No Mark upon Her

by Deborah Crombie

  “A year ago, the same thing happened to Becca Meredith. When it occurred to her that other female police officers might have been victims as well, she started searching through the records. She found several officers who had reported rapes by unknown assailants. But only one of them happened to be a woman she knew, and an old friend. You.”

  Melody paused for a beat, to let it sink in. Then she said, “And she knew that you knew who your assailant was, as did she.”

  Abbott was shaking her head before Melody finished. “That’s absolute bollocks. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I think it’s time you—”

  “DCI Abbott. Please don’t take us for fools.” Gemma’s words stopped Abbott in mid-protest. When Gemma had her full attention, she went on. “It was Angus Craig. You and Becca Meredith were both raped by Deputy Assistant Commissioner Craig, who then threatened you in order to procure your silence. Don’t waste our time by denying it.”

  Abbott’s prominent collarbones rose sharply with the intake of her breath. “You can’t prove that. And he’s dead. I heard he was dead.”

  Abbott hadn’t denied it. Masking the rush of exhilaration that came with knowing she and Melody had been right, Gemma said levelly, “That hasn’t yet been confirmed. But what matters to me is that we have his DNA, and that it will match your semen sample and Becca Meredith’s sample. And it will match DCI Jenny Hart’s.”

  She was stretching the truth a bit, but they would have Craig’s DNA soon enough, and she wanted answers from Abbott now.

  “Jenny?” Abbott’s voice was a whisper. “What are you talking about? Jenny was murdered—oh, God. You don’t mean he killed Jenny?”

  “Becca didn’t know about Craig’s connection to Jenny Hart, did she?” asked Gemma. “She missed that one because the case was in the database as an unsolved murder, not as an unsolved rape. If she’d known about Jenny Hart, she wouldn’t have needed you.

  “And that was what she wanted from you, wasn’t it, Chris?” Gemma leaned forward, intent, trying to make a connection with this woman who seemed to have built a fortress round any emotion other than fear. “She wanted you to file a rape charge against Angus Craig.”

  Abbott shook her head, as if she meant to deny it, but when she saw their faces, her shoulders sagged. “Okay, okay,” she said. “That lead Becca said she had—when I got to the station, it was useless. But then she wanted to go for drinks. Becca wanting to do the jolly old-girl thing was odd enough, but Becca the Abstemious wanting to go out for a tipple—that was a real red flag. I went because I wanted to know what she was up to.

  “She suggested a pub on Holland Park Avenue. Not too far away, but out of her station’s orbit. She waited until we’d both had a few drinks before she told me what she really wanted.”

  Abbott raised a finger to her mouth and nibbled at the quick. Her nails were bitten as well. “Bitch,” she said. “I told her to bugger off. I told her that all happened five years ago, and I’ve moved on. I’ve worked hard to get where I am now.” The words spilled out as if she couldn’t stop them. “We’ve got two kids in school, and I’m up for another promotion. Why should I have risked everything so that Angus Craig would get a slap on the wrist—if even that.

  “Look at you, both of you. You know how the system works. You know it would all have been for nothing.”

  Suddenly, her anger seemed to drain away. Shivering, she rubbed at her bare arms and sank down on the arm of the sofa. “But I didn’t—I didn’t know about Jenny.”

  “Did you know her well?” asked Melody.

  “We were on a command course together at Bramshill a few years ago. I liked her. We met up for a drink every now and then. She was funny, and sharp, and never condescending. And she liked being single.” With a strangled laugh, Chris added, “Sometimes I used to wish I had her life.”

  “And you never told Jenny what Angus Craig did to you?”

  Chris shook her head, vehemently. “God, no. I never told anyone. I only made the report that night because one of the constables in my division found me crying and bleeding outside the hotel, and I had to say something. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. Oh—” She caught her breath as realization struck. “Oh, God. If I’d told Jenny, she’d never have gone with him—is that what happened? I know she was killed in her flat. Did she—did she invite him up for a drink?”

