No Mark Upon Her

have some cake.”
    Wesley and Kit were already slicing and serving while Betty and Hazel poured tea and punch and mulled wine, and the room was soon abuzz with laughter and conversation.
    Charlotte, however, refused to eat cake, and instead carried her little bottle round the room for everyone to examine.
    Gemma wondered if Charlotte remembered her last birthday, if her parents had made her a cake and sung to her. There was no way of knowing, unless Sandra Gilles had recorded it in her journals or photos, and those were locked away as an inheritance for Charlotte when she was old enough to appreciate them.
    But Charlotte had a new family now, Gemma told herself, and they had their own memories to make.
    Hazel appeared beside her and gave her a quick hug. “Great party.” Leaning closer, she turned Gemma slightly to one side and whispered in her ear. “Tell me if I’m seeing things.”
    Gemma looked where Hazel directed, and saw Charlotte leaning on Gemma’s dad’s knee. He was holding out his teacup as Charlotte added a few imaginary drops from her brown bottle. Then he mimed drinking a sip, and Charlotte giggled. He scrunched down in his chair, as if shrinking, and this time Charlotte gave a peal of laughter.
    “Well, I never,” murmured Gemma, closing her mouth from a gape. Her dad had never played with her or Cyn like that, at least that she could remember, or with Toby, or Cyn’s kids. “Will wonders never cease.”
    She looked round for Duncan, wanting to share the moment with him, but he had migrated into the kitchen with Doug and Melody.
    Wandering in, she caught a fragment of conversation.
    “ . . . nothing,” Doug was saying. “If a DNA sample was submitted, it hadn’t come through the system last time I checked this morning.”
    They were talking about Angus Craig.
    Gemma hesitated at the edge of the room. For one jealous moment, she wanted to shut out any thought of Angus Craig and the things he had done. She wanted to keep her family encased in the safe, bright bubble of the last hour, and pretend that it was impenetrable.
    But she knew better.
    “Oh,” said Doug. “I did find out what Becca Meredith did on that last Friday afternoon. I finally tracked down Kelly Patterson this morning, at Dulwich Station.
    “She didn’t want to talk to me—can’t say I blame her. But when I asked, she decided she didn’t see any harm in telling me that the Vice cop who came into West London Station that day was called Chris Abbott. Becca introduced her as an old mate from uni. I didn’t have a chance to—” He stopped as Kincaid pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans.
    “Sorry,” Kincaid said. “I’ve got to—” Then he had the phone to his ear, and he turned away, covering his other ear to cut down on the ambient noise.
    Gemma saw him nod, and she assumed he made some reply before ringing off. Then he stood for a moment, his back to them.
    When he turned, his face had drained of color.
    “That was Denis,” he said. His eyes sought Gemma’s. “Angus Craig’s house burned to the ground in the early hours of the morning. Both he and his wife are presumed to have been in it.”

Chapter Twenty-two

They’d met one morning out on the river, when their two sculls nearly collided in mid-stream.
—Daniel J. Boyne
The Red Rose Crew: A True Story of Women, Winning, and the Water

    K incaid could smell the fire as they came into Hambleden, even with the car windows closed.
    He and Cullen had driven from London in grim silence, Doug looking slightly green in the passenger seat, Kincaid unwilling even to speculate until he knew exactly what had happened.
    “I could have done without the mulled wine,” Doug said now.
    Kincaid nodded agreement, suspecting that he would regret even the slice of birthday cake and the cup of punch he’d finished before Childs’s phone call. He kept thinking of Edie Craig, who had been kind and gracious to him when it hadn’t been necessary.
    He’d known they should have had Craig brought in, but this—he hadn’t expected this.
    The narrow village streets were chockablock with cars, the pub car park filled to overflowing—certainly more than the usual Saturday crowd. Tragedy always made for good business.
    There were even a few bystanders in the road itself. Kincaid had to beep the horn and motion them aside as he reached the drive to the Craigs’ house.
    Rolling down the window, he flashed his warrant card to the uniformed constable blocking the