“Oh, my God. I can’t believe it. That’s him.” She touched a black-lacquered fingertip to the man who stood dead center in the group. Angus Craig.
Kincaid had returned to the incident room, courtesy of a ride from DC Bell, when he got Gemma’s call.
“We’ve got him,” she said, her voice vibrating with suppressed excitement.
He closed his eyes. It was too good to be true. “In writing?”
“Signed and sworn. Melody took the girl into Notting Hill Station to make her statement. She’s a law student, so she knows what she’s doing. Her name is Rosamond Koether. We explained—Melody explained”—Gemma corrected quickly—“that making a formal identification might cause personal . . . difficulties . . . for her. We suggested that she stay with friends for at least a few days, and not give out her whereabouts. She still insisted on making a statement.”
“Do you think she could pick him out of an identity lineup?”
“Without a doubt. Melody showed her the photo of him in a group at the Commissioner’s Ball. She picked him out without any hesitation. Melody’s sent the statement to Doug at the Yard.”
“Right. Good.” Kincaid struggled to collect himself. He realized he’d believed it was pie-in-the-sky, the idea that a witness could reliably tie Craig to Jenny Hart on the night of her murder.
Of course, the Crown Prosecution Service wouldn’t consider this girl’s statement sufficient for a murder charge, but a judge should deem it merited a warrant for a DNA test, and that was all they needed.
If they were right. God help them if they were wrong.
“Still there, love?” asked Gemma.
“Oh, yes. Miles away. Sorry.” DC Bell, DC Bean, and DI Singla were all watching him curiously. “I think it’s time to have a word with the guv’nor,” he said to Gemma. “Face-to-face.”
Imogen Bell caught him up as he was leaving the station for the car.
He’d merely told the assembled team that he had an urgent lead on another case in London, and that he’d be back with them as soon as possible.
“Can I walk with you?” asked DC Bell. She’d been unable to conceal her relief when he’d rung from Remenham with the news that Freddie Atterton was all right.
When she’d picked them up, however, she’d been decidedly frosty with Atterton until he’d apologized nicely for worrying her, and promised to keep his phone turned on in future.
“Of course,” Kincaid said.
She fell into step beside him, and with her long legs she had no trouble keeping up. The wind blowing down Greys Road scattered strands of her light brown hair across her face, which she pushed away impatiently. “This case in London—is it connected to this one?”
He considered prevaricating, but a glance at her intent face made him decide against it. “I don’t know. It’s possible. But I can’t say anything about it until I know more.”
“It’s a murder, isn’t it? And you have a witness.”
He looked at her more sharply. “Have you ever considered a career in journalism, DC Bell?”
“Sorry.” She didn’t sound at all contrite. “It’s just that—does this case affect Mr. Atterton? If it’s on my watch, I think I should know.”
She was right, Kincaid had to admit. But he couldn’t afford for this lovely young woman to come to Craig’s attention. She had just the sort of confident personality that Craig seemed increasingly driven to crush.
And he certainly couldn’t afford for Craig to get even an inkling of an idea that they actually had something on him.
“Yes, you should know,” he said. “But it’s complicated. And there may be—repercussions. I promise I’ll tell you as much as I can, as soon as I can.”
They’d reached the car park. He stopped, turning to her. “Look, Imogen. I really do have to go. But in the meanwhile, just keep a reasonable eye on Freddie. I think he’ll be more cooperative now. And don’t tell anyone we have a witness in a connected case. Got that?” He jabbed a finger at her for emphasis. “Anyone.”
Although Kieran had badgered all and sundry—especially Tavie, who had no control whatsoever in the matter—about getting back into his boatshed, now that he’d been given permission, he found himself delaying.
After Superintendent Kincaid had left, Kieran tidied the flat, finished the washing, and made himself a cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch although he still felt guilty about eating Tavie’s provisions. Perhaps he’d pick up some things for dinner on his way back . . .
On his way back from the shed.
Sitting at Tavie’s small table, holding his half-finished sandwich, he saw that his hands were shaking, and he realized he didn’t want to go home. Not to stay. Not yet.
