No Mark upon Her

by Deborah Crombie

  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

  “Lamb.” 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.

  She 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 i
sland.

  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.”

  Gemma sat at the kitchen table, her tea forgotten, her mind spinning with horror at what she’d just learned. Had she imagined the coldness in Angus Craig’s eyes that night, when he’d seen Toby and her mum? She didn’t think so. How close had she come to something she couldn’t imagine?

  Across the table, Kincaid’s face was tight with anger. “I’d have killed him. I’d have killed him if he had even touched you.”

  His tone made her shiver convulsively. She’d only heard him sound like that, icy and implacable, a few times. And they had been dealing with murderers.

  “You didn’t know me then,” she said.

  “That wouldn’t have mattered, if I’d found out.”

  Would she have told him? she wondered.

  And what would she have done at the time, if Angus Craig had raped her, then threatened her with the loss of her job? She’d had a child to support, with no help from a deadbeat ex-husband. And she’d been passionate about her work—had wanted more than anything to prove herself, to get ahead in the force.

  But everything Peter Gaskill had told Becca Meredith would have been true for Gemma as well. She’d been seen leaving the pub with Craig. She wouldn’t have been able to prove that she hadn’t agreed to have sex with him, then changed her mind afterwards.

  And if it had got as fa
r as court, which was highly unlikely, Craig’s defense would have made mincemeat of her reputation. She’d too often seen what defense lawyers could do to women who pressed rape charges. Even bruises and vaginal tearing could be put down to liking it rough. And once the suggestion had been planted, the truth no longer mattered.

  After something like that, even if the Met had been unable to fire her, she would have become a pariah.

  Rebecca Meredith had more rank and clout, and even that hadn’t helped her.

  Kincaid’s urgent voice brought her back to the present. “Gemma, are you sure he didn’t—”

  “No, no, he never touched me. But—I wonder—what if Becca’s ex knew what happened? Or found out? Would he have felt the same as you?”

  “Maybe. He seemed very protective of her.” Kincaid shook his head. “But then it would have been Craig he killed, not Becca.”

  “What if he was jealous?”

  “Jealous enough to kill her because she’d been raped?” He grimaced. “Possible, but twisted. And I don’t think Freddie Atterton is twisted.”

  “You like him, don’t you? Atterton?”

  Shrugging, Kincaid said, “I suppose I do. But more than that, I don’t like the idea of him being a convenient scapegoat for the Yard’s dirty laundry. Innocent until proven guilty. I’d put my money on Craig in a heartbeat.”

  Gemma stood, gathered their cups, and began rinsing them in the sink. Then she closed the tap and turned back to him. “Craig, yes. I can see that. What I don’t understand is why now? Becca Meredith reported the incident to Peter Gaskill a year ago.”

  “I’m thinking she found out he’d retired with commendations, and a gong to boot,” Kincaid said, pushing back his chair and reaching down to stroke Geordie’s ears. “She put her faith in her superior officer and he betrayed it. She must have been furious. I’m surprised she didn’t kill Gaskill.”

  Hands still dripping, Gemma came back to the table and sat down. “Yes, but angry as she must have been, she was still just as powerless. Why would Craig kill her?”