No Mark Upon Her

Childs looming over him, Kincaid suddenly felt he might be felled by a mountain.
    “Because,” answered Childs, looking down at him, “ I am going to pay a call on retired Deputy Assistant Commissioner Craig.”
    He sighed, pinching his lips together in an expression of distaste. “I suppose I shall be obliged to take Superintendent Gaskill with me, although he won’t like it. But that way, Peter Gaskill, the little worm, will know he’s gone far enough.”
    “ You’re going to serve Angus Craig? An officer of your rank?”
    “No.” Childs sounded infinitely patient. “As one senior officer to another, I’m going to give Angus Craig the opportunity to come into the Yard and provide a DNA sample. Voluntarily. Just to clear this inconvenient little matter up.”
    He reached for the Burberry hanging neatly on the coat rack behind his desk. “It’s a necessary courtesy, Duncan. I’d be pilloried if I didn’t make the gesture. And—” Childs paused, and Kincaid once again saw a flash of the emotion that moved beneath his chief superintendent’s implacable facade, like a shark’s fin just breaking the surface.
    “And,” Childs went on, sounding profoundly unperturbed, “I want to see his face.”

Chapter Twenty-one

“O Looking-Glass creatures,” quoth Alice, “draw near!
’Tis an honour to see me, a favor to hear:
’Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea
Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”
—Lewis Carroll
Through the Looking Glass

    B y noon on Saturday, Charlotte’s birthday party was in full swing.
    Gemma thought the weather gods must be hovering somewhere nearby, because the day had once more dawned fine and clear. The air seemed to hold the anticipation of bonfires, and pumpkins appeared to have sprouted overnight on steps and in front of shops in Notting Hill.
    No ghoulies and goblins were attending the festivities at their house, however, as the guests who’d bothered with fancy dress were straight out of Lewis Carroll.
    Gemma’s friend and former landlady Hazel Cavendish had dressed her daughter, Holly, who was Toby’s age, in a white bunny costume. It was meant for Halloween, but did well enough for the White Rabbit.
    Wesley Howard had found, somewhere in the bowels of Portobello Market, an old morning coat with tails and a battered top hat. He’d decorated both hat and coat with colored ribbons, and with his dreadlocks springing up round the hat’s brim, he made a lovely Mad Hatter.
    Betty Howard had made Gemma a Queen of Hearts pinny as a surprise, and Toby had, of course, dressed himself as a pirate. When Gemma had gently informed him that there weren’t any pirates in Alice , Toby had replied, “It’s a silly book then.” Toby, Gemma suspected, was always going to march to his own drummer.
    Kit had reached the age where he thought himself too grown-up to wear fancy dress, but he was quite pleased with himself over having found a Mock Turtle T-shirt.
    And Charlotte, in her dress and hair bow, had gone so quiet and wide-eyed with excitement that Gemma feared she might be sick. She was like Kit in that way, and Kit seemed to understand. He’d taken her aside and asked her to help him in the kitchen, and after a few minutes with him she’d joined in playing with Toby and Holly, although she was still unusually subdued.
    It was a very adult party for a three-year-old, thought Gemma as she surveyed the gathering from the kitchen doorway. But Charlotte was in many ways more comfortable with adults than with other children, and Gemma now thought it just as well they’d kept the gathering to close friends and family.
    Gemma’s sister, Cyn, had begged off, saying that Brendon and Tiffani had a Halloween party they’d be devastated to miss. Gemma supposed she should feel offended that Charlotte’s birthday so obviously took second place, but in truth she was just relieved.
    But her parents had made the journey from Leyton. Gemma knew it had taken an enormous effort of persuasion on her mother’s part to convince her father to let hired help take over the bakery, especially on a Saturday, so she’d been fussing over them, trying to let them know she appreciated their presence.
    She’d settled them in the dining room with plates of finger sandwiches—cut carefully into hearts and spades by Kit—and cups of tea. When Erika Rosenthal joined them, she heard her father mutter something about being glad there wasn’t any of that “funny