No Mark Upon Her

Freddie’s eyes.
    If Freddie and Becca had stayed married, Angus Craig might never have had the opportunity to rape Becca. And Becca might not be dead.
    Kincaid looked round the cottage, realizing that when he’d been here the first time, on Tuesday evening, he’d had no knowledge of what had happened here.
    Now, in his mind’s eye, he saw again the crime-scene photos from Jenny Hart’s flat, and imagined this room, and Becca, violated. He felt sick.
    “What is it?” asked Freddie. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
    Kincaid met his eyes, and in that instant he made a decision. Freddie would have to know what had happened to Becca.
    But not yet. Because with knowledge would come rage, and if Freddie sought out Angus Craig, Kincaid had no way to protect him from the consequences.

Chapter Twenty

We are all proudly wearing the OUBC Race Day kit. Today we earn the highest sporting honour of our university, the Oxford Blue. Only a select number of sports are eligible and a Blue can be awarded only in competition against Cambridge . . . To be awarded the rowing Blue you must pass the Fulham Wall, about two minutes down the course. The cruelty of sinking would be doubled if it happened before that point. [David Livingston]
—David and James Livingston
Blood Over Water

    T he Churchill Arms was just as cluttered as Melody had described it. It was also packed, suffocatingly warm, and reeked of boiled veg and roasted meat.
    Gemma was early, so she’d slipped inside to absorb a bit of the atmosphere while she waited for Melody. Patrons were carrying drinks onto the pavement, so it was easy enough for her to stand to one side of the crush milling about the door. Having dressed casually, in a skirt and boots, she attempted a studied nonchalance, and thought it was a good thing she’d never had to work undercover.
    It was a beautiful, crisp day, and having asked Betty Howard to watch Charlotte and Toby for a few hours, Gemma had walked the short distance from Notting Hill to the Churchill Arms. She’d glanced down Campden Street, where Jenny Hart had lived, and like Melody, she’d felt chilled at the thought of the murderer striking so close to home. The initial call would have gone to Kensington Station; otherwise it would have come across Gemma’s desk. Not that she’d have got any further than the major crimes team that had eventually been assigned to the case. They’d done a good job with what they had.
    She kept thinking of Melody—young, attractive, single—a perfect target for Angus Craig. Maybe it was a good thing for Melody’s sake that Craig seemed to have upped his game, going after more senior female officers.
    Now, of course, Melody was forewarned, but there were too many other potential victims who were not. They needed to put the bastard out of action altogether, and soon.
    Gemma watched the waitstaff, moving busily between bar and kitchen and tables in the pub’s crowded rooms, and wondered which of the girls might be their witness.
    “Boss,” said Melody in her ear, and Gemma started. “You still look like a copper,” Melody added, giving her a quick and nervous smile.
    “Same to you. And you nearly gave me heart failure. Have you got the photos?”
    “Of course.” Melody touched her handbag, which was capacious enough to carry off a good bit of the pub’s Churchill memorabilia. “That’s the manager,” she added, nodding at a tall young woman behind the bar. “Theresa.”
    “And the other girl?” Gemma asked.
    “Let’s find out. And I’m just going to introduce you as my colleague, okay? No names. Just in case—well, let’s not go there.”
    Gemma stopped her friend with a touch on the arm. “Melody, are you sure about this? It could mean—you could seriously damage your career by doing this. Or worse.”
    “If she doesn’t ID him, we’ve nothing to lose. It was just a dead-end Sapphire lead. If she does give us a positive, I’ll do whatever it takes. Same as you.” Melody’s conviction was absolute.
    “Right,” said Gemma, and followed her to the bar. She stood back as Melody talked to the manager. The noise level in the pub was so high that she caught only a few words, but when she saw the manager nod towards the girl who was pulling pints at the bar’s far end, her heart sank.
    The barmaid was plump and freckled, with bleached blond hair pulled up in a knot on top of her head, and a splatter of colorful tattoos down her bare arms. When she came over,