No Mark Upon Her

thought—”
    Wordlessly, Kieran walked to John’s shed and unlocked it. He pulled the double doors wide so that the afternoon light flooded in, then drew the tarp off the single. Becca’s single. It was unblemished, and even though he had made it, his heart leapt at the beauty of it.
    Freddie stared, first at the boat, then at him. “You built this? A wooden shell?”
    “I know most people don’t race in them anymore, but I thought if I made some design adjustments . . .”
    “You made this,” said Freddie, his voice little more than a whisper. He went closer, ran his hand over the silky wood of the hull, then touched the molded seat and moved it slightly on the runners. “For her.”
    Kieran nodded.
    “Did she know?”
    “No. I thought, when it was finished, I’d tell her . . . But I’m not sure I’d ever have shown it to her, to tell the truth. She might have laughed. Or worse, felt obligated to row in it.”
    For the first time, Freddie seemed at a loss. Shaking his head, he walked away. When he reached the lawn’s edge, he stood gazing at the river for a moment, then sank to the grass and wrapped his arms round his knees, like a child seeking comfort. Kieran saw a shudder run through his shoulders.
    Reluctantly, Kieran followed and hunkered down beside him, pushing away the dogs when they butted him.
    “I never made anything for her,” whispered Freddie. He lifted his head and rubbed the back of his fist across his wet cheeks. “I envy you that,” he added, and Kieran heard the bitterness.
    “I lied, you know, when I said I didn’t mind about the two of you,” Freddie went on. “Not that I had any right—but still, there it is.” He looked at Kieran. “Did you love her?”
    Slowly, Kieran nodded.
    “Did she love you?”
    There was nothing left for Kieran but to face it. After a long moment, he said, “No. I don’t think she did. But we had something that worked for a while . . . maybe because I didn’t ask anything of her. Because I knew she had nothing to give.”
    K incaid had asked Doug to send the witness statement and the request for a DNA comparison to a magistrate with whom he had often worked, a man he liked personally, and one he thought would not be influenced by Angus Craig’s threats.
    As he drove into London, he stopped at home and changed into his Paul Smith gray suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. It was the best he could do for armor.
    Gemma and all the children—according to the latest family update texted from Kit—were at their friend Erika Rosenthal’s, making German brown-sugar cookies for Charlotte’s party tomorrow.
    Kincaid had no excuse to tarry, and he knew he had to catch Chief Superintendent Childs before he left for the weekend.
    He drove to the Yard, gathered the file on Jenny Hart and a copy of Rosamond Koether’s statement from Doug, and took the lift up to Chief Superintendent Childs’s office.
    Childs’s secretary sent him straight in.
    The surface of his guv’nor’s desk was clear as usual, and as always, Childs didn’t seem to be doing anything. As Denis Childs was the most efficient superior officer he knew, Kincaid had sometimes wondered if the man simply had a computer wired to his brain.
    “Sir.” He gave Childs a nod in greeting.
    “Oh, dear,” said Childs, steepling his fingers. “How very formal of you.” He looked Kincaid up and down. “And the suit. Very nice, the conservative touch, but I suspect this means you’ve come to tell me something you think I won’t like. Do sit down, Duncan”—he waved at a chair—“and don’t pace about in my office again. It makes my neck hurt. What have you got there?” Childs’s eyes went to the papers in Kincaid’s hand.
    Sitting down, Kincaid handed over the file and statement. Then he crossed his ankles and folded his hands in his lap. It was a Childs pose, used by his boss to convey a complete lack of nerves, and Kincaid hoped he did it half as well.
    Childs went through the Jenny Hart case quickly, but with a slight frown, and Kincaid had the feeling he’d seen the material before. When he came to the end, he gave Kincaid a quick glance that might have been surprise.
    Then he turned to Rosamond Koether’s statement. As he read, he went very still. When he’d finished, he looked up at Kincaid.
    “Is this credible?”
    “According to Melody Talbot. And I have complete confidence in her judgment.”
    Childs settled back in his chair. “I sense Gemma’s hand in