Gemma frowned. “Why would you have looked for it?”
“Because,” said Melody, “that’s my job. I should have checked for any previous link between Becca Meredith and any of the women who showed up in the Sapphire files. I let myself get distracted by the Hart case. I thought we’d hit eureka.”
“We all did. And we don’t know that this Chris Abbott has anything to do with Becca Meredith’s death.”
“So.” Melody lowered her voice. “Are you going to let Duncan know we’re going to see her?”
Gemma debated only for a moment. “No. He’d tell us not to go.”
Kieran had spent most of Saturday at the boatshed, armed with plywood to cover the broken windows, a broom, and industrial size rubbish bags.
After his talk with Freddie Atterton the day before, he’d felt oddly heartened. He could at least make a stab at clearing up. Then he could assess the extent of the damage. Maybe, just maybe, he could put himself, and his business, back together again.
In the meantime, he feared he was becoming frighteningly domestic. Tavie had ended up working a double rota last night, filling in for a crewmate who’d called in sick at the last minute. She’d come home early in the morning, exhausted and reeking of smoke. She said she’d been called to a fire scene in Hambleden—a retired police commissioner’s house, no less—but the fire had been too far advanced for the medics to get in.
“I’m so glad you were here, Kieran,” she’d said, collapsing into one of the dining chairs while Tosh tried to lick her soot-stained face. “I’d have been calling in every favor I had to get someone to see to Tosh.”
He knew she had an arrangement with a neighboring teenager who came in to look after the dog during the day, but she had no backup for a short-notice night rota.
“And besides,” she added, smiling at him, “it’s nice to see a friendly face. No recriminations.”
He looked at her, puzzled. “Why should there be?”
“There. You see?” She shook her head. “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about. You don’t seem to think a woman should know her place.”
“Tavie, if it weren’t for you, I’d be—”
“Oh, shut up.” She waved away his gratitude. “You can cook, can’t you? Eggs and toast? And tea?”
Nodding, he said, “Yeah, although no one ever said it was gourmet.”
“I don’t care. Make me some. That’s a proper repayment. I’m going to get in the bath.”
He’d set to it as she trudged up the stairs. He even whistled a little, tunelessly, pleased that he’d already worked out where things were in the tidy kitchen, and that he’d picked up essentials at the shops the previous afternoon.
When he’d served two plates and filled the teapot, he glanced at the dogs, lying side by side in the kitchen doorway, watching him intently. “Don’t even think about it, mates,” he said, and then, erring on the side of caution, he stuck the plates in the warming oven. Tosh, he trusted. Finn, he wasn’t so sure about.
Going to the bottom of the stairs, he called Tavie. When she didn’t answer, he trotted up, thinking she hadn’t heard him over the sound of the taps or maybe the hairdryer.
Just as he reached the top landing, Tavie walked out of the bathroom, naked except for a towel wrapped loosely round her waist. Her fair hair was dark from the damp and stood up in spikes where she’d toweled it.
“I just—” He swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t—breakfast is ready.”
“Right. I’m just coming.”
“Okay. Good.” He turned and nearly slid back down the stairs, but not before he’d seen the blush travel down her throat to her chest and then to the swell of her small breasts.
She came down a moment later, clad in a sweatshirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms. They ate, and if Tavie felt awkward she didn’t show it. Kieran mostly kept his eyes on his plate and tried not to think about the slender body beneath the concealing clothes.
“I’ll take the dogs for a good run, why don’t I?” he’d said when they were finished. Tavie, who had cleaned her plate with astonishing speed, was nodding over her second cup of tea.
“Good idea.”
“You go to bed. I mean, get some rest.” He could have slapped himself for sounding like an idiot. “Afterwards, I’m going to see what I can do at the shed. I’ll take them with me.”
Tavie opened sleepy blue eyes. “Don’t stay after dark. Remember what the superintendent said.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said cheekily.
“Oh, shut up,” she’d told him again, and staggered upstairs to bed, but he’d seen a hint of a smile.
