No Mark Upon Her

a few minutes after Imogen Bell had gone in. “Well, she’ll soon get him sorted,” he told Kincaid, who had stayed in the courtyard to field phone calls. “And I wouldn’t want to be in her way while she does it. Think he’ll tell her anything?”
    “It’s always possible,” Kincaid answered noncommittally.
    Doug studied him for a moment. “You don’t think he did it, do you?”
    Kincaid gestured at the Hotel du Vin across the street, delaying an answer. “Let’s get some lunch. I’m starving.” The hotel was part of a boutique chain, and the food was reputed to be good.
    “Brilliant idea,” Doug agreed. “I’ve been starving ever since I watched the rowers at Leander scarfing down plates of eggs and baked beans.” Doug set off towards the hotel with alacrity, and they were soon seated on the leather sofas in the hotel’s trendily appointed bar.
    They both ordered the day’s special, a fish pie made with smoked haddock and vegetables in a creamy Cheddar sauce, and Kincaid chose tea instead of the pint he would have preferred. He needed a clear head.
    When the barmaid had brought their drinks, Doug pushed his glasses up on his nose and fixed a steady gaze on Kincaid. “I take that as a no,” he said, as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted.
    Shrugging, Kincaid stirred milk into his tea. “Freddie Atterton had an obvious motive—financial gain. And maybe a less apparent one—jealousy. He had the expertise, and possibly the opportunity, to have murdered Becca on Monday evening.”
    “But if he had a legitimate alibi for the attack on Kieran—”
    “Exactly,” Kincaid said. When he’d rung the incident room while waiting for Doug, he’d requested checks on Freddie’s phone records, and a confirmation call to Becca’s mother. “It means either the attack on Kieran was random—which I don’t for one moment believe—or it wasn’t Freddie that Kieran saw by the river. But that’s not the only thing.” He stopped to give the barmaid, a pretty girl in her twenties sporting a bare midriff and pierced navel, a smile of thanks as she brought their cutlery.
    Lowering his voice as a couple took a nearby table, he continued, “None of the scenarios with Freddie as the killer explain what Becca did on Friday night.
    “Why did she leave her car in London and take the train? Why was she short-tempered with Kieran when he came to the cottage on Saturday? Why did she miss training that same morning? What did she have to do in London on Saturday?
    “These were all breaks in her pattern, and I don’t like breaks in pattern.” Kincaid sipped at his tea, grimacing as he found it lukewarm. He hated tepid tea.
    “And the thing I like least of all,” he said, returning his cup to the saucer with unnecessary force, “is Freddie just happening to strike up an acquaintance with Angus Craig days before Becca was murdered.”
    “Craig’s doing?”
    Kincaid arranged his knife and fork precisely on his serviette. “I think he made a big mistake with Rebecca Meredith. He was poaching on his home territory, and he picked a victim who was tougher than he expected. Maybe he had too much to drink that night and was careless. But whatever the reason, I’ll guarantee you he made it his business afterwards to find out everything about her.”
    The barmaid brought their entrees, and Kincaid felt a bit deflated when it was Doug she smiled at, not him.
    The small casseroles of fish pie were topped with golden mashed potatoes and smelled delicious. When Kincaid dug in with his fork, steam escaped in a cloud.
    Doug lifted a bite and blew on it, something Kincaid felt sure his mother had taught him not to do. “But if he knew who Freddie was,” Doug said, “why approach him now?”
    “Maybe Becca stirred the pot. We need to know when she found out that Craig had been retired with honors, and that Gaskill—and whoever Gaskill reported to—had not kept their promise to her. And we need to know something else.”
    Setting down his knife and fork without tasting the dish, Kincaid pulled out his phone and dialed back the number in his caller ID.
    “DC Bell? Kincaid here. You’re still in the flat?”
    “Yes, sir. Making some progress here. The kitchen and Mr. Atterton are both tidied up.” She sounded quite pleased with herself. “I’m about to help Fre—Mr. Atterton—make some of the necessary phone calls.”
    “SOCOs gone?”
    “Yes, sir. I think they got everything they needed, and the