I suppose I was flattered.” She swallowed and rotated her mug a quarter turn on the scrubbed pine table. “So I accepted. We made chitchat on the drive, about nothing in particular. Films, I think. Then, when we got to Leyton, he asked if he could come in. He’d said he wasn’t over the limit, but he’d had a pint or two, and you know, he’d gone a bit out of his way to drive me home and he needed to use the loo.

“So I said of course, although I was horrified thinking of the state of the house, and I invited him in.”

Kincaid shifted uneasily in his chair, disturbing Geordie, their cocker spaniel, who had been sleeping on his feet. Geordie gave a disgruntled
whumf
and resettled himself. “Go on,” Kincaid said tightly, not taking his eyes from Gemma’s face. He didn’t like where this was going at all.

“I hadn’t said anything about my personal situation—why would I, to a senior officer I didn’t know? I was uncomfortable enough with being a newly divorced single mother, and I was hoping it wouldn’t damage my career prospects.” She glanced at him, then looked away. “So I suppose he assumed I was alone.

“But that night my mum had come over to look after Toby, and of course Toby had thrown a total wobbly and had refused to go down. So when Craig walked into the house and saw my mum pacing the sitting room with a red-faced, tear-streaked toddler over her shoulder, he turned round and walked right back out again with barely a
good night
.

“I thought it was odd, but that maybe he was embarrassed at having asked to use the loo, or that maybe he thought he’d step in a dirty nappie if he came any further.” She shrugged. “And then I forgot about it. I never ran into him after that. But—”

“But what?” said Kincaid, feeling cold. He knew he was constructing the same scenario.

“What if my mum hadn’t been there that night? What if—what if Angus Craig meant to do to me what he did to Rebecca Meredith?”

B
y the time Kieran made it back to the boatshed, it was well past dark. Soaked through and shivering, he felt light-headed, as if his brain was disconnected from his body. His ears had begun to ring, which was often a sign that the vertigo was about to get worse.

Switching on a light, he rubbed Finn’s wet coat with a towel, then poured the dog some dry food. But the thought of making something for himself brought the hovering nausea on again.

When had he last eaten? The protein bar before they’d started yesterday’s search? No wonder he was feeling wonky.

He sank down onto the camp bed, images stuttering through his mind like frames in a bad film reel. He knew he should get dry, at least, but the steps required to achieve such a simple thing seemed beyond his capabilities.

And he knew he should tell someone what he had seen, but who?

He didn’t think Tavie would even talk to him, much less hear him out. The policeman from the Yard? He’d seemed like the sort of man who might listen, but Kieran didn’t know how to get in touch. He couldn’t imagine trying to explain himself to an officer at the local nick, even if he could get himself there.

His head swam and he gripped the edge of the bed, bracing for the onset of full-tilt vertigo. When it didn’t come, he breathed a sigh of relief. Finn finished the last scrap of his food and came over to lie on the floor at his feet, head on his paws, eyes intent on Kieran’s face.

Kieran waited, counting to himself. The seconds passed. He began to think that maybe he was going to be okay—or at least well enough to clean himself up, then get down a sandwich and some coffee. Then maybe he could work out what to do about the man on the bank.

He’d gingerly started to stand when he heard a soft splash from outside the shed. Finn’s ears came up in inquiry. The dog tilted his head and growled low in his throat, the hackles rising on his back.

Then the world exploded.

Chapter Eleven

One of the boats Harry had borrowed was an exquisite, Swiss-made, wooden double scull, owned by Gail Cromwell, widow of the famous sculler, Sy Cromwell, who died of cancer in 1977 . . . Gail’s double was the most beautiful boat on the trailer . . . The Cromwell double, at least in Gail’s opinion, was still capable of winning an Olympic medal
.

—Brad Alan Lewis

Assault on Lake Casitas

“L
amb.” Ian waved a paper bag under Tavie’s nose. “Baby sheep. Baa. A veggie’s delight.” The bag was filled with kebabs from the takeaway across from the police station. The aroma of roasted lamb wafted through the fire station break room.

