No Mark Upon Her

still. But before anything else, she had to speak to her parents.
    While Melody pulled out her phone, Gemma went into the dining room and knelt by her mum and dad. She was pleased to see that her mum was still looking bright.
    “Mum, Dad. I’m so sorry, but something’s come up. Melody and I have to go.”
    “Something always comes up with you,” said her dad.
    Her mother gave him a quelling glance. “Is it that business of Duncan’s?”
    “I think it might be connected, yes.” Seeing the beginning of Vi’s worried frown, Gemma hastened to reassure her. “It’s just an interview, Mum. But it needs to be done now.”
    Her mother’s gaze went to the sitting room, where the three small children had subsided into playing a game on the floor with Toby’s cars. “What about Charlotte? It’s her birthday and all.”
    “I know, Mum. But I won’t be gone that long. I’ll ask Hazel or Betty to look—”
    “We can stay,” said her dad. “Can’t we, Vi?”
    Gemma stared at her father as if he’d just spoken in a foreign tongue.
    Her mum looked just as surprised, but recovered more quickly. “Well, that we could, Ern. That’s a good idea. If it’s all right with Gemma, of course.”
    “There’s nothing I’d like better.” She gave her mum, then her dad, a kiss on the cheek, and she could have sworn she saw her father’s lips twitch in a smile. “You’re sure you’ll be all right? You know Toby can be—”
    “Stop fussing,” said Vi. “We’re his grandparents, in case you’ve forgotten. We’ve looked after him since he was a tot. Just mind you take—”
    “Boss.” Melody stood in the hall, her phone still clasped in her hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you should see this.”
    When Gemma joined her, Melody showed her the photo she’d pulled up on the phone’s screen. A young blond woman in rowing gear smiled into the camera. The caption read “Christine Hunt; St. Catherine’s College.”
    “I should have done my research,” said Melody. “Chris Abbott, née Hunt. I should have seen the rowing connection.”
    Gemma frowned. “Why would you have looked for it?”
    “Because,” said Melody, “that’s my job. I should have checked for any previous link between Becca Meredith and any of the women who showed up in the Sapphire files. I let myself get distracted by the Hart case. I thought we’d hit eureka.”
    “We all did. And we don’t know that this Chris Abbott has anything to do with Becca Meredith’s death.”
    “So.” Melody lowered her voice. “Are you going to let Duncan know we’re going to see her?”
    Gemma debated only for a moment. “No. He’d tell us not to go.”
    K ieran had spent most of Saturday at the boatshed, armed with plywood to cover the broken windows, a broom, and industrial size rubbish bags.
    After his talk with Freddie Atterton the day before, he’d felt oddly heartened. He could at least make a stab at clearing up. Then he could assess the extent of the damage. Maybe, just maybe, he could put himself, and his business, back together again.
    In the meantime, he feared he was becoming frighteningly domestic. Tavie had ended up working a double rota last night, filling in for a crewmate who’d called in sick at the last minute. She’d come home early in the morning, exhausted and reeking of smoke. She said she’d been called to a fire scene in Hambleden—a retired police commissioner’s house, no less—but the fire had been too far advanced for the medics to get in.
    “I’m so glad you were here, Kieran,” she’d said, collapsing into one of the dining chairs while Tosh tried to lick her soot-stained face. “I’d have been calling in every favor I had to get someone to see to Tosh.”
    He knew she had an arrangement with a neighboring teenager who came in to look after the dog during the day, but she had no backup for a short-notice night rota.
    “And besides,” she added, smiling at him, “it’s nice to see a friendly face. No recriminations.”
    He looked at her, puzzled. “Why should there be?”
    “There. You see?” She shook her head. “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about. You don’t seem to think a woman should know her place.”
    “Tavie, if it weren’t for you, I’d be—”
    “Oh, shut up.” She waved away his gratitude. “You can cook, can’t you? Eggs and toast? And tea?”
    Nodding, he said, “Yeah, although no one ever said it was gourmet.”
    “I don’t care. Make me some. That’s a