No Mark Upon Her

rise, he bumped the table, sloshing the cider in the glass. “What— Tavie— What are you doing with Finn? Is he all—”
    “Outside. Now.” Tavie turned and started back towards the door, Tosh at her knee. Finn whimpered in frustration and pulled the other way. But Tavie was strong for her size, and she had handled big dogs since her childhood in Yorkshire. Finn came with her.
    The buffet of chilly air as she stepped outside did nothing to calm her. She spun to face Kieran as he stumbled out a moment later, but she didn’t release his dog. “You,” she spat at him. “You don’t deserve this dog. Leaving him in the street. What the hell were you doing, Kieran?”
    “I—I was only going to be five minutes. I didn’t think it would hurt—”
    “Like you didn’t think it would hurt when you lied to me about knowing that woman today?”
    Her anger seemed to sober him. “Tavie, please.” He reached out, slowly, for Finn’s lead, and this time she released it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d stand me down. And I had to know. I had to know if she was all right—if I could—”
    “You compromised my search.” Tavie realized that passersby were giving them a wide berth and made an effort to lower her voice. “And my chain of evidence,” she hissed at him. “Those panties— It was you the dogs were alerting on. You—you were . . .” She couldn’t go on. If it was Kieran’s scent the dogs had picked up on the victim’s underclothes, it could only be because he had touched them, and why would he have done that unless he had slept with her? Her mind skittered away from the picture. She felt sick.
    Why had she imagined that he led a celibate life, living alone in his shed, working on his boats, healing, waiting for—God, had she actually thought he was waiting for her? And all the while, he’d been . . .
    She had been a fool.
    “Don’t report for call-out, Kieran,” she said, and even though she knew she’d said enough, she couldn’t stop herself from going on. “You’ve done enough damage as it is. I’ll have to think what to do about my report.”
    “It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “Nothing matters. I can’t keep anyone safe.”
    T hey had ushered Freddie and Milo out of Rebecca Meredith’s cottage, leaving the constable on duty until a forensics team could go over the house in the morning.
    Once back in Henley, Kincaid had dropped Cullen—who had come straight from Putney without so much as a toothbrush—at the Boots on Bell Street while he hunted for the designated hotel parking and then retrieved his overnight bag from the Astra. He’d driven by the hotel while searching for the parking area, so found his way back easily enough on foot to the rambling old inn between the river and the church.
    The Red Lion Hotel stood just opposite Leander Club on the town side of the Thames. The two buildings made Kincaid think of sentinels on either side of Henley Bridge, but of the two, the redbrick, wisteria-covered hotel had claims to historical authenticity. Gazing up at it, however, Kincaid thought he preferred the Leander pink hippo to the garish red lion displayed over the hotel’s portico.
    He’d been tempted to go home—it was less than an hour’s drive once the traffic had settled. But when he’d rung Gemma from the car, she’d told him that Melody was there, that they were having a girls’ night, and that she could manage perfectly well without him. “I’ve coped with three children on my own since I’ve been off work,” she’d said with a little asperity. “I think I can handle them one more night. You do what you must to get this business wrapped up.”
    Gemma was right, of course. The earlier he got on with things the next morning, the sooner he could get back to London.
    He’d need to get in touch with Becca Meredith’s solicitor first thing, and he wanted to have another word with Freddie Atterton, and with the staff and crew at Leander. Perhaps by that time, he’d have heard something from the forensics crews at the boat and the cottage, and from Rashid.
    At the thought of the morning’s interviews, he glanced down at his bag. He had clean jeans, a wool sweater, and a pair of shoes to replace his mud-stained trainers, but this was not exactly professional attire, especially if he had to deal with the press. Doug at least had been wearing a suit.
    Then he realized that he did have a