“You’ll have the whole lot of them in here if you’re not careful.” She nodded towards the engine bay, where the captain had the crew doing a drill. Ian, her partner on tonight’s rota in the Rapid Response Vehicle—or the RRV, as it was officially known—loved to tease her about being a vegetarian.

They’d been on a call, dealing with an elderly lady who’d fallen, when the fire brigade crew had eaten, so Ian had volunteered to go for kebabs.

It gave him an excuse to tease her, since he knew perfectly well that although a vegetarian by choice since her teens, she’d never been able to stop salivating at the smell of cooked meat.

She thought maybe the response was genetic, coded into the DNA of her long-ago Nordic hunter-gatherer ancestors, when the odor of meat roasting on the fire had meant the difference between survival and death.

“Did you bring me hummus? And falafel?” she asked.

“Of course, madam.” Ian produced another paper bag from behind his back and set it on the break room table. He pulled out a hard plastic chair and sat, opening his own bag.

“You, Ian, are a prince among men.” Tavie peered into her bag, sniffing. A warm, folded pita held balls of crunchy falafel, a good dollop of hummus, a squeeze of bright green coriander/chili sauce, and a sprinkle of lettuce, cucumber, and tomato. It was messy, drippy, and smelled like heaven. There were some compensations for being a
veggie
.

She started to put the bag on the table, then wrinkled her nose at the brown smears and unidentifiable crumbs spread liberally on the tabletop. “What did they eat in here? And who cleaned up?

“Chili con carne, I think,” said Ian through a mouthful of kebab. “And the new guy had kitchen duty.”

Tavie grabbed a kitchen towel from the roll near the sink and wiped a square foot of table, clearing just enough space for her bag. “Well, Bonzo, or Bozo, or whatever his name is can deal with me when the captain’s finished with him. That’s disgusting.”

“It’s Brad, Tav.” Ian fished another kebab from the bottom of his bag. “He seems like a nice enough kid.”

“Yeah. He reminds me of my ex. Nice.” She shot a glare towards the engine bay.

Ian grinned. “You’re vicious.”

“And you’re a big softie,” she said, but she smiled as she sat down. She liked working with Ian. He was a good medic, studying hard for more advanced certification, and he didn’t give her any grief over the fact that she was more qualified.

On this job they dealt with everything from ill and distressed old-age pensioners to major accidents, heart attacks, and strokes, with the occasional nutter in a tin foil hat thrown in.

Ian was decisive and patient, which made him good at both extremes of the job. He had a wife and two lovely children, and Tavie thought his level-headed competence would make him a good addition to the SAR team.

But then, she reminded herself, she’d thought Kieran would make a good addition to the team, and that hadn’t worked out so well.

Her good humor evaporated, along with her appetite. She kept remembering Kieran’s face when she’d ranted at him last night. He’d turned away from her, his eyes filled with despair, and she’d have done anything to have called back her words.

She’d spent a sleepless night, worrying about whether she should ring him to see if he was all right, and had gone on call bleary-eyed that morning. There’d been no opportunity to phone him during her busy day until now—had she been capable of working out what to say.

“Eat up,” urged Ian, eyeing her untouched falafel. “Or I’ll take it away from you. I like it, too, you know.”

“Bugger off,” Tavie said, but without heat. She picked up the bag, then set it down again, fighting a sudden desire to confide in someone, although she couldn’t share the details of the search or what had happened afterwards. “Ian, what if you’d said rotten things to a friend—true, maybe, but still rotten—how would you apologize?”

“I’d buy him a pint.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, probably not the best option, since one of the things I shouted at him for was drinking.”

Ian looked interested. “Outside Magoos, right? The crazy bloke who fixes boats?”

“What—how did you—” Oh, Christ. She should have known every word she’d said had been overheard and would have made the rounds of the town within hours. “He’s not crazy,” she protested. “He was a medic in Iraq.”

“Shit.” Ian’s usually jovial expression vanished in an instant. “PTSD?”