  “What about Becca, Chris?” said Gemma. “You’d been friends since university. Did she not count? If you’d told her, she’d never have accepted a lift home from Craig the night he raped her. And now she’s dead, too.”

  “Why should I have told Becca? She wasn’t exactly the shoulder you’d pick to cry on. And besides, I’d never have dreamed she’d be as stupid as I was. Always in control of everything, Becca.”

  Gemma wondered what lay at the root of Abbott’s bitterness, a bitterness so corrosive she couldn’t find a kind word to say about her murdered friend. “So, last Friday night,” she said, “what did Becca do when you told her you wouldn’t cooperate?”

  “She was livid. But then Becca always expected that what she wanted should come first.”

  Gemma had a sudden hunch. She threw it out like bread on the water, to see what it might fetch. “Is that why she came back on Saturday? To try again to convince you?”

  Abbott’s face closed like a shutter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, come on, Chris.” Gemma knew now that she’d been right, and she wasn’t going to be fobbed off. “Do you want us to ask the neighbors? This is a small street, and I’ve no doubt that everyone knows everyone else’s business.

  “Becca left her car in the city on Friday night after she met you. When she came back into London to pick it up on Saturday afternoon, she drove here, didn’t she?” Gemma glanced at the window, as if assessing the neighbors. “How many people do you think will remember her car? And Becca? She wasn’t exactly a woman you’d easily overlook. Did you argue at the door?”

  After a long moment, Abbott gave a shrug that was meant to be nonchalant, and Gemma was certain she’d decided it wasn’t worth risking a house-to-house and being shown a liar. “So what if she did? She tried to bully us, if you want to know. Ross told her to sod off. She was always a bitch to him, so I’d say it was no better than she deserved.”

  As if she realized how venomous she’d sounded, Abbott rubbed a hand across her face and said, “Look. I don’t mean I’m not sorry Becca’s dead. I was devastated when I heard. We both were. But it’s nothing to do with us, and I can’t see why you’ve come to me with this in the first place.” She stood. “With Craig dead, none of it matters anymore. And I’ve had enough.”

  As if the assertion of Craig’s death had given her courage, she said, “I told you, I’ve got to pick up my kids. Your time’s up.”

  Gemma’s glance at Melody told her they’d had the same thought. “DCI Abbott,” she said, “how did you know Angus Craig was dead?”

  “Mrs. Craig’s dog?” said Kincaid, staring at Imogen Bell. “Bloody hell. I’d forgotten all about the dog. It must have got out somehow during the fire.”

  DC Bell looked confused. “During the fire? The neighbor says he found the dog—it’s a little whippet—running loose around midnight. He rang Mrs. Craig but she didn’t answer, and he said he didn’t want to disturb them by going over so late. He thought he’d just keep the dog until morning and ring Mrs. Craig first thing. But then the smoke and the fire brigade woke him in the night and he was frantic about the Craigs. He’s been trying to speak to someone ever since—”

  “Barney,” interrupted Kincaid. “The dog. The dog is a he, and his name is Barney.” He didn’t know why he felt so relieved that Edie Craig’s dog had survived. But why had the dog been out two hours before the fire? “Midnight? The neighbor said midnight?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure of it,” answered Bell.

  Kincaid turned to the fire investigator. “Owen, if Craig set the fire before midnight, could it h
ave taken until two to become fully involved?”

  Owen Morris shook his head. “I’d say very unlikely. There was a flash at the point of origin, and from the amount of accelerant poured round the house, I’d think the surrounding rooms went up pretty quickly. Fire’s a funny thing, though. It can play tricks on you. It’s possible it smoldered for a bit. We’ll know more when things cool off.”

  “Still . . .” Kincaid let the sentence trail off, not sure he wanted to verbalize the unwelcome scenario that had come to him.

  What if Edie Craig had suspected violence was brewing? Angus Craig had made no bones about hating the dog—perhaps she’d feared Barney would be a target. But surely if she’d realized just how bad it was, she’d have got out herself . . . or would she?

