No Mark Upon Her

gave the little skip it always did when she was separated from the children or Duncan. But when she checked the message log, she saw that the call had been from Melody, and it had been followed by a text.
    It said, “Urgent, boss. Must talk.”
    Gemma looked up. “Betty, would you mind if Charlotte stayed for just a bit? Something’s come up.”
    K incaid pulled out of the Craigs’ gravel drive into the road that wound back through Hambleden. Dusk had settled over the rooftops, washing the hamlet in rose and gold. Lights were blinking on, making luminous pools of windows. Smoke spiraled up from chimneys.
    It was such a cliché, Kincaid thought as he gazed at the village, trying to distance himself from the rage that was still causing his hands to shake. A place of perfection, with a monster dwelling at its heart.
    Beauty and evil, nested one within the other.
    Did the evil go unacknowledged in this place? he wondered. Or were others aware but powerless?
    Reaching the Stag and Huntsman, he made a sudden swerve into the car park. He wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to find out. Besides, if he didn’t check Craig’s alibi now, before his guv’nor learned of his visit to Craig, he might not have another chance.
    He found a space for the Astra and locked it. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he turned off his phone and walked into the pub. He might as well gain himself a little time.
    The Stag and Huntsman, he saw immediately, was a welcoming establishment, old-fashioned by nature rather than design, the sort of place one would want to go of an evening for a regular drink before dinner.
    It was still quiet, and the clientele looked local and at ease. He hoped that, for once, Angus Craig would forgo his evening tipple.
    Making his way to the snug, he took a seat at the bar and ordered a pint of Loddon Hoppit. According to the chalkboard behind the bar, it was a local beer, and Kincaid found the name irresistible.
    The beer, when the barman brought it, was a shimmering red-amber, and Kincaid could smell the hops before he tasted it.
    “That’s good ale,” he said to the barman, wiping the foam from his upper lip.
    “Brewed just outside Reading,” said the barman. He was a lean man who didn’t look as if he overindulged in his own wares. “You’re not from around here, I take it?” he continued, knowing full well, Kincaid felt sure, that he was not.
    Well, it would do as a conversation starter, and the tiny room was empty except for the two of them, a nice advantage. Kincaid decided to stick as close to the truth as possible.
    “London.” He drank some more of the Loddon, reminding himself that he had to drive back to Henley, and that the beer was meant as window dressing. “Scotland Yard, actually,” he added, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. “I’m here about the rower who drowned the other day.”
    He felt a stab of guilt at referring to Becca Meredith so impersonally. It now seemed to him as if he had known her, and her loss felt like the loss of a friend.
    “Terrible thing, that.” The barman sounded genuinely sorry. “My mate’s wife is on the search and rescue team. They always take it hard. Can’t say I blame them.”
    “No. Nor can I.” Kincaid thought of Kieran and Tavie, wondered how Kieran was coping.
    “Well, it can’t be easy for you either, in your job. I guess you’ve been to the scene, down at the Mill?” There was a definite query at the end of the barman’s sentence. So the man did like a bit of a gossip—a quality that in Kincaid’s experience was necessary to a successful publican. “Hambleden is a bit off the beaten track.”
    “I’ve been to see Assistant Commissioner Craig, to tell the truth,” Kincaid said. “A courtesy call. We are working on his home turf, after all.”
    “Ah. I’m sure he appreciated that.”
    It was a pleasant, noncommittal answer. But Kincaid had seen the telltale change of expression, the shifting of the bartender’s eyes away from his. This man knew Angus Craig for what he was.
    “It was he who recommended you,” Kincaid went on. “The best beer, he said, and his local.” He took another sip of his pint. “Lucky man. He comes in most days, I take it?”
    The barman wiped an already clean glass. “Most evenings.” He glanced at the clock above the door. “Usually about this time.”
    Kincaid thought it would be just as well if he didn’t linger. He was trying to figure out how he could discreetly check