He was afraid. Afraid of what he might find, of who he would be, if he’d lost everything that had begun to make him feel like a whole person again.
And he was afraid, full stop. Noise and smoke and flames and panic—they were all still much too close.
But if he didn’t go back now, when would it be any easier?
The dogs were sitting at his feet, gazing up at him expectantly. “All right, you greedy buggers.” Kieran broke the remaining half of the sandwich into two pieces. “Down,” he said, and both dogs dropped like felled marionettes, then inhaled the offered treats in matching gulps.
“Okay. Good dogs. All gone,” he told them, rubbing his slobbery fingers on his jeans as he looked at their eager faces. He had backup, after all, he thought, right in front of him, ready and willing.
And he could make a small deal with himself. That was one of the things he’d learned in these last two years, and he couldn’t afford to forget it. You didn’t have to tackle things all at once. Small steps led to bigger steps.
He would go, but he would take the detective superintendent’s advice and come back to Tavie’s house, at least for tonight. There was no shame in that.
By the time Kieran reached Mill Meadows, both he and the dogs were panting. Having made up his mind to go, he’d jogged, not giving himself a chance to waver, and he’d been grateful that the clear, dry day seemed to be holding his vertigo at bay.
He slowed when he realized there was a man standing on the pedestrian path just across the water from the boatshed, gazing at it.
The man wore jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue T-shirt, but no jacket, in spite of the cool breeze. And even though he appeared slightly disheveled, there was something indefinably elegant about him. When he turned, Kieran recognized him instantly.
It was Freddie Atterton, Becca’s ex-husband.
“I know you,” said Atterton, his glance going from Kieran to the dogs. “I saw you that day, on the search team.”
Kieran felt the hair stand up on his arms. He nodded cautiously. “That’s right.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Atterton. “And the dogs,” he added. “They’re brilliant.”
Finn and Tosh, who always seemed to know when they were being talked about, wagged appreciatively and sat. No alarm there.
“Yeah, they’re great.” Kieran stroked Finn’s head and Tosh nosed him and then Atterton, seeking her share of attention, and Atterton gave a good rub to both dogs.
What the hell did you say, Kieran wondered as the silence stretched, to the man whose ex-wife had been your lover?
Freddie Atterton smiled, as if he’d read his mind. “I know about you and Becca,” he said. “Superintendent Kincaid told me. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Okay.” Kieran waited, feeling stranger and stranger, and tried to keep his eyes from straying to what remained of his home.
“Well, I have to admit to a bit of curiosity,” said Atterton. “Wouldn’t be human otherwise, I suppose. But mostly I came to see if you could repair Becca’s boat.”
“The Filippi?” It was the last thing Kieran had expected.
“Apparently it has a crack in the hull. I haven’t seen it yet. But I don’t like to think— She’d have wanted—” Atterton stopped, his voice unsteady, an
d Kieran realized suddenly that this was a man teetering on the edge of emotional collapse. He knew, because he had stared into the precipice himself, and even now he might stumble into it.
Kieran steeled himself to look across the water. “I would, of course. But I don’t know if I can. My workshop—”
“Superintendent Kincaid told me what happened,” said Freddie. “It doesn’t look too bad from here. How do you get across?”
“I’ve got a skiff.” Kieran gestured towards his little rowboat, tied up a few yards nearer the museum.
“Can we go over? All of us?” Freddie’s nod included the dogs.
Kieran was still feeling befuddled by the whole exchange, but found he was glad enough of an excuse not to go alone, however odd his companion. “Yeah, okay.” He dropped Finn’s lead. “Finn, go get the boat.”
Finn bounded down to the skiff, and, taking the rope in his mouth, pulled the boat up against the bank.
As soon as Kieran reached the boat and grabbed the rope, Finn leapt in, grinning at them in Labrador glee.
“He’d rather swim, I’ll wager,” said Freddie, laughing.