The picture of Tavie in her towel had stayed with him as he swept and hammered through the afternoon. He’d felt guilty for being aroused, as if he were betraying Becca, and weird about thinking of Tavie in that way. But Tavie hadn’t seemed to mind—in fact, it occurred to him that she could easily have put on a dressing gown if she’d been worried about her modesty. Surely she hadn’t meant for him to—no. He scolded himself for being stupid.
And as for Becca—he couldn’t let himself go there, not yet. He couldn’t separate the memories of lying with her, touching her, from the image of her face below the weir. When he tried, it made him feel sick and disoriented.
Shaking his head, he tipped the last scoop of rubbish from the dustpan into the big bin he kept in his work area. The bin was, miraculously, undamaged. He’d cleared up a good deal of the mess, but ferrying the bags across to the mainland and disposing of them would be a job for another day. At least he’d got the windows covered and could shut up the shop and his tools. But it was getting late, and he didn’t want Tavie to worry.
Locking up, he greeted the dogs, who’d lain in a warm hollow in the grass, waiting patiently for him while they watched the comings and goings on the river.
As he looked round, he realized why it had seemed as though the afternoon was fading unexpectedly fast. The clouds had come in, heavy in the west, bringing an early dusk. Kieran shuddered, dreading the onset of bad weather.
But to his relief, he realized that his head felt clear. Maybe this one was not going to be bad.
He rowed across with the dogs and tied up the skiff, then walked along the path, turning up his collar against the wind. The dogs frisked beside him, rambunctious with the cold, so when he reached Mill Meadows, he pulled a couple of tennis balls from the pocket of his anorak and let the dogs off lead for a few minutes of happy ball chasing.
He hadn’t dared ask Tavie if she’d changed her mind about taking him off the SAR team, and only now did he realize how much he would miss it. And Finn—Finn, like Tosh, was born to work, and it would be cruel to deprive him. That, thought Kieran, was an argument that might sway Tavie in his favor.
Clipping the dogs on their leads again, he walked faster, wondering if Tavie was up, eager now to get back to the little crooked house.
As he reached the narrower confines of Thames Side, a few pedestrians crossed to the other side of the street to avoid the dogs. It amused Kieran a little—for all their size, Finn and Tosh were big softies—but he might have done the same himself, before he’d had Finn.
He’d crossed the Henley end of the bridge and turned up Market Place when he saw Freddie Atterton come out of the Red Lion. He picked up his pace, meaning to speak to Atterton, to tell him he’d made some progress with the shed, when he realized Freddie wasn’t alone.
Another man had come out of the hotel with him, and they appeared to be, if not arguing, at least having a heated discussion.
Maybe it was just as well if he didn’t interrupt, Kieran decided, although he was going to pass right by them. But something drew his eyes back. What was—
Then all thought fled Kieran’s mind as Finn leapt forward, nearly tearing the lead from his hand, barking and lunging like a mad thing.
Chapter Twenty-three
Sight begins to go. Darkness envelops me until I can only vaguely sense the dark hull next to us.
The finish li
ne comes.
Then there is nothing. Inky blackness. My eyes have rolled back into my head. My chest heaves, frantically pulling oxygen into my gaping mouth, but I am out of it, collapsed and aware of nothing. [James Livingston]
—David and James Livingston
Blood Over Water
“So, what else do you know about Chris Abbott?” Gemma asked Melody as they crossed the Thames at Hammersmith Bridge.
It had taken them more than half an hour to make a graceful exit from the house. Gemma had insisted that everyone else stay as long as they liked, but even as she gave her parents over-elaborate instructions, she’d felt increasingly worried about Melody’s news.
While Gemma was dealing with the domestic front, Melody had made phone calls and done some research online. Gemma knew better than to ask her sources.
Now, as they drove towards Barnes in Gemma’s Escort, heavy clouds had darkened what had begun as a beautiful day, and the Thames looked gray as slate. She beeped her horn impatiently when the driver ahead slowed and almost made her miss the green light at the bridge end.
Melody gave her a startled glance, but said, “Chris Abbott, DCI, Vice. Works out of West End Central. A career officer out of university like Becca Meredith, both of them highfliers with their Oxford educations.
