No Mark Upon Her

Kieran’s call.
    “Maybe not as much as you’d think.” Kincaid was already dialing Freddie Atterton’s number. After a few rings, the call went to voice mail. Kincaid swore, but didn’t leave a message. Disconnecting, he turned to Cullen. “We’ll try the flat.”
    After a brief word with Owen Morris and DC Bell, they were on their way back to Henley.
    “So, is this a case of what the dog did in the night or what the dog didn’t do in the night?” asked Cullen as they turned into the Marlow Road at Hambleden Mill.
    Kincaid was not in the mood for flippancy. “We may never know why Edie Craig’s dog was loose two hours before the fire. But if Kieran Connolly says his dog was panicked, I believe him. I also believe someone tried to kill Connolly, and I’m not convinced it was Angus Craig.”
    “If Peter Gaskill and his cronies were Craig’s alibi for the attack on Connolly, I’m not sure I’d give the alibi too much credence,” argued Doug. “And it seems rather obvious that Craig liked to burn things up.”
    “Does it?” Kincaid braked hard behind a car with hire-car plates going miles below the limit. “Anybody can buy a tin of petrol. And I’d swear Craig didn’t know about the attack on Kieran. The bastard was too self-obsessed to be that good an actor.”
    “What about Becca Meredith?”
    “I’m still not certain we can fit him for it. The bartender at the pub in Hambleden had no reason to lie about the time Craig came in that evening. And Craig’s motive is still questionable, unless Becca found out about Jenny Hart, and I don’t think she did.”
    “Then—”
    “Damned if I know. But I’d feel a whole lot better if I had Freddie Atterton in my sight.”
    W hen Freddie buzzed them into the Malthouse and opened the door of his flat, Kincaid’s relief swiftly turned to anger. “Where the hell were you?” he said, pushing past Freddie without giving him a chance to invite them in. “Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”
    “I just didn’t pick up,” said Freddie, looking puzzled. “I was on long distance with Becca’s mother, making arrangements to meet her at the airport—”
    Kincaid waved him into silence. “Okay. But before that. You were at the Red Lion with another man—who was he?”
    “What? How did you—”
    “Kieran Connolly rang me.”
    “Oh, yeah, Kieran.” Freddie frowned. “I saw Kieran, all right. What was up with that? His dog, the lovely black Lab—he went absolutely bonkers. I thought he was going to take Ross down in the street. And then the other one, the Alsatian, went just as mad. I thought they were trained search dogs, not attack dogs.”
    “They are search dogs, and they’re very well socialized,” Kincaid said, frowning. “Which makes it even odder that Finn would go after your mate like that. Your friend—Ross. Tell me about him.”
    “I did. Remember? He’s my mate who took me to the mortuary. We’re old friends from Oxford.”
    That was right. Kincaid remembered Freddie saying something about a university friend who had taken him to make the formal identification of Becca’s body. “Kieran said you and your friend seemed to be arguing when he first saw you. Why?”
    “Ross kept asking me what I knew about Angus Craig. I told him the guy stood me up for a meeting, and I thought he was a right prick.
    “But Ross had had more than a few drinks, and he gets . . . stroppy. He said he couldn’t believe Becca never told me about Craig. He said”—Freddie stopped, color flushing his face—“he said he’d never realized I was blind and stupid.
    “He was always a bit of a shit, Ross, and to tell the truth I never thought he deserved to be in the bloody boat. But to say something like that—he can’t have been suggesting Becca had an affair with Craig. I don’t believe it.”
    “What did you tell him?” asked Kincaid, his mind racing.
    “Nothing. Kieran showed up with the dogs just then and all hell broke loose. And after that, Ross took off like the hounds of hell were after him. Can’t say I blame him, but—”
    “Why was your friend so interested in Angus Craig?” Kincaid broke in.
    “I’ve no idea. I didn’t even know he knew him. But I suppose it would make sense that Chris did.”
    “Chris?”
    “Ross’s wife. She’s a DCI with the Met, like Becca, though they worked in different divisions.”
    “Chris?” said Doug, his voice rising. “What’s her last name?”
    Freddie took a startled step