“I’ve been to see Assistant Commissioner Craig, to tell the truth,” Kincaid said. “A courtesy call. We are working on his home turf, after all.”
“Ah. I’m sure he appreciated that.”
It was a pleasant, noncommittal answer. But Kincaid had seen the telltale change of expression, the shifting of the bartender’s eyes away from his. This man knew Angus Craig for what he was.
“It was he who recommended you,” Kincaid went on. “The best beer, he said, and his local.” He took another sip of his pint. “Lucky man. He comes in most days, I take it?”
The barman wiped an already clean glass. “Most evenings.” He glanced at the clock above the door. “Usually about this time.”
Kincaid thought it would be just as well if he didn’t linger. He was trying to figure out how he could discreetly check Craig’s alibi when the barman added, “Missed him last night. He must have been away.”
“I believe he said something about a meeting in London . . . no, no.” Kincaid put on a perplexed frown. “He said he was away on Monday. That was it.”
“No, he was here. Although he came in a bit late. I remember because we were all talking about it next day—the thought of us all safe in the pub while that poor woman was washing away down the Thames.” The barman shook his head.
“Maybe he’d been fishing,” Kincaid suggested. “It would have been a fine day for it.”
The barman looked at him curiously. “Fishing? Whatever gave you that idea? Mr. Craig doesn’t fish. Hunting’s his cup of tea.”
“Ah, well,” said Kincaid, having ventured as far out on a limb as he could go without falling off. “Then the pub suits him to a T, wouldn’t you say?”
Giving him the perfunctory smile the lame comment deserved, the barman nodded. “He’s said the same himself. Many a time.”
Resigned to the fact that by this time the man must think him a toady, currying favor with Craig, as well as a bit of an idiot, Kincaid said, “Lovely house. I understand it’s been in Mrs. Craig’s family for a long time. Sorry I didn’t get to meet her.”
The barman’s face softened. “Nice lady, Mrs. Craig. Her family’s been in Hambleden for yonks, and Edie does more for people here than most.” He nodded towards the center of the village. “Matter of fact, I think she’s at the church, helping with the preparations for a wedding on Saturday.”
“Is that so? Maybe I’ll stop and pay my respects.” Kincaid gave an exaggerated glance at his watch. “Damn. Didn’t realize it was so late.” He drank a little more of his pint, then set the glass on the bar, still half full.
During his brief visit to the Stag and Huntsman, he’d presented himself as a nitwit, a stalker, and now a man who couldn’t hold his beer.
“Must dash,” he said, and made his less-than-dignified exit.
Kincaid left his car in the pub car park and walked through the village center. A chill wind eddied a drift of brown leaves along the street. He turned up the collar of his jacket, wishing he hadn’t left his overcoat in the Astra’s boot. The fine day was over.
He’d remembered seeing a signpost for the church as he drove through the village earlier. Like the church in Henley, it was called St. Mary the Virgin, but when he reached it, he saw that it was much less grand. The long, low building seemed more suited to human comfort than divine glorification.
As he reached the lych-gate, a woman stepped out into the church porch, then turned to lock the door behind her. In that moment, he’d seen her clearly in the porch light, and he stopped, surprised.
He wondered what he’d expected. It had not been this tall, slender woman, her graying hair cut in a short, stylish bob. She wore a swinging woolen skirt that just brushed the tops of her knee-high leather boots, an anorak, and, round her neck, a long green scarf that fell to the hem of her skirt. The scarf was a cheerful color that made him think of new leaves and green apples.
When she turned round again, the key in her hand, she saw him and stopped. “Can I help you?” she asked.
There was no fear in her voice, just gentle inquiry.
“Mrs. Craig?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you?”
He stepped forward into the light. “No. My name’s Duncan Kincaid. Detective superintendent, Scotland Yard.”
She walked towards him until she met him under the gate. “If you’re looking for my husband, I think you’ll find him at home.” She was still gracious, and perhaps slightly curious.
