No Mark Upon Her

feet as they pulled him away. They staggered forward, a human caterpillar. Finn ran a few feet ahead of them, looking back and yipping. “We’ve got to get Finn out of here, right? You can do this.”
    Kieran turned towards her, his face half obscured by blood, but for the first time there was recognition in his eyes. She felt a rush of relief.
    “Tavie?” he said. “Tavie, somebody threw a petrol bomb through my window.” He sounded more baffled than outraged. “Some bastard tried to blow me up.”
    G emma sat at the kitchen table, her tea forgotten, her mind spinning with horror at what she’d just learned. Had she imagined the coldness in Angus Craig’s eyes that night, when he’d seen Toby and her mum? She didn’t think so. How close had she come to something she couldn’t imagine?
    Across the table, Kincaid’s face was tight with anger. “I’d have killed him. I’d have killed him if he had even touched you.”
    His tone made her shiver convulsively. She’d only heard him sound like that, icy and implacable, a few times. And they had been dealing with murderers.
    “You didn’t know me then,” she said.
    “That wouldn’t have mattered, if I’d found out.”
    Would she have told him? she wondered.
    And what would she have done at the time, if Angus Craig had raped her, then threatened her with the loss of her job? She’d had a child to support, with no help from a deadbeat ex-husband. And she’d been passionate about her work—had wanted more than anything to prove herself, to get ahead in the force.
    But everything Peter Gaskill had told Becca Meredith would have been true for Gemma as well. She’d been seen leaving the pub with Craig. She wouldn’t have been able to prove that she hadn’t agreed to have sex with him, then changed her mind afterwards.
    And if it had got as far as court, which was highly unlikely, Craig’s defense would have made mincemeat of her reputation. She’d too often seen what defense lawyers could do to women who pressed rape charges. Even bruises and vaginal tearing could be put down to liking it rough . And once the suggestion had been planted, the truth no longer mattered.
    After something like that, even if the Met had been unable to fire her, she would have become a pariah.
    Rebecca Meredith had more rank and clout, and even that hadn’t helped her.
    Kincaid’s urgent voice brought her back to the present. “Gemma, are you sure he didn’t—”
    “No, no, he never touched me. But—I wonder—what if Becca’s ex knew what happened? Or found out? Would he have felt the same as you?”
    “Maybe. He seemed very protective of her.” Kincaid shook his head. “But then it would have been Craig he killed, not Becca.”
    “What if he was jealous?”
    “Jealous enough to kill her because she’d been raped?” He grimaced. “Possible, but twisted. And I don’t think Freddie Atterton is twisted.”
    “You like him, don’t you? Atterton?”
    Shrugging, Kincaid said, “I suppose I do. But more than that, I don’t like the idea of him being a convenient scapegoat for the Yard’s dirty laundry. Innocent until proven guilty. I’d put my money on Craig in a heartbeat.”
    Gemma stood, gathered their cups, and began rinsing them in the sink. Then she closed the tap and turned back to him. “Craig, yes. I can see that. What I don’t understand is why now? Becca Meredith reported the incident to Peter Gaskill a year ago.”
    “I’m thinking she found out he’d retired with commendations, and a gong to boot,” Kincaid said, pushing back his chair and reaching down to stroke Geordie’s ears. “She put her faith in her superior officer and he betrayed it. She must have been furious. I’m surprised she didn’t kill Gaskill.”
    Hands still dripping, Gemma came back to the table and sat down. “Yes, but angry as she must have been, she was still just as powerless. Why would Craig kill her?”
    Kincaid gave the dog a last pat, then stared past Gemma, his eyes unfocused. “Unless—unless she had more ammunition or new ammunition. Unless she’d found some way to prove that what happened to her wasn’t consensual. Or—look at the timeline . . .” He ran his hand through his hair, his habit when he was thinking, making the ends stand up like hedgehog bristles.
    “If you were a target four years ago, and Meredith was raped a year ago,” he went on, “what was Craig doing in the years in between? And even in the years before that?” Kincaid