“I think so. And a head injury. But he never talks about it.” She hesitated, then went on, uncomfortably. “I did some, um, research, before asking him to join the SAR team.” Admitting it made her feel ashamed, even though she’d had a legitimate reason to snoop. “He lost his entire unit to an IED.”

“Poor bastard.” Ian shook his head. “So what did he do that was bad enough to deserve a bollocking from you? I heard you had a search call-out yesterday.”

Of course he had. “Look, Ian—I shouldn’t have said—”

The fire tone-out drowned her words.

“You should have eaten, is what you should have done,” said Ian, popping the last bite of kebab into his mouth. “Falafel won’t be any good in the microwave. Wilts the lettuce—”

“Shhh.” Tavie held up her hand. Over the sound of the engine rumbling to life in the bay and the shouts of the crew as they suited up, she’d heard the dispatcher say two words.
Fire
and
island
. Oh, God, surely not— Her walkie crackled with the fast response car’s call sign.

“RRV . . . possible injury,” said the dispatcher. “Some sort of explosion—structure fire on the island across from Mill Meadows.”

Tavie ran for the car.

S
he had the Volvo on the street before the fire engine was out of the bay, gunning the car with a squeal that had Ian, normally the most sanguine of passengers, gripping the dash with one hand as he scrabbled for his seat belt with the other. They flew down West Street into Market Place, lights on and siren whooping. Behind them, she heard the engine’s siren start. Blue lights flashed in the Volvo’s rearview mirror.

“Hurry, hurry, damn it,” she whispered, exhorting herself as much as the crew on their tail.

“What the hell, Tav?” said Ian through clenched teeth. “You trying to kill us?”

“I’m afraid—” That was all she could force herself to say. “Just hang on. The engine will have to go round through the Rowing Museum car park, but this will get us closer.” She went through the light at Thames Side with a turn that nearly put them through the corner of the Angel. At the end of the road, she shot the car straight through the gap in the bollards and onto the paved pedestrian path that ran between the river and Mill Meadows. If there was anyone out walking after dark, they had bloody well better be paying attention.

The car’s headlamps picked out park benches and rubbish bins on the right as they flashed past, the dark thread of the river steady on the left. There was a rustle and scrape as willow fronds brushed the Volvo’s roof. Across the water, a few lights twinkled in the houses and cottages on the island.

Then, as they cleared another willow, she saw it.

Chaos. Utter chaos. Ahead, flames and sparks shot into the sky. It looked as though the river itself was burning.

But it wasn’t the river, it was Kieran’s boatshed. She had known it in her bones, and now she was certain. She recognized the bend in the river, the cottages on the near side of his.

Dark shapes moved against the orange illumination. When she judged they were directly across the river from the shed, she pulled the car onto the grass and jumped out, her bag in her hand. In the silence as the Volvo’s siren died, she could hear shouts across the water, but the wail of the fire engine was still distant.

Ian came round the car to stand beside her. “Holy shit. How’re we going to get over there?” A narrowboat was moored a few feet downstream, but it was dark and apparently unoccupied. “And they’re going to have a hell of a time getting down here from the museum,” Ian added. There was no sign of the engine yet.

One of the dark figures had seen them and begun waving frantically. “Hey!” he called. “Can you help us? Where’s the fire brigade?”

“Coming. We’re medics,” Tavie shouted back. “Bring the skiff across. There’s nothing you can do about the fire until the brigade gets here.” She could see Kieran’s little boat, still tied up by the landing raft.

She saw the man hesitate for a moment, then he untied the boat, hopped in, and quickly rowed across to them. He handled the skiff’s oars easily.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said when he reached them and maneuvered the boat against the bank. “I live next door. My wife and I were watching the telly. There was a boom, then all hell broke loose.”

Boats were not Tavie’s forte. She stepped carefully into the skiff, followed more confidently by Ian, and the man pushed off.

“Did you—is Kieran—is anyone hurt?” Tavie asked. She’d been called
ice maiden
because she was usually so calm at a scene, but now her heart felt as if it might pump out of her chest. Suddenly she realized that this was how Kieran had felt while they were searching for Rebecca Meredith and his worst fears had been realized. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach.