“No, actually, it’s you I wanted a word with,” he said with unexpected reluctance. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
He saw the caution settle over her like a cloak, then she moved so that the shadow of the lych-gate fell across her face. “I’m sure this will suit well enough, Superintendent.”
“Mrs. Craig—” Kincaid suddenly found himself at a loss. No subterfuge seemed appropriate with this woman. He would simply ask what he needed to ask. “Do you know where your husband was late on Monday afternoon, from around four o’clock on?”
A second passed, then another. He heard the wind move in the trees, saw the light from the church porch catch the green of her scarf as she reached up to loop it round her throat. “He was at home,” she said, “with me. Then, he went to the pub, as he usually does.”
Had she been relieved at his question, or had he just imagined it? Perhaps it was just that Angus Craig’s outing to the pub was the best part of her day.
“Mrs. Craig. You’ll have heard about the police officer who drowned. Rebecca Meredith.”
“Yes. The rower. The news has been all over the village.”
“Did your husband mention that he knew her? Did he tell you—”
“Superintendent.” Her voice might have been a touch on his arm, the only plea she would allow herself. “Whatever it is that you feel you need to ask, you must remember that he’s my husband.” There was finality in her words.
She moved, and when the light caught her face, he thought he glimpsed a despair that was beyond his imagining. Then she had stepped past him. “I must get home. I’ve left Barney too long.”
“Barney?” he said, confused. Surely there wasn’t a child still at home.
“My dog. Angus doesn’t care for him in the house. Good night, Superintendent.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Craig,” he echoed. And even though they were going the same way, he paid her the courtesy of letting her walk alone until she had vanished from his sight.
Gemma had rung Melody as soon as she left Betty’s flat. She was prepared to go straight to the station, but Melody had hesitated, then said, “Um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea, boss. Why don’t we meet for a drink? Say, the Duke of Wellington. I’ll be there before you.”
The pub, at the intersection of Portobello Road and Elgin Crescent, was one Gemma knew well—at least from the outside. A pair of jazz guitarists—session musicians—busked outside on fine Saturday afternoons and she’d often stopped to listen, smiling with pleasure and dropping a pound or two in the open guitar case.
But, she realized, she’d never actually been inside the establishment. And for Melody to be there before her, she must have already been nearby.
The building was Victorian, stuccoed in pale pink, and not terribly prepossessing. But when Gemma entered by the Portobello door, she found an air of cheerful bustle. She spied Melody immediately, seated at a small, high table at the very back of the room. Gemma made her way round the bar and joined her, slipping onto the high stool.
Melody handed her a glass. “I’ve ordered you a G and T. You’re going to need it.”
“What’s going on?” asked Gemma. “And what are you doing here?”
“When you didn’t answer your phone, I called the house and talked to Kit. He said you were at Betty’s. I was coming to find you.”
Melody looked strained and windblown, her dark hair mussed from the chill breeze that had come up with the dusk. It was unlike her not to have tidied up. She drank from her own glass, which was, Gemma s
aw, already half empty.
“Boss, I’ve found something. I kept at the files this afternoon. First, this.” Melody reached for her bag and handed Gemma a sheet of paper.
Gemma scanned a list of names.
“Six female police officers, in the last ten years,” said Melody. “There’s some variation in the stories, but they all fit the same general pattern. They were either single or their husbands or boyfriends or in one case, a girlfriend, were away. All had been out to a pub or a party, something work related. All said they were attacked when they returned home by an unknown intruder. None reported obvious signs of breaking and entering at their place of residence. None could identify their assailant.”
Gemma stared at her, then took a gulp of her drink while she scanned the list again. The gin burned her throat and she coughed. “Different divisions?” she asked when she could speak again.
“Yes. And most seem to correlate with Angus Craig’s postings at the time. The others had been to functions that might have been attended by any senior officer.”
“Bloody hell,” Gemma muttered. “I was right.”
