No Mark upon Her

Chapter Eight

It is an annual four-and-a-quarter rowing race from Putney to Mortlake on the river Thames between two of the most prestigious universities in the world, Oxford and Cambridge. The competitors train twice a day, six days a week, striving to achieve their goal of representing their universities. Everything else in their lives becomes secondary. It is not done for money but for honour and the hope of victory. There is no second place, as second is last. They call it simply The Boat Race

.

—David and James Livingston

Blood Over Water

The persistently ringing phone pricked at Freddie’s consciousness. He wanted to swat the sound away, but his brain didn’t seem willing to connect with his body. It was only when the noise stopped that he managed to open one eye. He was lying on his back, but what he saw was not his bedroom ceiling.

He squinched his eye shut again while he tried to place the image. Arched ceiling. White. Black beams. Recognition dawned. His sitting room.

With mounting panic, he opened both eyes and lifted his head. Pain shot through his skull, but before he closed his eyes again, he’d seen that he was lying on his sofa, and that he was still wearing his dress shirt and trousers, although not his shoes or—he felt his collar—his tie. His phone lay on the coffee table, beside an empty bottle of Balvenie. There were two glasses. A recollection flickered. Milo. He’d had a few drinks with Milo. But what—

The phone started to ring again, as if his thoughts had triggered it, and he groaned. “Just shut it,” he tried to say, but his voice came out in a croak. He grabbed for the phone and the motion brought on a wave of nausea, and with it, memory.

Becca. Oh, God. The pieces clicked together in his fuzzy brain. Milo had brought him home and poured him scotch after scotch. They’d stopped at the off-license on the way back from the cottage, after the Scotland Yard man had told him he couldn’t take Becca’s bottle of Balvenie. Because it wasn’t his. Because it might be evidence. Because Becca was dead.

Freddie lurched to his feet and staggered to the bathroom. He fell to his knees, his forehead resting on the cool seat of the toilet, and vomited until there was nothing left to come up.

When the heaving finally stopped, he lifted his head and sat with his back against the wall, cataloging what he saw, as if that could block out knowledge. Gray-stained plank floor. Gray walls. Glass shower. White porcelain sink. The freestanding tub, its body wrapped in black, riveted metal. And above it all, glimpsed when he painfully raised his eyes, the crystal chandelier.

When he’d bought this flat after the divorce, he’d hired an interior designer from London, hoping, he supposed, that Becca would somehow be impressed with his new lifestyle.

When she’d come to see the flat, she’d gazed at the chandelier, then given him the look. The look that meant she thought he had utterly lost the plot.

“It’s supposed to be eclectic,” he’d said, defending himself.

“Was she pretty?” Becca had replied.

When Freddie’s phone started to ring again, he realized he’d left it in the sitting room. He suddenly wondered if it might be someone calling to tell him it was all a mistake, that the body they’d found wasn’t Becca after all. Who was this guy who had identified her, anyway? This rower.

He pulled himself up and stumbled back into the sitting room, his heart racing, but by the time he got there, the ringing had stopped. He looked at the long list of missed calls—all unfamiliar numbers—and then saw that there was one message. His pulse skipped. What if—

But when he played it back, a female voice identified herself as a reporter from the London Chronicle, and wondered if he would be willing to give them a quote about his ex-wife.

Freddie sank onto the sofa, his phone dangling in his hand.

It was true, then. It had to be true. And he realized what he was going to have to do that day.

The phone rang once more, the vibration running through his fingers like a shock. He dropped the phone, made a scoop at it, and fumbled it up again. If it was that reporter, he was going to tell her to sod off.

But the name on the caller ID was familiar, and Freddie nearly sobbed with relief as he answered. “Ross?”

“Oh, shit, mate,” said Ross Abbott. “Chris heard at work. She wanted me to tell you—I wanted to tell you—we’re so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Freddie looked at the two dark blue Oxford oars mounted on the wall in the sitting room. They had rowed together, twice, he and Ross Abbott, and they’d been friends since they were spotty boys in the same public school. He clutched at the lifeline of the familiar.