  She was a woman, Kincaid suspected, who’d spent the better part of her married life trying to limit the damage her husband caused. But had she known, before Denis Childs’s visit last night, just how much havoc Craig had wreaked, how many lives he’d destroyed? And if not, could she now have lived with the truth?

  She had been a gentle woman and possessed of unexpected grace. He hoped she had not guessed what was coming.

  “Sir,” said Bell, “the neighbor. He’s still waiting at the gate. Should I—”

  Kincaid shook himself back to the present. “Get his name and address. Ask him if he wouldn’t mind keeping the dog until we track down any friends or relatives of Mrs. Craig. And DC Bell, when the SOCOs get here, I want them to check Craig’s car for any trace evidence that matches the scene of Becca Meredith’s murder. If there’s any outerwear left undamaged in the house, I want that checked, too.”

  Bell gaped at him. “You don’t think—” she began, then she collected herself and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll just speak to Mr. Wilson—that’s the neighbor.” She left them and walked towards the gate, but not without an uncertain backwards glance.

  The timing of the fire wasn’t the only thing bothering Kincaid. Turning to Owen Morris, he said, “Can you tell if the same accelerant was used here as in Kieran Connolly’s boatshed?”

  “It seems to have been common petrol in both cases.” Morris gave Kincaid a speculative frown. “And even if forensics can narrow it down to the refiner, it may not get you anywhere. You think Craig had something to do with Rebecca Meredith’s murder and with the boatshed?” The question was rhetorical, as Morris looked back at the smoldering house and added, “That would explain why he decided to go out with a bang.”

  Except, Kincaid thought, that it didn’t. He could believe that seeing no way out, Craig had burned his wife’s beautiful house as a last act of viciousness. But they still had no proof that Craig had been connected with Becca Meredith’s murder or with the attack on Kieran. “We don’t—” he began when his phone rang.

  When Kieran had managed to wrestle both dogs up Market Place and back into Tavie’s house, he found her gone. She’d left him a note on the little chalkboard in the kitchen, saying she’d gone out to the shops and would pick up something for their dinner.

  “Go lie down, both of you,” Kieran told the dogs. Looking chastened, they did as they were bid. But Finn was still panting and trembling, and Kieran’s heart was still racing from the shock of seeing his friendly, easygoing dog become suddenly unhinged. When he pulled out his phone to ring Superintendent Kincaid, he realized his hands were shaking, the way they had in Iraq when his unit had seen action.

  Closing his eyes, he took a breath, and when Kincaid answered, he made an effort to give him a clear description of what had happened. “It wasn’t Freddie,” he said. “Both dogs spent a couple of hours with him yesterday, and they were fine. It was the other guy. I’ve never seen Finn do anything like that. I thought he’d take the guy’s head off.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t recognize this man?” Kincaid had asked.

  “No. Never seen him before,” Kieran had said. But now his mind was beginning to play little tricks on him, little fragments of memory flaring like ghosts, just on the edge of perception.

  He shook his head, but that made him dizzy.

  Tea. Tea would help, he thought. But when he went to put the kettle on, he found himself getting dog biscuits instead. Fighting the spinning in his head, he took the biscuits into the sitting room and knelt by the dogs, praising them as he gave them their treats. He’d shouted at Finn, and Finn had only been trying to—

  Kieran sat back so hard it made the room rock. Protect him. Finn had been trying to protect him.

  But why would Finn—wait. Kieran reached out, touched the dog’s black coat, now warm from the fire, as if the contact could give him an answer.

  Something familiar . . . There had been something familiar . . . The image tickled the edge of his subconscious, then suddenly the fuzzy outline became clearer . . .

  The man on the riverbank, in the dusk . . . Was that where Kieran had seen Freddie’s friend? But Finn wouldn’t have recognized someone seen at a distance as a threat . . .

  “Oh, Jesus,” Kieran whispered as realization hit him.

  It hadn’t been sight, it had been smell that Finn recognized. That was what had terrified him.

  When Kieran and Finn had found the spot where Becca was killed, he had been there, close enough for Finn to scent him.