“Oh, it gets better.” Melody shrugged. “Or worse, depending on your point of view. That’s as far as I’d got when I found this.” This time she handed Gemma a sheaf of papers. “From six months ago. It was in our records because of the rape.” She glanced round, but the other tables were filled with after-work drinkers absorbed in their own conversations, and the noise level in the pub was rising.
“Her name was Jenny Hart,” said Melody. “She was a DCI, Tower Hamlets. But she lived in Campden Street, right on the border between Holland Park and Kensington. Not too far from me, actually.”
“You said was. And lived. Past tense.” Gemma’s glass felt cold and damp in her hand.
Melody drank from hers until there were only ice cubes left. “Jenny Hart was divorced, forty years old, and from the photos in her file, an attractive blonde. She also had a reputation for liking to drink a bit, especially at the Churchill Arms, just down the street from her flat. Ever been there?”
Gemma shook her head. “I’ve passed it, though. It’s the place with all the flowers.” It looked the epitome of pubs, with its dark wood and mullioned windows, and the profusion of hanging baskets and window boxes that almost covered the exterior.
“Suffocatingly cozy. Every inch of the place is stuffed with tatty Churchill memorabilia. But the place is bigger than you’d think—it’s a conglomeration of small rooms that seem to ramble on forever.”
“As are you,” said Gemma pointedly. Her mouth felt dry. “Melody, what happened to Jenny Hart?”
Melody clinked her two remaining ice cubes, then met Gemma’s eyes. “On the first of May, Jenny Hart told some mates that she was going for a drink at the Churchill and that afterwards she was going to have an early night. It had been a rough week. They’d had a murdered child on her patch.
“When she didn’t show up for work on Monday, her colleagues were concerned. They rang her but didn’t get an answer. By Tuesday, her neighbors complained of the smell.”
Gemma realized the pub had filled with the odor of meat cooking in the kitchen. She swallowed against a sudden queasiness and the knowledge of what she knew was coming. “How?” she said simply.
“She was raped. And then she was manually strangled. According to the postmortem notes, the bruising on her throat was in accordance with thumb- and fingerprints. There was considerable damage to her flat. She must have put up quite a fight. But there were no signs of breaking and entering.”
Gemma took a breath. “And?”
“Our old friend Kate Ling did the postmortem, by the way. She was, of course, very thorough. There was tissue under Jenny’s fingernails. And there was semen in her vagina and smeared on her torn clothing. Her assailant couldn’t be bothered with condoms.
“I cross-checked the profiles. The DNA found on Jenny Hart matches the samples from the other female officers who reported they were raped, as well as Becca Meredith’s. The rape matches had been flagged by Project Sapphire, but there was never a suspect for comparison.”
Like Melody, Gemma finished her gin and tonic in one long gulp. “But Becca didn’t name him in her rape report, so there’s no proof that any of the DNA was Craig’s. We need some way to tie him directly to Jenny Hart.”
Nodding at the papers in Gemma’s hand, Melody said, “Take a look.”
Gemma flipped through copies of Jenny Hart’s postmortem results, the lab data, statements from her colleagues and neighbors. At the back was something that certainly hadn’t been included in the original file—a photo of Angus Craig, one of a group of men in evening dress, some of whom she recognized as other senior police officers.
“Commissioner’s Ball,” said Melody before Gemma could ask. “Last year. From the very useful files of the Chronicle. The thing is, according to the statements, one of the staff at the Churchill thought she remembered seeing Jenny talking to a man that night. But it was packed, and she only had a vague recollection. The closest she could come to a description was ‘middle-aged.’ Not very helpful if you had nothing to compare it to.”
Gemma straightened up so fast she bumped her knees against the small table, rocking it precariously. She steadied her glass. “Did you talk to her?”
“I went to the Churchill. According to the manager, the barmaid’s name is Rosamond. She’s been on holiday in France for the last few days, but she’s on shift tomorrow. Starting at lunch.”
