Back in the car, he gave Wilson a wave and made a U-turn in the lane. He didn’t want to drive by the remains of the Craigs’ house, and he wanted to get out of the village.
He drove back the way he’d come. As he slowed through Henley, he realized his hands were shaking. Turning off the main road, in a moment he found himself in view of the river. Having stayed in Henley for several days during the autumn investigation into the death of the rower, Rebecca Meredith, he knew immediately where he was—on New Street, by the Hotel du Vin. He pulled into a lucky parking space and got out, throwing his jacket and tie back into the car. A few yards farther on, New Street curved round at the river to meet Hart Street at the bridge. But between the road and the water, there was parking space and access to small boat docks. He walked down to the edge of the quay and stopped, staring across the river at the Leander Club, watching a few sculling crews out for a late-morning practice.
After a bit, he noticed the sun beating down on the top of his head and his face, but he couldn’t seem to move. He saw, not the river, but the interior of the Craigs’ house just before the fire took hold, as he’d visualized it so often in his imagination.
Edie lay dead in the kitchen. Her face was a blur—he couldn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it.
Angus was on the floor in his study, the room where Kincaid had interviewed him shortly before. He lay, like Ryan Marsh, in the middle of the room. In front of his massive, intimidating desk. Not collapsed in the leather chair behind the desk, nor on the floor beside the desk, where he might have toppled if he’d shot himself while sitting in the chair. His hand, like Ryan’s, held the gun that had killed him, and had killed Edie.
But, what if, Kincaid thought, like Ryan, Angus Craig had not shot himself? Or his wife? What if it had been set up to look like a murder/suicide, just as Ryan’s death had been set up to look like a suicide?
What if someone had come into the Craigs’ house that night and shot Edie as she stood, unsuspecting, in the kitchen, then walked into Angus’s study and shot him? If a silencer had been used, Angus wouldn’t have been alerted by the first gunshot.
If either of them had struggled in a last moment of shock and terror, both the scene and the bodies had been too damaged by the fire for it to be obvious to the investigators.
Whoever had done this thing, it must have been someone familiar with the house—someone, perhaps, who had been watching it, and taking photographs.
The thought made Kincaid feel ill.
After a bit, he walked back to the car. Leaning against it, he rang Doug.
“I’ve put both Ryan and Stanton in Hambleden the evening of the night the Craigs died,” he said when Doug answered.
“What? What are you talking about?” Doug sounded utterly baffled.
Kincaid told him.
After a long silence, Doug said, “I can’t really talk. Let me ring you back.” Five minutes later, Kincaid’s mobile buzzed. He could hear street noise in the background and he guessed Doug had left the building. “Why didn’t this Wilson bloke tell someone?” Doug asked without preamble.
“He did. Imogen Bell. But she had no reason to pass it on. Wilson is something of a fusspot. She probably thought he was manufacturing a bit of drama for the attention. And there was never any suggestion that Angus Craig hadn’t killed himself and his wife.”
Doug was quiet again. Then, he said, “You’re not seriously suggesting that Ryan and this Stanton bloke killed them? And set the fire? I can’t believe that Ryan Marsh was a murderer.” He sounded as distressed as Kincaid felt.
“No.” Kincaid thought about Melody’s account of Ryan’s actions when the white phosphorous grenade had gone off in St. Pancras station. Ryan had run towards the fire, not away. He’d been desperate to get people to safety, to do something to help.
But Ryan had then fled the scene, afraid he had been the grenade’s target. Was it because of what had happened the night the Craigs died? Because of what he knew? Or because of what he’d done?
Kincaid thought of the time he and Doug and Melody had called on Ryan’s wife. Ryan’s old Labrador had come to him and put her head on his knee, just as Barney had done this morning. And when they’d brought Ryan to Kincaid’s house, Ryan had immediately and affectionately greeted the dogs.
“Wilson said the two men were arguing,” Kincaid told Doug. “What if Ryan knew—or guessed—what was planned? Maybe he knew what Stanton was capable of doing.”
“Stanton had an obvious history of violence. Surely Ryan knew that.”
“If I’m right about what happened to the Craigs, he was guilty of more than a short temper and harassing women,” Kincaid said, working it out. “Craig’s death must have been calculated, planned, at least from the time Craig became a serious suspect in Rebecca Meredith’s murder.”
“Damage control,” said Doug. “In case he was guilty of killing Meredith?”
“Or in case other things came to light.” Kincaid thought, watching the gulls wheel lazily over the river. “We found out that Craig had committed another murder. What if he was involved in things that we didn’t uncover? Things that might have implicated other people.”
“Things he might have used to bargain with, if the assaults or the murder had gone to trial?” Doug suggested, after a pause.
“It’s possible. But Stanton—and Ryan, to whatever extent he was involved—were pawns. So who did Angus Craig’s death protect?”
“Whoever it was, they must have killed Ryan. And Michael Stanton,” said Doug.
Kincaid nodded, even though Doug couldn’t see him. All their assumptions made sense, but his mind kept going back to Barney. “Edie Craig’s dog was out at least two hours before the fire started. Why? Could it have been Ryan who let the dog out? Ryan would never have let the dog burn.”
“Assuming the Craigs were already dead, hours before the fire was started. Maybe the fire smoldered.”
Kincaid thought back to that morning. “The fire investigator told me that from the pattern of the blaze and the amount of accelerant used, the fire took hold very quickly. Petrol was splashed all over the damned place, then it was torched. So what happened in those intervening hours?” Kincaid made an effort to lower his voice. He was getting some odd looks from passersby.
“Maybe they were looking for something,” suggested Doug. “Maybe the fire was set to cover up the evidence of a search. Or to cover up evidence, full stop.”
“I think,” Kincaid said slowly, running his hand through his hair in frustration, “that we may never know the truth. Everyone who could tell us exactly what happened that night is dead.”