No Mark Upon Her

element of hero worship had crept into Bell’s voice.
    “She was that,” Kincaid agreed. “But she was also very human, and I suspect that right now Freddie is not inclined to remember her flaws. But we mustn’t forget that she had them.”
    As he spoke, Kincaid watched Gemma, who had stood and was quietly putting plates and cups in the sink as she listened to his side of the conversation.
    She could be obstinate, he thought, cataloging his wife’s faults. Impulsive. Quick to judge, quick to speak her mind, quick to care passionately about things and people. Slow to make commitments unless she knew she could keep them.
    “And he adored her. He wouldn’t have her any other way.
    He wondered if Rebecca Meredith had wanted to be loved for her flaws as much as for her accomplishments—and if she’d realized, too late, that she’d had that and had given it up.
    “Right,” said Bell, sounding unconvinced. “When we’d finished, it was getting on for supper, and there was nothing left in the fridge but sour milk and some beer. I said I’d go to the shops. He—Atterton—seemed so . . . lost. He couldn’t even put together a shopping list, so I . . . I went to Sainsbury’s.” Bell paused again.
    “And?” Kincaid prompted.
    “When I got back, he was gone.”
    “Just gone? On foot? By car? You’re certain he wasn’t in the flat?”
    “I knocked and rang, then I tried his mobile and the landline. By that time I was getting seriously worried, so I tracked down the building manager and had him let me in. I was afraid . . . I was afraid of what I might find. But he wasn’t there. There was nothing disturbed, no note. His car keys were still on the console table by the door. He seems to have just walked out and not come back.”
    “Was he drinking?”
    “No. In fact, he poured the remains of a bottle of good scotch down the sink. Said the smell made him feel ill.”
    At least it didn’t sound as if Atterton had gone off on a bender, Kincaid thought. To Bell, he said, “Keep trying to reach him. You did the right thing, helping him out this afternoon and ringing me. But Freddie Atterton’s a grown man and we’ve no right to restrict his movements unless we’ve charged him with something.”
    “We’re not going to, are we?” asked Bell. “Charge him, I mean.”
    “The SOCOs found no evidence linking him to the scene of the murder, so at the moment, I doubt it.” He sounded more certain than he felt. “Was there anything else today?” he asked. “Anything you talked about that was out of the ordinary?”
    There was silence while Imogen Bell thought. Then she said, “He kept asking about the boat, wanting to know when he could have it back. I told him I thought the SOCOs were almost finished with it. I hope that was okay.”
    Kincaid frowned. “I don’t see why not—although he won’t have any legal right to the boat until the will has been processed.”
    When he’d rung off, Gemma sat down across from him again and poured herself a bit of the Bordeaux. “Becca’s ex-husband’s gone missing, I take it?” she asked. “Do you think he’s all right?”
    “He doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type,” Kincaid said. “And DC Bell, who was looking after him, said he kept asking about the Filippi, Becca’s racing shell. Why would he want to know when he could have the boat back if he was going to kill himself?”
    “You don’t think—” Now it was Gemma who hesitated. “You don’t think he’s in any danger, do you?”
    Kincaid thought of the measures Craig and Gaskill and their shadowy cronies were willing to take to keep secrets. “I hope not,” he said.
    K incaid didn’t sleep well. He lay, feeling the weight of Gemma’s leg against his, inhaling the scent of her lilac bath soap, and worrying about Freddie Atterton—and about Gemma—until well into the wee hours of the morning.
    He must have dozed at last, but he woke again when the panes in the bedroom windows began to lighten almost imperceptibly with the coming dawn.
    Carefully easing his feet from under Geordie, who slept stretched out across the foot of the bed, Kincaid got up, showered, and dressed. When he was ready, he bent and kissed the corner of Gemma’s mouth. “I’m going to Henley,” he whispered.
    “What?” She opened sleepy eyes. “What’s happened?”
    “Nothing. Shhh. Go back to sleep. I’ll ring you.”
    He crept down the stairs, trying not to wake the children, and found that he was