Gemma’s head reeled. Could it possibly be that easy, if Angus Craig had been preying on women for years? But sometimes—sometimes if they were very, very lucky—it was. All it took was one sound witness statement, cause enough to request a DNA sample.
It wouldn’t matter if the other female officers still refused to testify against him. All they needed was Jenny Hart. And if the samples matched, there was no way in hell Angus Craig could bully his way out of a murder charge.
Chapter Eighteen
Our partnership worked, not by luck, but by intense practice, a little creativity, and total cooperation in pursuit of our common goal.
—Brad Alan Lewis
Assault on Lake Casitas
When Kincaid reached Henley, he drove down New Street into Thames Side, past the Hotel du Vin and Freddie Atterton’s flat. He pulled the Astra into a parking spot facing the river, from where he could see the lights of Henley Bridge, and on the far side, Leander.
It was now fully dark, but he imagined the scene as it would have looked on Monday, a little earlier in the evening—the light fading on the river, the sliver of a boat, ghostly white in the dim light, pushing away from Leander’s landing raft.
Rolling down the Astra’s window, he listened, imagining the quiet splish of the oars, the rhythmic creak of the shell’s seat as it moved up and down on the runners, the thunk of the oars moving against the oarlocks as the boat whispered past. And then it vanished into the darkness.
Reluctantly, he turned his gaze from the river and switched his phone on, checking for messages. There was nothing from Chief Superintendent Childs, but his relief was short-lived as he thought out the implications.
Did that mean that Craig had not complained about Kincaid’s visit and accusations? That he was waiting to see if his threats had been enough to warn Kincaid off?
And if that was the case, was that further evidence of his guilt?
Or was it just that Craig was marshaling his support and the retaliation was yet to come?
No matter, Kincaid thought, whether Craig struck back now or later—he had no more evidence against Craig than he had before he’d spoken to him. In fact, with Craig’s possible alibis for both Monday evening and Wednesday night, he had even less.
He gazed out at the river again, putting together the timeline as he’d worked it out. If Becca had left Leander a little after half past four, she’d have rounded Temple Island and started back upriver sometime between five and half past.
Could Craig h
ave murdered Becca at five o’clock, then walked, wet and muddy, back to his car, driven back to Hambleden, got himself cleaned up, and strolled blithely into the pub before six?
Certainly not without his wife’s knowledge, if she’d been at home, but Kincaid thought he could safely say that they would not get a damning statement from Edie Craig.
It would take physical evidence to tie Craig to the crime—matching hair, fiber, or footprints from the scene of Becca’s murder to his car or person. But even that would be questionable, as they had no absolute proof that Becca had been killed at the spot Kieran had indicated. In any case, there was nothing concrete enough against Craig to allow Kincaid to float a request for comparison.
And even if he could pin Becca’s murder on Craig, it looked as if Craig had a solid alibi for the time of the attack on Kieran’s boatshed.
But if Craig hadn’t attacked Kieran, who had? Not Freddie Atterton, if the phone records and his former mother-in-law confirmed his alibi.
Kincaid debated staying in Henley. Should he have another word with Freddie? Question Kieran again? He felt boxed in—but he knew there was something on the other side of the wall, if he could only see it. And if he asked the right people the right questions. But who and what?
The air blowing down the river was cold. He shivered and rolled up his window, having almost made up his mind to put up at the Red Lion, when his phone rang. It startled him so much that he almost dropped it, but when he’d fumbled it right side up, he saw that it was Doug.
“Guv,” said Doug as soon as Kincaid answered. “I’m just back at the Yard. I’ve—”
“Have you seen the chief super?” Kincaid interrupted.
“No, but—”
“Well, make yourself invisible. I’ve put my foot in a wasp’s nest and I don’t want you getting stung.”
There was a moment’s silence as Doug digested this. Then he said, “I’m in your office, and I think the chief has gone for the day.” Carefully he added, “Um, I take it the visit didn’t go well?”
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