No Mark Upon Her

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

    W hen 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 have 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?”
    “Depends on your point of view.” Kincaid made an effort to keep his voice calm. “I have absolutely no doubt that he raped Rebecca Meredith. He as much as admitted it. But I’m not seeing anything that will let us tie him to her murder.”
    “What about Connolly’s boatshed?”
    Kincaid shifted uncomfortably. “Craig was surprised when I