Tosh jumped in only after Kieran and Freddie had joined Finn in the skiff, her dark eyebrows furrowed in a look that said she didn’t like this particular adventure, but would make the best of it.
Kieran rowed across to the island, where Freddie tied them up with quick expertise.
“You row, don’t you?” Kieran asked as they climbed ashore.
“Did,” said Freddie. “But that was a long time ago. Water under the bridge.” He shrugged, then nodded towards the shed. “Let’s take a look at the damage, shall we? Are you game?”
Kieran put the dogs in a stay, swallowed hard, and followed him.
It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Broken glass, water-sludged ash, scorched beams—but his tools and the structure itself seemed to be intact. His clothes, camp bed, and personal belongings were undoubtedly smoke- and water-damaged, but those were things that could be replaced or done without.
The boat he’d been repairing, however, was buggered. Its carbon-fiber hull was blistered and crazed, the scorch marks clearly visible.
“Oh, God,” said Kieran, staring at it. He felt a wave of dizziness. “This—I don’t have insurance to cover this. Bloody hell.”
Freddie joined him in his examination. “Can it be fixed?”
“Well, maybe, but it’ll be a hard job, and can’t be done without clearing up this mess and repairing the damage to the shed—” Kieran shook his head, overwhelmed.
“Look,” said Freddie slowly. “I know it sounds weird, but if it’s hard labor you need, I’ll help. I can sand and scrub and sweep, or whatever.”
Perplexed, Kieran looked at the man he’d first seen standing outside Leander in a perfectly tailored suit, looking as if he’d never dirtied a finger. But Freddie Atterton was an Oxford Blue—God knew Becca had told him that often enough—so he had to be tougher than he looked. “I don’t understand,” Kieran said. “Why should you—”
“Look at this place,” Freddie interrupted, his gesture taking in the undamaged cabinet of solvents, the paint, the polishing rags. “I’m not much for miracles, but the fact that there’s anything left of this place, or of you, is bloody astounding. You can’t just give up. It would be— It would mean that whoever did this to you and to Becca had won. Do you see?”
“I don’t—”
Outside, Finn gave the distinctive little yip he used to greet people he knew and liked.
“Hi, Kieran,” came a shout.
“It’s John, my neighbor,” said Kieran. He suddenly felt he couldn’t stand the stink of wet ash another second. “Let’s go out.”
When they emerged onto the patch of lawn, John greeted Kieran with a handshake and a pat on the back. “That’s quite a bruise,” he said, “but I’m just glad to see you in one piece. You gave us a fright the other night.”
Freddie held out a hand and introduced himself. If John wondered what connection Freddie had with Kieran, he was too polite to ask.
“I’ve got something for you.” John held out a key to Kieran. “Your single’s in my shed. Keep it there as long as you need.” With a wave, he walked back towards his house.
“Your single?” asked Freddie. He glanced at Kieran’s old shell, up on trestles near the landing raft. “I thought—”
Wordlessly, Kieran walked to John’s shed and unlocked it. He pulled the double doors wide so that the afternoon light flooded in, then drew the tarp off the single. Becca’s single. It was unblemished, and even though he had made it, his heart leapt at the beauty of it.
Freddie stared, first at the boat, then at him. “You built this? A wooden shell?”
“I know most people don’t race in them anymore, but I thought if I made some design adjustments . . .”
“You made this,” said Freddie, his voice little more than a whisper. He went closer, ran his hand over the silky wood of the hull, then touched the molded seat and moved it slightly on the runners. “For her.”
Kieran nodded.
“Did she know?”
“No. I thought, when it was finished, I’d tell her . . . But I’m not sure I’d ever have shown it to her, to tell the truth. She might have laughed. Or worse, felt obligated to row in it.”
For the first time, Freddie seemed at a loss. Shaking his head, he walked away. When he reached the lawn’s edge, he stood gazing at the river for a moment, then sank to the grass and wrapped his arms round his knees, like a child seeking comfort. Kieran saw a shudder run through his shoulders.
Reluctantly, Kieran followed and hunkered down beside him, pushing away the dogs when they butted him.
