No Mark Upon Her

voice said a tentative hello .
    “Sorry,” Kincaid said. “I was trying to reach Kieran. Is this his—”
    “Superintendent? It’s Tavie. He left his phone in my kitchen.” She sounded perplexed. “I can’t imagine why he’d—”
    “Do you know where he went?”
    “He left a note on my chalkboard. Something about ‘going to the cottage.’ Did he mean . . . her cottage? Becca Meredith’s? Why would he do that now?” There was a hint of hurt in Tavie’s voice.
    “He didn’t say?”
    “No. But—”
    “How long ago?”
    “He hadn’t come home when I left for the shops an hour ago, so I know it’s been less than that.”
    It suddenly seemed very important to Kincaid that Kieran wasn’t alone. “Did he take Finn?”
    “Yes, but he left Tosh here. Superintendent, what’s—”
    “Just stay there, Tavie. I can’t explain right now. And if Kieran comes back, tell him to call me. Right away. Don’t let him go anywhere else, and don’t let anyone in the house.”
    He hung up before she could ask anything more.
    Freddie was watching him as if he’d gone suddenly daft, but Doug had had no trouble following the one-sided conversation. “Where?” he asked.
    “Becca’s cottage. Freddie, do you have—”
    His phone rang, startling him. Thinking it was Kieran, he picked up with a rush of relief. “Thank God. What were—”
    “Duncan?”
    “Gemma?” he said, surprised. “Look, love, sorry, but I can’t talk—”
    “There’s something you should know,” she broke in. “I should have rung you sooner. There’s this guy, Ross Abbott. His wife—”
    “I know who Ross Abbott is.” Kincaid’s gut clenched. “How do you—never mind. What’s happened?”
    “I think he may have had a pretty good reason to kill Becca Meredith. And now he’s got a gun. I don’t know what he means to—”
    “I do,” said Kincaid.
    T he rumble of thunder came with a gust of rain and a spatter of wind, just as Kieran dug the key from beneath the flowerpot at the corner of the cottage.
    It was dark enough now that Kieran couldn’t see the approaching storm, but he didn’t need to—he could sense it. His head felt full, as if it might explode. Beside him, Finn whined. He knew the signs as well as Kieran.
    Kieran flinched as thunder cracked, nearer, but he rose unsteadily to his feet and said, “I’m going to be okay, boy.” He wasn’t going to let the damned weather keep him from doing what he’d come here for.
    The porch was dark, and he fumbled at the lock, wishing he’d brought his torch from the Land Rover. It had seemed odd to park on the verge in front of the cottage. Always before, he’d parked up by the church, so as, according to Becca, not to give the neighbors food for gossip.
    The lock clicked open and he stepped inside, Finn at his knee, and switched on the lights.
    As the lamps illuminated the familiar sitting room in a warm glow, Kieran’s heart contracted with the buffet of memories. He’d been so focused on his task he hadn’t realized how the cottage would feel with Becca gone.
    “Not just gone. Dead,” he said aloud, and steeled himself. The photo was on the shelf in the bookcase, just where he remembered. Crossing the room, he took it down and sat carefully on the sofa beside the lamp, Finn settling at his feet.
    Kieran held the photo between his hands, examining it, and the frozen faces captured in the photo stared back at him. He picked out Freddie, looking impossibly young, gazing into the camera with hungry defiance.
    Then, beside Freddie, the man he’d seen at the Red Lion. Younger, leaner, less heavy in the jaw, but unmistakably the same.
    And he remembered the story Becca had told him, the night she’d taken the photo down and held it under this very lamp. It was late summer, after dark, and they’d made love half on the sofa, half on the floor. Then, lazily curled up beneath a throw, they’d begun—of course—to talk about rowing. It was all they’d ever talked about, really.
    “Do you know how easy it is to nobble a rower before a race?” she’d asked.
    “I’ve heard of it being done,” he’d said. “I’ve never seen it happen. At least not that I know of.”
    “I have.” Slipping from beneath the blanket, she’d padded, naked, to the bookcase, and he’d admired the long, muscled line of her back. She took the photo down and came back to the sofa, snuggling under the blanket again, her bare shoulder resting against his.
    She’d touched the