No Mark Upon Her

detective superintendents—not on holiday—who could certainly have represented the Met. “Maybe,” she said, trying to muster some conviction.
    “The officer whose body they found—did you know her?” Melody asked.
    Gemma shook her head. “No. At least the name didn’t ring a bell, and I didn’t actually see her face. But Duncan said she worked out of West London.”
    “West London?” Looking suddenly sober, Melody straightened in her chair and pushed her wineglass away. “That’s a bit close to home, isn’t it?”
    “T ell your constable to keep him there. I’m on my way,” Kincaid told Singla, then rang off and repeated what he’d been told to Milo Jachym. “Did Becca Meredith remarry?”
    “No. It must be Freddie. He—they were still very close. I don’t think Freddie ever really came to terms with the divorce. Look, let me go with you. A friend should break the news.”
    Kincaid considered, then shook his head. “No. I want to speak to him first.”
    “But someone should see he’s all right—he’s got no family nearby—”
    “All right. Give me half an hour with him first, then.” He stood, then turned back to Milo with a warning look. “And please, don’t ring him until I’ve had a chance to talk to him.”
    K incaid drove down Remenham Lane, following the directions Milo had given them to Rebecca Meredith’s cottage. The road ran behind Leander, parallel to the river. Although the way was well marked, Kincaid wasn’t used to handling a car as big and heavy as the Astra. The curves in the lane swooped upon them with startling suddenness, and a few times he slowed a bit more drastically than necessary.
    “Still breaking it in?” Cullen asked, releasing his grip on the dashboard.
    Kincaid cast him an evil glance, then looked back at the road. “And you would do better?”
    Cullen had the grace not to reply. In fact, although he didn’t own a car, he was a good driver, and usually drove when they had a pool car from the Yard. But Kincaid was not ready to give up the wheel of his new acquisition.
    After a cluster of cottages near the main road, their headlamps caught hedgerows and fields, and to the left, Kincaid glimpsed the occasional dark void that he knew must be the river. When lights began to appear again, he slowed to a crawl and soon saw cottages hard against the road to the left.
    Two cars were pulled onto the right-hand verge, one bearing the distinctive blue and yellow livery of the Thames Valley Police, the other a new-model Audi. On the left, a redbrick, gabled cottage stood close behind a fence.
    As Kincaid parked and got out of the car, he saw a constable standing inside the gate, and a man sitting on the porch. A faint light shone through the stained glass in the cottage door, but the porch itself was dark.
    Kincaid pulled his warrant card from his pocket and raised it to the beam of the constable’s torch. “Scotland Yard. Detective Superintendent Kincaid and Sergeant Cullen.”
    “Sir—”
    The man on the porch stood as if suddenly animated and charged towards them, his words tumbling out. “Scotland Yard? What are you doing here? Why won’t anyone tell me anything? Have you found Becca?”
    The accent was posh, the attire odd. From what Kincaid could see in the light shining from the cottage, he seemed to be wearing an old anorak, and beneath that, a suit and tie. The knot on the tie was pulled loose, as if he had yanked at it, but the shirt was still buttoned at the collar.
    “Mr. Atterton?” Kincaid asked.
    The man peered at him. “How’d you know my name? What’s happened? Why can’t I go in my wife’s house? I have a bloody key—” He turned for the door, and when the constable reached for him, he swung at the officer, managing to smack his arm.
    “Now, sir, let’s calm down, shall we?” said the constable, in the infuriatingly reasonable tone that was the police constable’s first line of defense.
    “No, I won’t calm down. I want—” He turned towards Kincaid, his expression suddenly pleading. “I want to see my wife.”
    “Mr. Atterton.” Hearing himself echoing the constable, Kincaid made an effort not to sound so patronizing. Nor was this the place to give bad news. “You say you have a key? Why don’t we go inside and have a chat?”
    Atterton looked suddenly unsure. “But—”
    The constable, a small young man who looked as if he might have had a time subduing the six-foot-plus Atterton, broke in. “Sir, I’ve been