  And then, when he had rowed right up to the shed with his petrol bomb, Kieran remembered, Finn had lifted his head, nostrils flaring, a moment before the bottle crashed through the window. Both the window and the door of the shed had been open to clear solvent fumes.

  It hadn’t been the sound of voices that had alerted Finn that night. The wind had been blowing downriver. Finn had caught the bastard’s scent.

  And tonight—tonight Finn had associated that scent with Kieran’s fear on the riverbank and with the terror of the fire.

  His hand still unsteady, Kieran lifted his phone again.

  Then he stopped, his fingers going lax on the keypad. There was something more.

  He closed his eyes and tried to bring back the man’s face, first glimpsed in that instant when he’d walked out of the Red Lion after Freddie.

  But what Kieran saw against the blackness of his eyelids was not the scene outside the Red Lion, but a photograph. And in that photograph, he saw a younger version of that likeness amid a group of faces, all in a frame on a shelf in Becca’s cottage . . . a photo of a Boat Race crew.

  “He’s a bit bonkers, don’t you think?” said Cullen when Kincaid had told him about Kieran’s call.

  “Maybe not as much as you’d think.” Kincaid was already dialing Freddie Atterton’s number. After a few rings, the call went to voice mail. Kincaid swore, but didn’t leave a message. Disconnecting, he turned to Cullen. “We’ll try the flat.”

  After a brief word with Owen Morris and DC Bell, they were on their way back to Henley.

  “So, is this a case of what the dog did in the night or what the dog didn’t do in the night?” asked Cullen as they turned into the Marlow Road at Hambleden Mill.

  Kincaid was not in the mood for flippancy. “We may never know why Edie Craig’s dog was loose two hours before the fire. But if Kieran Connolly says his dog was panicked, I believe him. I also believe someone tried to kill Connolly, and I’m not convinced it was Angus Craig.”

  “If Peter Gaskill and his cronies were Craig’s alibi for the attack on Connolly, I’m not sure I’d give the alibi too much credence,” argued Doug. “And it seems rather obvious that Craig liked to burn things up.”

  “Does it?” Kincaid braked hard behind a car with hire-car plates going miles below the limit. “Anybody can buy a tin of petrol. And I’d swear Craig didn’t know about the attack on Kieran. The bastard was too self-obsessed to be that good an actor.”

  “What about Becca Meredith?”

  “I’m still not certain we can fit him for it. The bartender at the pub in Hambleden had no reason to lie about the time Craig came in that evening. And Craig’s motive is still questionable, unless Becca found out about Jenny Har
t, and I don’t think she did.”

  “Then—”

  “Damned if I know. But I’d feel a whole lot better if I had Freddie Atterton in my sight.”

  When Freddie buzzed them into the Malthouse and opened the door of his flat, Kincaid’s relief swiftly turned to anger. “Where the hell were you?” he said, pushing past Freddie without giving him a chance to invite them in. “Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “I just didn’t pick up,” said Freddie, looking puzzled. “I was on long distance with Becca’s mother, making arrangements to meet her at the airport—”

  Kincaid waved him into silence. “Okay. But before that. You were at the Red Lion with another man—who was he?”

  “What? How did you—”

  “Kieran Connolly rang me.”

  “Oh, yeah, Kieran.” Freddie frowned. “I saw Kieran, all right. What was up with that? His dog, the lovely black Lab—he went absolutely bonkers. I thought he was going to take Ross down in the street. And then the other one, the Alsatian, went just as mad. I thought they were trained search dogs, not attack dogs.”

  “They are search dogs, and they’re very well socialized,” Kincaid said, frowning. “Which makes it even odder that Finn would go after your mate like that. Your friend—Ross. Tell me about him.”

  “I did. Remember? He’s my mate who took me to the mortuary. We’re old friends from Oxford.”

  That was right. Kincaid remembered Freddie saying something about a university friend who had taken him to make the formal identification of Becca’s body. “Kieran said you and your friend seemed to be arguing when he first saw you. Why?”

  “Ross kept asking me what I knew about Angus Craig. I told him the guy stood me up for a meeting, and I thought he was a right prick.