No Mark Upon Her

familiar walls of his office, thinking how many years this job had defined him, and wondering who he would be without it.
    And thinking about what had happened the previous afternoon, and how near any one of them might have come to tragedy.
    He’d spent the better part of Saturday evening interviewing Ross Abbott at Thames Valley headquarters.
    Once subdued and hauled off to the Thames Valley nick, Abbott had gone quiet and refused to say another word without representation.
    Studying Abbott in the custody suite, Kincaid had seen the mask come down, the man’s desperation and viciousness wiped away by the cool, plausible, and highly affronted City banker. But there was no hiding the calculation in Abbott’s eyes, and his story, when his slightly befuddled solicitor had finally arrived, had been a masterful work of invention.
    He had, he said, been deeply worried about his grieving friend, after Freddie’s irrational behavior earlier that afternoon at the Red Lion. Having not found Freddie at home, he’d gone to the cottage looking for him.
    Then, seeing a strange car out front and the cottage door standing slightly ajar, he’d suspected a burglar and had felt obliged to go in. He’d then been threatened by Kieran and his mad dog, and had tried to defend himself.
    As for the gun, he said he’d grabbed it from the drawer in Rebecca Meredith’s sideboard, when he’d been searching for something to defend himself against the lunatic with the dog.
    “And then you and your mate”—he gave a pointed look at Kincaid and Doug—“came barging in and failed to identify yourselves as police officers. I thought you were part of the gang.”
    “Gang?” Kincaid said. He’d looked down at his now definitely worse-for-wear Saturday clothes—muddy chinos, soggy button-down shirt and pullover—and thought wistfully of his soaked leather jacket, hanging up to dry in an anteroom. And Doug, with one earpiece of his glasses bent from the scuffle to subdue Abbott, his now-dry fair hair sticking up like a schoolboy who had just got out of bed, looked even more unlikely. “Gang?” Kincaid repeated, brows elevated as high as they would go. If Abbott could dramatize, he could do him one better. Not even Abbott’s solicitor could repress a smile.
    “I think perhaps you need your eyes examined, Mr. Abbott,” Kincaid continued. They had not actually identified themselves as police, so he stepped carefully over that one for the moment.
    “As for the gun, your wife has already told police that it was her illegally obtained firearm, and that you took it from the house without her knowledge. That, in my book, goes down as intent to harm.”
    He’d then reiterated, for the tape, what they knew about Becca Meredith’s visit to the Abbotts’ the previous Saturday, and why Abbott had then put in motion a plan to murder her.
    “Bollocks,” said Abbott. “Absolute bollocks. And you can’t prove a bit of it.”
    “Oh, I think we can. And we can prove you attacked Kieran Connolly. We’ve impounded your car, and a forensics team have taken your clothes from your house, as well as your single scull from Henley Rowing Club. I know you think you’re clever, Mr. Abbott, but there will be traces you missed. You will have left fiber at the scene of Becca Meredith’s murder, and perhaps petrol in the boat. Not to mention the fact that Kieran Connolly will identify you as the man he saw lying in wait in the spot where Meredith was killed.
    “As for what happened at the Remenham cottage, you have four very credible witnesses who will be happy to testify as to your actions and intent.”
    He spoke, however, with more conviction than he felt. A good defense barrister could get round trace evidence unless it was DNA—juries loved DNA—and he’d heard from Gemma that Chris Abbott was already denying everything she’d told Gemma and Melody, including possession of the gun.
    It would be a long and painstaking business to put together a case against Abbott that would stick, but at least the man would do no further damage.
    The medics who had arrived at the cottage along with the police had been surprised to find they had a canine rather than a human patient, but they were Tavie’s colleagues and had willingly loaded Finn, Tavie, and Kieran into the ambulance. Tavie had arranged for the vet who worked with the SAR team to meet them at her clinic.
    DC Imogen Bell had arrived with the local coppers and offered quite solicitously to give