No Mark Upon Her

was combed back from his broad, florid face, which bore the annoyed scowl of a man interrupted while doing something important. He wore golfing clothes and was still in studded shoes.
    Afraid that the sight of the Astra might make Craig take him for a double-glazing salesman, Kincaid took the initiative. “Assistant Commissioner Craig? I’m Superintendent Duncan Kincaid, with the Yard. I doubt you remember me, but I’ve been on one or two of your command courses at Bramshill.”
    The scowl was quickly replaced by a falsely jovial smile, and Kincaid realized that Angus Craig not only knew who he was but why he was there.
    “Superintendent Kincaid, yes, I remember you. I hear you’re doing a good job on the Meredith investigation.”
    “Thank you, sir. I wondered if I might have a word?”
    “Of course,” Craig said, but he looked less than pleased. “Come in. We can talk in my study. I was just changing my shoes.”
    As Kincaid followed him inside, Craig cast a glance at the Astra before closing the door. “I should think the Yard could provide an officer of your rank with a little better class of vehicle.”
    “It’s my personal car, sir.” Kincaid felt surprisingly defensive on the Astra’s behalf.
    Raising a sandy brow, Craig made no apology for the insulting comment. His shoes clicked on the wide-planked oak floors as he walked away, and Kincaid wondered how Craig’s wife must feel about the man’s disregard for the fine fabric of the house. Craig stopped at a bench in the hall, changing his golf shoes for leather slippers while Kincaid waited.
    The interior of the house was not as ostentatious as Kincaid had expected. Walls and woodwork were painted a soft white. The furniture and flower arrangements were simple, if expensive looking, and a tasteful series of charcoal nudes, both male and female, adorned one wall. From somewhere in the back of the house, he heard a dog’s high-pitched barking.
    Craig set the golf shoes to one side of the bench and stood up. “Damn that dog. The wife’s. He does that whenever she’s out.” He nodded towards a room across the hall. “This way, Superintendent.”
    Following him through the doorway, Kincaid saw that while the room was as beautifully proportioned as the rest of the house, it was marred by an overlarge desk.
    Wide windows gave a view of the front lawns, and in spite of the unseasonable warmth of the day, a small fire burned in a beautifully curved iron grate.
    Two wingback leather chairs sat at an angle before the fire, forming an inviting conversation nook. But Craig chose to sit behind his massive desk, leaving Kincaid in the awkward position of having to pull up a small armless chair.
    It was the same sort of intimidation tactic practiced by Peter Gaskill and it would have made Kincaid dislike Craig even if he’d known nothing else about him.
    Dark bookcases displayed golfing trophies, interspersed with leather-bound copies of classics that Kincaid suspected had never been read. A console table between the windows held a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet and two cut-crystal tumblers on a tray, but Craig made no move to offer Kincaid a drink.
    Kincaid settled back as comfortably as he could in the small chair, brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his lapel, and looked round the room. He wasn’t about to give Craig the satisfaction of displaying a reaction to his rudeness, and he wanted to see what line Craig would take about Becca Meredith if unprompted.
    Craig took the bait. “Tragic, this business with DCI Meredith,” he said. “But I understand the ex-husband is the likely suspect.” He didn’t say who exactly had given him to understand this.
    The likely suspect? Kincaid felt as though he’d fallen into a Christie novel. “Really, sir?” He kept his tone at mild surprise. “That’s news to me. If, by the likely suspect, you mean Mr. Atterton, he is helping us with our inquiries. However, we have no solid evidence that he was involved in Rebecca Meredith’s death.”
    Crossing his ankles, Kincaid did his best to keep his expression bland. A throb of anger had begun behind his temples. “But then I understand that you know Mr. Atterton. In fact, you had a breakfast appointment with him on Tuesday morning. It’s too bad you weren’t able to make it. I’m sure someone with your knowledge and experience could have provided Freddie Atterton with some much-needed support and advice when he discovered his ex-wife was