No Mark Upon Her

sweeties,” chimed in Toby. “I want to go.”
    “No. And no.” Kincaid was not going to hear any argument. “You get your books in your backpack for school in the morning.”
    Kit called the dogs, and when Kincaid heard the sound of their nails clicking on the bare floor, he suddenly realized he’d forgotten all about Edie Craig’s dog. Barney.
    Going into the hall, he fished in his jacket pocket until he found the crumpled piece of paper with the neighbor’s name on it. The files hadn’t revealed any close kin for either of the Craigs, but something would have to be done about the dog.
    He’d take Charlotte to Hambleden, he decided, one day when the boys were at school. He’d talk to the barman at the pub again, and perhaps the vicar. And if no one in the village wanted Barney, perhaps Tavie would know someone who did.
    It seemed the least he could do for Edie Craig, and he felt, once again, how badly he had failed her.
    “Dad?” said Kit softly. He’d clipped on the dogs’ leads but had stopped at the door, watching him. “You okay?”
    “I’m fine.” Kincaid smiled and tucked the paper back in his pocket, but this time he folded it neatly. “You’d better hurry or there’ll be riots below decks.”
    He watched Kit and the dogs out the door, then went back into the kitchen, trying to remember where he’d seen an onion and some garlic for the spaghetti sauce. He would get the hang of this, he thought, with a little practice.
    “The yellow bowl to the right of the sink,” said Gemma, and grinned at him.
    “How did you—”
    But before he got any further, her phone rang. He knew, even before she answered, what the call was.
    While she retrieved the mobile from beneath Kit’s schoolwork, Kincaid shooed Toby from the room. “Go put your jammies out on the bed,” he said. “You can have the skull ones, for Halloween.”
    Then he detached Charlotte from Gemma’s leg, hefting her onto his hip. “If you’re really, really good,” he whispered in her ear, “we’ll play airplane after dinner. Or maybe before,” he amended, thinking perhaps that flying a child upside down after spag bol was not the best idea.
    “Before,” said Charlotte firmly, for entirely different reasons.
    “Oh, hi, Mark, how are you?” Gemma was saying. She sounded pleased but a little uncertain.
    Mark Lamb, Kincaid thought. Gemma’s boss, and his old police-college mate. They’d made Lamb emissary.
    Gemma was listening, nodding, but her face had gone very still.
    “I’ll read you a story after dinner, then,” Kincaid murmured to Charlotte.
    “Alice?”
    “Alice always.” He wondered how soon he would know the entire book by heart. “Always Alice.”
    Charlotte giggled and buried her face against his shoulder.
    “Right,” said Gemma into the phone. She was looking at him now, her brows lifted in surprise. “That’s too bad,” she responded to the faint voice issuing from the mobile’s speaker. “But of course I’ll be glad to help out. Right. Lambeth. Tomorrow morning. First thing. Thanks, sir. I’ll see you, then.”
    Gemma clicked off, then stood with the phone still in her hand, staring at it with a stunned expression.
    Then she looked up at Kincaid, and the smile lit her face like a sunrise.
    “I’ve got a new job,” she said.

Acknowledgments

    B ooks are a little like children—it takes a village to make one, and my village spans the Atlantic.
    Many thanks to all who have provided help, support, and encouragement on both sides of the Pond, but especially to:
    The staff, crew, and members of Leander Club, Henley-on-Thames, particularly Kerry Smith, Mariam Lewis, Nick Aitchinson, Paul Budd, and Graham Hall, all of whom were unfailingly generous with their time, hospitality, and advice.
    A very special thanks to Steve Williams, OBE, two-time Olympic gold medalist and former captain of Leander, who not only gave me insight into the life and mind of an elite rower but risked life and limb by taking me out on the Thames in a rowing shell. It was an experience I will never forget, and the book is much the better for it.
    Ian Richardson is responsible for introducing me to Leander; Rosalie Stevens, for touring me around Barnes—a huge thanks to you both.
    For assistance with K9 Search and Rescue, I owe much to Susannah Charleson for her patience in answering my questions in the early stages of the book. Daryl and Niki Toogood of Berkshire Search and Rescue (with treats and wags to Guinness