“Married, husband works in investment banking. Two kids, both boys, and both down for Eton.”
Gemma whistled. “On a cop’s salary? Let’s hope the husband has a better income. When did she report the rape?”
“A little more than five years ago. She was a sergeant then, so she’s had two promotions in a very short time. Rewards, do you think, for keeping her mouth shut?”
Gemma had been a sergeant five years ago as well. Would her life have taken the same path as Chris Abbott’s if she’d been less lucky the night Angus Craig had driven her home? No matter how often she went over it, she couldn’t be sure what she’d have done. Would she have risked her career and the security of her child in an attempt to see Craig prosecuted?
“Were there particulars in the rape report?” she asked. If Abbott had had a husband and children at home, it seemed likely that Craig’s usual method of courteously offering his victim a lift would have failed with her, as it had with Gemma.
“There was a dinner at a hotel in the West End, after a staffing conference,” Melody continued. “Abbott said she was walking to the tube when she was pulled into an alley and assaulted.”
Gemma frowned. “Then my guess would be that Craig had a room in the hotel. And convinced her to come up for a friendly nightcap, after the conference, when everyone had had a few post-meeting drinks. I wonder, though, about the promotions . . .” Gemma negotiated a roundabout as they entered the outskirts of the very comfortable suburb of Barnes. “Were they a reward, or could Abbott have decided to make the best of a bad deal and indulge in a spot of blackmail? A two-way street.”
“If Craig and Abbott had reached a stalemate,” Melody continued thoughtfully, “maybe he took out his frustration with her by choosing more and more powerful female officers as victims. Substitutes, if you will. A dangerous game.”
“Fatal, in the end,” agreed Gemma. “Although I doubt that was how he thought it would play out.”
They were running along the river now, passing Barnes railway bridge. It was, Gemma realized, the last major landmark on the Boat Race course. Had Abbott been drawn to this village because she was a rower?
“It’s White Hart Lane,” Melody directed. “On your left, then the address is down near the far end.”
The street was narrow, lined with a mixture of expensive-looking shops and boutiques and charming terraced houses. And cars, which all seemed to be monstrously large SUVs. “Yummy-mummy territory, all right,” Gemma muttered as she looked for a parking space. She’d passed the address Melody had given her by a good distance when she saw a car pull out. She put on her signal and maneuvered the Escort into the spot.
“Top marks on the parallel parking,” teased Melody as Gemma killed the engine, but even as she spoke, she was tucking her dark hair behind one ear and checking the contents of her handbag, signs that she was keyed up. “Do we know what we’re going to say?” she asked.
“We’ll wing it,” said Gemma. “It’s your show.”
A moment after Gemma rang the bell, there was a twitch at the wooden blinds of the neat terraced house. Then a thin blond woman opened the door. She wore tight designer jeans and an expensive-looking top, but the polished effect was marred by her harried frown and unfriendly gaze.
“Can I help you?” she snapped.
“DCI Abbott?” asked Melody. She showed her warrant card. “DC Talbot, Notting Hill. And this is DI James. If we could just have a quick word?”
No amount of neatly applied makeup could conceal the terror that washed over Chris Abbott’s face at the sight of their warrant cards. “What’s happened? My boys—are they all right? My husband—oh, God, Ross—”
“Your sons are fine,” Melody hastened to reassure her. “And your husband. But we do need to speak to you. If we could come in?”
Abbott slumped and touched the doorjamb for an instant’s support, as if the relief had hit her almost as hard as the panic.
Then she dropped her hand and stared at them suspiciously, the copper in her taking over as she seemed to notice their casual clothes and obvious lack of official presence. And she was, Gemma guessed, taking into account the fact that she outranked them.
The curious glance from a neighbor jogging by seemed to decide Abbott. She shrugged and said, “All right. I can give you five minutes. I have to pick up my sons. That’s why I was worried. They’re at a friend’s, and you never know what could happen.”
It was just a bit more explanation than necessary, a sign of nerves, Gemma thought. And, she thought, a detective chief inspector should certainly have known better.
