No Mark Upon Her

Gemma. “Although I doubt that was how he thought it would play out.”
    They were running along the river now, passing Barnes railway bridge. It was, Gemma realized, the last major landmark on the Boat Race course. Had Abbott been drawn to this village because she was a rower?
    “It’s White Hart Lane,” Melody directed. “On your left, then the address is down near the far end.”
    The street was narrow, lined with a mixture of expensive-looking shops and boutiques and charming terraced houses. And cars, which all seemed to be monstrously large SUVs. “Yummy-mummy territory, all right,” Gemma muttered as she looked for a parking space. She’d passed the address Melody had given her by a good distance when she saw a car pull out. She put on her signal and maneuvered the Escort into the spot.
    “Top marks on the parallel parking,” teased Melody as Gemma killed the engine, but even as she spoke, she was tucking her dark hair behind one ear and checking the contents of her handbag, signs that she was keyed up. “Do we know what we’re going to say?” she asked.
    “We’ll wing it,” said Gemma. “It’s your show.”
    A moment after Gemma rang the bell, there was a twitch at the wooden blinds of the neat terraced house. Then a thin blond woman opened the door. She wore tight designer jeans and an expensive-looking top, but the polished effect was marred by her harried frown and unfriendly gaze.
    “Can I help you?” she snapped.
    “DCI Abbott?” asked Melody. She showed her warrant card. “DC Talbot, Notting Hill. And this is DI James. If we could just have a quick word?”
    No amount of neatly applied makeup could conceal the terror that washed over Chris Abbott’s face at the sight of their warrant cards. “What’s happened? My boys—are they all right? My husband—oh, God, Ross—”
    “Your sons are fine,” Melody hastened to reassure her. “And your husband. But we do need to speak to you. If we could come in?”
    Abbott slumped and touched the doorjamb for an instant’s support, as if the relief had hit her almost as hard as the panic.
    Then she dropped her hand and stared at them suspiciously, the copper in her taking over as she seemed to notice their casual clothes and obvious lack of official presence. And she was, Gemma guessed, taking into account the fact that she outranked them.
    The curious glance from a neighbor jogging by seemed to decide Abbott. She shrugged and said, “All right. I can give you five minutes. I have to pick up my sons. That’s why I was worried. They’re at a friend’s, and you never know what could happen.”
    It was just a bit more explanation than necessary, a sign of nerves, Gemma thought. And, she thought, a detective chief inspector should certainly have known better.
    They stepped inside at Abbott’s grudging gesture, and Gemma looked round with interest.
    The house would fetch a high price, even post-recession, because of the area and the amenities. But it was still small, and the sitting room seemed overstuffed with large leather furniture and a coffee table the size of a boulder. A media center, anchored by a flat-panel television that rivaled the sofa in scale, took up an entire wall.
    And although the shelving on the media center was packed with DVDs, there were no books in sight. Nor was there any of the childish detritus that littered Gemma and Duncan’s house, although at a second glance she realized that one of the cubbyholes in the entertainment center held a toy basket.
    Still, the place seemed sterile somehow, as if it never saw the ordinary flow of family life.
    But the wall opposite the media center held evidence of the children—framed family photos. Mum, dad, and the two small boys, all looking unnaturally neat, all with the kind of frozen smiles that made one’s jaws ache.
    In most of them, Chris Abbott looked tense, and she held the boys’ shoulders in what looked like a restraining grip. Abbott’s husband, a tall man with thinning hair and a heavy face that fell just short of handsome, rested his arm on his wife’s shoulders in a gesture that seemed to Gemma more possessive than protective.
    As for the two children, the older boy was dark-haired and resembled his father, while the smaller son was gingery-fair.
    The dark blue Oxford oar mounted above the photos seemed disproportionately large, as if it were intended to dwarf the family.
    Melody, who was not easily intimidated by rank, money, or pretentious furniture,