No Mark Upon Her

the oar grips as if molded to them, and as the oars bit into the water at the catch, he felt the boat lift.
    Muscle memory took over. Drive, release, drive, release, and he was at one with the boat and the boat was singing over the water.
    Droplets slung from the rising oars spattered his face, the water a cold benediction. A bubble of joy rose in his chest, and he realized that not since he was a child had he rowed just for the pleasure of it.
    And then he saw that there was one place his skills might be of use. He had the old barn right on the river, a place that could be put to better use than luxury flats. It would, in fact, make a perfect boat builder’s workshop.
    He’d spent years talking investors into buying property. Why couldn’t he convince rowing enthusiasts to invest money in something much more useful—beautiful, one-of-a-kind boats. And in the builder who made them.
    If Kieran would have him as a partner.
    B y early Sunday evening, the Notting Hill household was a beehive of activity, not all of it productive.
    The boys were wound up over tomorrow’s return to school after half-term. Toby expressed this by imitating a human Ping-Pong ball, zooming round the house and sometimes literally bouncing off the walls.
    Kit, who had hardly spoken a word to anyone since their return from Glastonbury, was suddenly voluble, rattling on about a biology project he hadn’t finished and spreading books and papers all over the kitchen table, although Kincaid couldn’t detect any actual work being done.
    As for Gemma, ever since Kincaid had returned from the Yard, she’d been rushing round the house like a dervish, tidying, organizing, and making reams of complicated lists which she then tacked up on every available surface.
    Charlotte, unsettled by the activity, clung to Gemma whenever possible and periodically burst into tears. They had told her about the coming change in routine as casually as possible, just saying that she and Duncan would have some special time together for a few hours every day while Gemma went to the police station and the boys were at school.
    “You will remember that she doesn’t like Marmite?” said Gemma, sticking yet another list to the fridge door with a Quidditch-broom magnet. Aware that she was being talked about, Charlotte wrapped her arms round Gemma’s leg and whimpered. “Just butter on her toast in the morning,” Gemma went on, “and no marms in her orange juice.”
    “Marms?” Duncan shook his head over that one. Then, exasperated, he said, “For heaven’s sake, Gemma, you’re not going on the QE2. And none of this is rocket science. I’m sure we’ll manage perfectly well.”
    Gemma gave him a surprised glance, then suddenly looked so appalled that he was sure someone, somewhere, had made a critical mistake.
    “Dinner,” she said. “With everything else, I completely forgot. We’ve nothing for dinner.”
    “Pizza!” shouted Toby, and everyone else, including Kit, groaned.
    “Not again,” said Kit. “I don’t think I can face another pizza.”
    Kincaid grinned. “Never thought I’d hear that. The earth just rocked on its axis.” And, he thought, it was time that he started as he meant to go on. Opening the kitchen cupboard, he peered in. “There’s spaghetti and a jar of pasta sauce. Kit, the dogs need a run, if you can tear yourself away from your project. While you’re out, you can go to Tesco Express and pick up a salad and some Italian sausage.”
    Kit rolled his eyes at the project comment, but said, “Okay. No prob.”
    “Spag bol,” Toby chanted. “Spag bol, spag bol—”
    “That sounds disgusting,” Gemma scolded him, although she looked relieved at having had the dinner issue taken out of her hands. “Say it properly. Spaghetti bolognese .” She gave it an exaggerated Italian emphasis.
    “Sounds like eyeballs,” said Kit wickedly. “Eyeballs and worms, just in time for Halloween. Yum.”
    Charlotte began to wail. “Don’t want eyeballs.”
    But the boys were poking each other and dancing round the kitchen making scary noises, and that in turn made the dogs begin to bark.
    “Enough!” said Kincaid, his level of tolerance breached. He hadn’t quite shouted, but for a moment, at least, the pandemonium stopped.
    “Okay. Sorry, Dad.” Kit held out his hand. “But you have to gimme the cash, mon .”
    This time it was Kincaid who rolled his eyes, but he pulled a note from his wallet and handed it over.
    “I want