They stepped inside at Abbott’s grudging gesture, and Gemma looked round with interest.
The house would fetch a high price, even post-recession, because of the area and the amenities. But it was still small, and the sitting room seemed overstuffed with large leather furniture and a coffee table the size of a boulder. A media center, anchored by a flat-panel television that rivaled the sofa in scale, took up an entire wall.
And although the shelving on the media center was packed with DVDs, there were no books in sight. Nor was there any of the childish detritus that littered Gemma and Duncan’s house, although at a second glance she realized that one of the cubbyholes in the entertainment center held a toy basket.
Still, the place seemed sterile somehow, as if it never saw the ordinary flow of family life.
But the wall opposite the media center held evidence of the children—framed family photos. Mum, dad, and the two small boys, all looking unnaturally neat, all with the kind of frozen smiles that made one’s jaws ache.
In most of them, Chris Abbott looked tense, and she held the boys’ shoulders in what looked like a restraining grip. Abbott’s husband, a tall man with thinning hair and a heavy face that fell just short of handsome, rested his arm on his wife’s shoulders in a gesture that seemed to Gemma more possessive than protective.
As for the two children, the older boy was dark-haired and resembled his father, while the smaller son was gingery-fair.
The dark blue Oxford oar mounted above the photos seemed disproportionately large, as if it were intended to dwarf the family.
Melody, who was not easily intimidated by rank, money, or pretentious furniture, smiled and gestured at the photos. “Nice family. And I see your husband was an Oxford Blue,” she added, nodding at the oar. “You must be very proud. Do you mind if we sit?”
“I do, actually. I told you I didn’t have much time. Why don’t you tell me exactly what it is that you want?” Abbott gave a quick glance at the front door.
“I take it your husband’s not at home?” asked Melody.
“No. He had to go out.” Abbott frowned at th
em. “Not that it’s any of your business. Aren’t you a bit off your patch, detectives? And on a Saturday afternoon?” She’d taken the lead, another error, thought Gemma, that spoke of nerves.
“This couldn’t wait,” said Melody.
Abbott cast another anxious glance towards the door, and Gemma wondered if she was expecting her husband—and if that was worrying her as much as their presence.
Abbott switched her gaze to Gemma. “Are you the silent partner, then, DI—it was James, wasn’t it?”
Gemma had no doubt that Abbott remembered her name. She was fishing, wondering what a DI was doing at her door. Mistake number three, in Gemma’s book.
Melody answered her. “I’m with the Sapphire unit, Detective Abbott. Your name has come up in the course of our inquiries. DI James is pursuing a linked matter.”
“Sapphire? Linked?” It was a moment before Abbott controlled the panic on her face. “I’m not working on anything related to a Sapphire investigation.”
Melody gave Gemma the slightest nod, but it was signal enough.
“DCI Abbott,” said Gemma, “I believe you were an old friend of Rebecca Meredith’s?”
“Becca? Oh, yes. We were friends at uni, and we were at police college together. I still can’t believe she’s gone.” The regret sounded rehearsed, as if she had been prepared for the question, but she didn’t say the most obvious thing—that she had seen Becca Meredith just a few days before she died.
Putting on her most sympathetic expression, Gemma said, “Then it must have been a great comfort that you saw her so recently.”
Abbott’s eyes widened with an involuntary ripple of shock, making it clear she hadn’t expected them to know that particular bit of information. “I—yes,” she said, then went on in a rush. “Yes, yes, it was. Last Friday. Becca rang and asked me to come to her station. She said she’d run across some information she thought might be helpful to a Vice investigation.”
“But that was just a pretext, wasn’t it?” asked Melody. She pulled some papers from her bag—papers Gemma suspected had nothing to do with the investigation—but it was an effective tactic. “DCI Abbott,” Melody continued, scanning a page as if her memory needed refreshing, “five years ago, you filed a sexual assault report after a police function in the West End. And although you said you couldn’t name your assailant, you had a rape test done, and the results of that test went on file.
No Mark upon Her Page 32