“You know the guy who lives there?” Ian’s dismay registered on his face, even in the flickering light. “Don’t tell me it’s that bloke—”

She didn’t answer, focusing on the man rowing. “Please—what’s your name?”

“John.”

“John, is anyone hurt?”

“I don’t know. We couldn’t get close enough.” There was a crack and more sparks shot into the air. “Shit,” John said, pushing the oars harder through the water. The prow of the little skiff lifted from the force. “My wife—we’ve got to get people away from there. Where is the fucking fire engine?”

Glancing back, Tavie saw flashing blue lights moving slowly towards the shore. “They’re coming. They’ve got to go through the park.”

“If they don’t get here soon, there’ll be nothing left.”

Tavie could feel the heat as they neared the landing raft. As soon as the skiff touched, she scrambled out, nearly missing her step. She could see a woman now, in front of the cottage next door.

“John!” the woman shouted. “Are they coming? Everything could go up any—”

“Get away, Janet.” John tied the skiff to a bollard and he and Ian climbed out on Tavie’s heels. He motioned the woman towards the open ground to the right of their cottage.

Tavie looked back. The engine was aligned parallel to the river’s edge now. They’d be pumping soon.

“Go, both of you,” she ordered. Then she had no more thought for them as she ran towards the flames.

“Tav, are you out of your mind?”

She heard Ian’s words, but they seemed to have no connection to her.

She was close now, the heat scorching her face. There were only a few yards between the landing raft and the shed. Then she saw a dark shape and heard the high-pitched keening of a dog over the crackle of the fire.

“Finn! Finn!”

The dog yelped but didn’t come to her. Shielding her face with her arm, she took a few more steps and saw why. He wouldn’t leave his master.

Kieran lay facedown, legs splayed, arms beneath him, as if he’d fallen without trying to catch himself.

Tavie’s training took over. She pulled her torch from her belt and ran the last few steps. Behind her, Ian was muttering, “You’re mad, you’re utterly mad,” but he was right with her.

She knelt, playing the torch over Kieran’s prone form. Finn whimpered and tried to lick her face. “It’s all right, boy, it’s all right,” she said. “Easy, now. Sit. Good boy.” The dog sat, but he was trembling with distress. The torch caught the gleam of the whites of his eyes.

Tavie put a hand on Kieran’s shoulder and felt a reassuring movement in return. He groaned.

“Kieran, it’s me. Can you turn over? Can you move?”

He moaned again and rolled towards her. “I had to get—I had to get Finn—”

“Don’t talk.” She played the light over his face, and for a horrifying moment she thought one side was charred black. Then she felt moisture, saw the sheen of blood on the hand she’d placed on his shoulder.

“My head.” He reached up. “Something came down—”

“We’ve got to move you. Can you stand?” She slipped an arm beneath his shoulder as Ian took his other side.

They got him to his feet, but then he twisted away from them. “The boat—”

“Your boat’s fine—”

“No, the
boat
. The shell I was building—” He lurched towards a long, slender shape, made humped by the drape of a tarpaulin. “Don’t let it burn. Her boat—”

Shouts and the chug of the diesel pump carried across the water. Tavie recognized the captain’s voice as he yelled, “Clear the area, clear the area.” The force of the jet from the deck gun could do them serious damage—not to mention what would happen if the shed blew before the engine could get the fire under control. With a shudder, she thought of the solvents Kieran used on his boat repairs.

“Come on, Kieran.” She and Ian grabbed him again, half lifting him off his feet as they pulled him away. They staggered forward, a human caterpillar. Finn ran a few feet ahead of them, looking back and yipping. “We’ve got to get Finn out of here, right? You can do this.”

Kieran turned towards her, his face half obscured by blood, but for the first time there was recognition in his eyes. She felt a rush of relief.

“Tavie?” he said. “Tavie, somebody threw a petrol bomb through my window.” He sounded more baffled than outraged. “Some bastard tried to blow me up.”