No Mark Upon Her

ring you back,” he said to Doug, and clicked over.
    Gemma didn’t give him an opportunity to say more than hello . Her words tumbled out on a rising wave of excitement. “We found something. Or I should say Melody did. Going through Sapphire’s unsolved rape records. The rape and murder of a female senior police officer. Six months ago. It fits his pattern.”
    When she came to a breathless halt, his hands had gone cold and he felt queasy. “Is there any proof?” he asked.
    “There might be a witness. The barmaid at the pub where the woman was drinking right before she was killed. We won’t be able to contact her until tomorrow.”
    “Have you or Melody spoken to anyone else about this?”
    “No, I didn’t—”
    “Well, don’t.” He knew his voice was sharp, but he had to make his point. “Call whoever you talked to at the pub and tell them not to speak to anyone about this—no, have Melody do it. I don’t want you involved any more than necessary. Where are you now?”
    “I’m just about to pick up Charlotte from Betty’s.”
    “Get Charlotte and go home,” he said, his voice grim. “Stay there. Don’t talk to anyone. Tell Melody not to talk to anyone. I don’t want this going any further until we know for certain if the barmaid can give us an ID.”
    “You think he’s really dangerous, don’t you?” Gemma sounded subdued now, the rush of excitement gone.
    “Yes. I do.” He thought of the venom, and the overweening arrogance, that had spewed from Angus Craig, and he wished he had never let Gemma anywhere near this case. “Just be careful, love. I’ll be home in an hour.”
    H e rang Doug as he drove back to London, filling him in on Gemma’s news and asking him to keep trying to reach Kelly Patterson.
    When he reached Notting Hill at last, he was glad to see their house, with its cheery red front door and the lights shining in the windows. He tried not to think about the fact that they were, at least in some sense, indebted to Denis Childs for it.
    Gemma greeted him as he walked in, brushing his lips with hers, then resting her cheek against his just an instant longer than usual. “Are you hungry?” she asked, stepping back. “It’s pizza again, I’m afraid. I stopped at Sugo’s on the way home.” With a little smile, she added, “We’re going to turn into pizzas if we’re not careful.”
    “Toby would be thrilled with that. What would he choose, do you think? Pepperoni?” Kincaid hung up his overcoat, fished from the boot of the Astra. He bent to stroke Geordie and Sid, their rather large black cat. Sid had developed a doglike sense of prescience regarding Kincaid’s arrival, and always seemed to have settled down nonchalantly for a nap on the hall bench just five minutes beforehand.
    “You’d be artichoke, then.”
    “Shhh. Don’t tell the children,” Kincaid said, making an effort at normalcy. “Maybe I’ll have to get a bit more inventive on the dinner front when I’m home full-time. I am, after all, going to be a proper househusband.”
    Gemma gave him a quick glance, a question in it, but merely said, “The children have been fed and the little ones bathed. Charlotte’s waiting for you to say good night. Artichoke and ham pizza warming in the oven for you, after.”
    “Right. Thanks, love.” The house was warm, and as he glanced into the sitting room, he saw that Gemma had lit the gas fire. The room, however, was empty. “Boys upstairs, then?
    “Supposed to be reading.” Gemma rolled her eyes. “Heaven knows what Toby’s really doing. Kit will be texting.”
    “Lally?”
    Gemma nodded. “I suspect we’re going to have to rethink the unlimited texting option.”
    They’d given Kit a basic mobile phone for his birthday at the end of June, both for safety reasons and because they’d hoped it would help him fit in better at school. However, hours spent texting his cousin Lally every day had not been what they had in mind. And while Kincaid loved his niece, he knew she was both emotionally volatile and needy. He didn’t think that much contact with her was healthy for Kit.
    “I’ll check on them.” He slipped off his suit jacket, hanging it on the coat rack next to his overcoat and the little ones’ macs, then climbed the stairs to Charlotte’s marigold-yellow bedroom on the first floor.
    He peeped through the half-open door. The bedside lamp was switched on low, casting a pool of light on the small huddle beneath the bedclothes. As he