No Mark Upon Her

all about the crew crap. That was fine for you, because you were better than the rest of us. Did you think I didn’t know you were sneering at me?” Ross bared his teeth in a smile. “I’ve wanted to hurt you for fifteen years, and now I’ll be more than happy to shoot you, too.”
    The gun steadied, leveled at Freddie.
    Kincaid tensed, calculating how fast he could reach Ross, praying Freddie would keep him focused a moment longer.
    But it was Kieran who spoke. “Why are you talking about Craig and this bastard’s wife? He killed Becca because she knew the truth about him.”
    Ross swung back towards Kieran, but Kieran seemed oblivious to the gun. “He cheated in the Boat Race,” he said. “Becca told me. He sabotaged another rower to get his position, and he lost Oxford the race. But his wife was Becca’s friend, and Becca promised her she wouldn’t tell.”
    “That bitch,” Ross shouted. The gun wobbled, then steadied again, this time aimed at Kieran. “That’s a lie, you—”
    But Freddie moved towards him, his voice cold with disgust. “So that’s what it was, Ross. Did you slip him laxatives? I always suspected, you know. It was just too convenient, that food poisoning, but I couldn’t just come out and accuse a crewmate, could I? It wouldn’t have been sporting, and we couldn’t have that.
    “But Becca—so Becca knew all along.” Freddie didn’t hide his satisfaction. “Becca used it against you in the end, didn’t she? When Chris refused to help her bring down Craig, she threatened to tell.
    “And that was the one thing you knew would ruin you utterly, wasn’t it, Ross, old buddy? You betrayed your boat, your crewmates. No one would touch you if they knew. You’d have been blackballed for life. You’ve been trading on that Blue for fifteen years, with all your deals and your sucking up to anyone it impressed, and she was going to take it all away from you. So you killed her, you sniveling little cow—”
    “Shut up.” Ross looked round wildly, then turned back to Freddie. “Just shut the fuck—”
    But Freddie came closer. “And you needed that next deal desperately, didn’t you, Ross? Everything was crumbling. Your credit card wasn’t declined by mistake in the bar, was it? You were the one drowning.”
    One look at Ross Abbott’s expression told Kincaid that if Freddie had meant to make Ross give up, the strategy had gone horribly wrong. Behind Freddie, he saw Doug’s white, frightened face, and he knew he had to stop this, whatever the cost.
    “Ross, we can work this—” he began, but Freddie seemed determined to throw petrol on the fire.
    “You don’t seriously think you’re going to kill all of us and walk away?” Freddie taunted him. “After what you’ve done?”
    “Just watch me,” said Ross, and pointed the gun at Freddie’s chest.
    There was a flurry of motion as Finn managed to free himself from Kieran’s grasp. A black blur, the dog launched himself at Ross.
    Ross spun and fired, more from surprise than intent, it seemed to Kincaid in a fraction of disjointed thought.
    The dog went down with a squeal of pain. Ross staggered back towards the door, as if shocked by the gun’s recoil, and Kieran sprang to his feet with a scream of rage and horror.
    Kincaid dived towards Ross, aiming for his gun arm, just as another figure hurtled through the front door, swinging a long stick.
    He, no — his brain registered, she —Tavie, it was Tavie, and it wasn’t a stick, it was an oar. The oar made a thwacking sound as it connected with Ross’s shoulder. The gun flew out of his hand, skittering across the floor and under a table.
    Kincaid plowed into Ross. He heard the grunt of pain and the whoosh of exhaled breath as Ross hit the floor beneath him. Then Kincaid had him pinned, and Freddie and Doug were piling onto him, grabbing for Ross’s thrashing arms and legs. Freddie got Ross by his thinning hair and smacked his head against the floor.
    “Stop! Both of you, stop! Just hold him,” Kincaid shouted, but Freddie, his face tight with fury, got in another good thump.
    Tavie stood over them like a small ninja, the oar raised to strike again, but the cracks on the head seemed to have stunned Ross momentarily.
    “Hold him,” grunted Kincaid, reaching for his belt. Ross had gone down on his stomach, and Kincaid meant to keep him that way. Handcuffs, he thought. Why did he never have bloody handcuffs?
    Then Tavie lowered the oar and reached in her pocket.