No Mark Upon Her

suddenly aware of the particular early-morning feel of the house. He imagined it as a quietly slumbering beast, waiting for its heart to wake—its exhalations rich with accumulated scents of tea and toast and dogs and the faint mist of children’s breath.
    He was quite pleased with his fancy, and himself, when he reached the front door undetected. But then he heard the click of toenails on the floor tiles.
    Turning, he saw that Geordie had followed him downstairs. The dog looked up at him, his tail wagging, his eyes filled with the soulful reproach only a cocker spaniel can achieve.
    Kincaid squatted and rubbed his ears. “I can’t take you out just now,” he whispered. “Go back to bed.”
    Geordie cocked his head, his tail wagging harder. Kincaid gave his head a last pat. “Nothing gets past you, does it, sport? Keep an eye on Gemma for me, that’s a good—”
    He stood, staring at the dog. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
    I t was fully light by the time Kincaid reached Henley. As he passed over the bridge, he saw the rowing eights going out from Leander, like a many-legged flotilla. The morning was cold, clear, and still—perfect rowing weather, he assumed. But it wasn’t rowers he wanted to speak to at the moment.
    His first stop was the incident room at Henley Police Station.
    DI Singla was there, as was the unfortunately named DC Bean, but the industry of the past few days seemed to have dissipated and the room had a sleepy air. There was little new information for the team to work with, and nothing he could add. Yet.
    He was about to ask for DC Bell when she came in, looking rumpled and bleary-eyed.
    “Sir.” She nodded at him as she sank into a chair, cradling a plastic cup of coffee in her hands as if she needed its transitory warmth.
    “Rough night?” he asked.
    Imogen Bell blushed. “I was concerned about Mr. Atterton, sir. I watched the flat.”
    Kincaid stared at her. “All night?”
    “Yes, sir. From my car. I parked by the main gate.”
    No wonder she looked as though she’d slept in her clothes—she had, or at least had spent the night in them. Kincaid was impressed, although he wasn’t sure if she had demonstrated the makings of a very good police officer or a very big crush. Possibly both.
    “Commendable,” he said. “Did he come home?”
    “No, sir.” She looked utterly dejected. “And he’s still not answering his mobile.”
    DI Singla broke in. “We’ve confirmed Atterton’s overseas phone call to Mrs. Meredith on Wednesday evening, both from the phone records and by speaking to Mrs. Meredith. They talked for forty-two minutes. Atterton could not possibly have burned Kieran Connolly’s boatshed unless he has the ability to be in two places at once. Or he and his former mother-in-law are in cahoots,” Singla added thoughtfully. “I suppose he could have answered her call, then left the phone off the hook—”
    “While he walked or drove to the place where he borrowed or stole a single scull, rowed to the island, tossed the Molotov cocktail, returned the boat, and made it back to the flat to hang up the phone, all in forty-two minutes?”
    “I’ll admit it’s unlikely,” agreed Singla. “And I can’t imagine why Rebecca Meredith’s mother would have agreed to such a thing, unless she and Atterton knew the disposition of Rebecca’s will and planned to share the estate. As far as we’ve been able to ascertain, however, Mrs. Meredith has no need of her daughter’s money or property.”
    “Not to mention that such a scenario is based on Freddie Atterton having killed Becca, and we know forensics found no corroborating evidence at the scene.”
    “But what about Mr. Atterton?” said Bell. “Should we report him missing?”
    Kincaid considered. He wished he had Cullen as a sounding board, but he’d asked Doug to stay behind in London in case Melody—and Gemma—needed backup. “Let’s give it a bit longer,” he told Bell. “Have you tried Leander?”
    “Not since yesterday evening.”
    “Why don’t you check with them again? I’ve someone I want to have a word with, then we’ll reconvene.” He started to turn away, but something was puzzling him. “DC Bell, did Freddie give you any reason why he’s so anxious to get the Filippi back?”
    “He said . . .” She frowned, as if trying to recall the exact words. “He said it was the only thing he could fix.”
    H aving left Notting Hill without breakfast, Kincaid briefly considered