“I never made anything for her,” whispered Freddie. He lifted his head and rubbed the back of his fist across his wet cheeks. “I envy you that,” he added, and Kieran heard the bitterness.
“I lied, you know, when I said I didn’t mind about the two of you,” Freddie went on. “Not that I had any right—but still, there it is.” He looked at Kieran. “Did you love her?”
Slowly, Kieran nodded.
“Did she love you?”
There was nothing left for Kieran but to face it. After a long moment, he said, “No. I don’t think she did. But we had something that worked for a while . . . maybe because I didn’t ask anything of her. Because I knew she had nothing to give.”
Kincaid had asked Doug to send the witness statement and the request for a DNA comparison to a magistrate with whom he had often worked, a man he liked personally, and one he thought would not be influenced by Angus Craig’s threats.
As he drove into London, he stopped at home and changed into his Paul Smith gray suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. It was the best he could do for armor.
Gemma and all the children—according to the latest family update texted from Kit—were at their friend Erika Rosenthal’s, making German brown-sugar cookies for Charlotte’s party tomorrow.
Kincaid had no excuse to tarry, and he knew he had to catch Chief Superintendent Childs before he left for the weekend.
He drove to the Yard, gathered the file on Jenny Hart and a copy of Rosamond Koether’s statement from Doug, and took the lift up to Chief Superintendent Childs’s office.
Childs’s secretary sent him straight in.
The surface of his guv’nor’s desk was clear as usual, and as always, Childs didn’t seem to be doing anything. As Denis Childs was the most efficient superior officer he knew, Kincaid had sometimes wondered if the man simply had a computer wired to his brain.
“Sir.” He gave Childs a nod in greeting.
“Oh, dear,” said Childs, steepling his fingers. “How very formal of you.” He looked Kincaid up and down. “And the suit. Very nice, the conservative touch, but I suspect this means you’ve come to tell me something you think I won’t like. Do sit down, Duncan”—he waved at a chair—“and don’t pace about in my office again. It makes my neck hurt. What have you got there?” Childs’s
eyes went to the papers in Kincaid’s hand.
Sitting down, Kincaid handed over the file and statement. Then he crossed his ankles and folded his hands in his lap. It was a Childs pose, used by his boss to convey a complete lack of nerves, and Kincaid hoped he did it half as well.
Childs went through the Jenny Hart case quickly, but with a slight frown, and Kincaid had the feeling he’d seen the material before. When he came to the end, he gave Kincaid a quick glance that might have been surprise.
Then he turned to Rosamond Koether’s statement. As he read, he went very still. When he’d finished, he looked up at Kincaid.
“Is this credible?”
“According to Melody Talbot. And I have complete confidence in her judgment.”
Childs settled back in his chair. “I sense Gemma’s hand in this. And yours. Why else would Project Sapphire suddenly follow up on what seemed a dead-end case?”
“Project Sapphire were looking for cases that matched the pattern of the rape alleged by DCI Rebecca Meredith,” Kincaid admitted. “At my request. But DC Talbot certainly did not expect to find this.” Kincaid gestured at the Hart file.
“Were there other cases that fit the pattern as well?” Childs asked.
“Yes, several. But only one murder.”
Childs considered Kincaid with his slow, inscrutable gaze. Then something flickered deep in his brown eyes, and Kincaid recognized it.
It was rage.
“An unexpected result,” said Childs quietly. “Jenny Hart was a good officer. And a friend. She served under me when she was a detective constable.” He tapped his fingers on his desk. “You’ve requested a warrant for DNA comparison? And not from one of that lot, I hope.” He cast a scathing glance at the photo of Craig amongst the senior officers in evening dress.
“Yes, sir.” Kincaid tried to contain his surprise, both at Childs’s revelation about DCI Hart, and at his comment about Craig and his cronies. “It should be coming through any moment.”
“You realize this doesn’t get you any closer to Rebecca Meredith,” said Childs. “Or the attack on the boat builder. What was his name? Connolly.”
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