“Ross, I have to—I have to go to the morgue today. To identify her. Will you go with me?”

Kincaid had not slept well, in spite of the luxury of his canopy bed. He realized it had been months since he’d spent the night away from Gemma, and he missed the quiet rhythm of her breathing, her warmth as her body touched his in the night. Not that they’d spent many nights in the last two months without Charlotte crawling in between them in the wee hours of the morning, but he found he missed that, too.

Lately, Charlotte had taken to snuggling with her back against Gemma and her head on his shoulder, her curly hair tickling his nose. When she drifted off to sleep again, whoever was most awake would pick her up and tuck her back into her own bed, but he always did it with a bit of reluctance. He’d missed that stage with Kit. And Toby, so busy when awake, had always slept as if someone had flipped his Off switch.

When light began to filter through the crack in the heavy bedroom curtains, he got up, showered, and dressed in his wedding finery. Not for the first time, he was glad he’d worn an ordinary suit for Winnie’s blessing, rather than morning getup. He’d look a right prat trying to conduct an investigation in that.

Eager to get to the incident room at the police station, he rang Cullen and crushed his partner’s hopes of the full-monty breakfast in the hotel dining room. “There’s a nice café—Maison Blanc, I think—on the way to the station,” Kincaid said. “We can pick up coffee and pastries, and you can fill me in on your research as we walk.”

A few minutes later, they met in the hotel reception area. Stepping outside, they were greeted with watery sunshine and air that felt almost balmy. Kincaid looked up at the clouds creeping across the sky and frowned. “I don’t trust this weather. But, for the time being, it will make things easier for the forensics team at the boat.” He started up Market Place at a good clip. “So, what did you find on Mr. Atterton?” he asked.

Cullen pushed his glasses up on his nose, then clasped his hands behind his back as he walked, settling into lecturing mode. “Frederick Thomas Atterton, after his father, Thomas, a well-respected banker in the City. Grew up in Sonning-on-Thames, a village just east of Reading. Real Kenneth Grahame country, according to Melody.”

“Melody?”

“There was only so much I could do with just a phone.” Cullen shrugged, a little apologetically. “Had to enlist some help. Anyway, Atterton went to Bedford School, where he began to show a talent for rowing, then Oriel College, Oxford, where he took an undistinguished degree in biology. He seems to have done better at rowing, however, as he twice made the Blue Boat, although neither crew won.

“He met Rebecca Meredith at Oxford,” Cullen continued. “She distinguished herself rowing varsity for her college, St. Catherine’s, then for the university. She studied criminal justice.”

“She kept her maiden name, then,” Kincaid said. They’d reached Maison Blanc, and as they entered the café they were buffeted by the aromas of fresh coffee and baking bread. After perusing the muffins and pastries, they ordered at the counter. Kincaid chose cappuccino and an almond croissant, his usual fare from the Maison Blanc in Holland Park Road on the mornings when he took the tube from Holland Park and hadn’t time for breakfast at home.

Had he gravitated towards the café here because he was homesick? he wondered.

“That’s just thoroughly wet,” he said aloud, and both Cullen and the cashier looked at him in surprise. “Don’t take any notice of me,” he told the cashier, giving her his best smile along with the correct change and an extra pound for the tip jar.

“Have a great day,” the girl replied, beaming at him.

“And that’s criminal,” Cullen muttered as they carried their breakfast back into the street.

“You’re just jealous.” Kincaid grinned. “Go on, then. Where were we? Maiden name?”

Doug took a sip of his coffee, winced. “Oh, right. That’s how she was known as a rower, so I suppose she wanted to go on that way. Although I’m not sure I’d have wanted to keep that reputation. ”

As they turned along Duke Street, Kincaid asked, “What happened?”

“The year after uni, she was the top prospect for British women’s single sculls at the next summer’s Olympics. But over the Christmas break, against strict orders from her coach, she went on a skiing holiday. She took a fall and fractured her wrist so badly it took her out of training for months. She was dropped from the squad.”

“And her coach—”

“Was Milo Jachym.” Doug finished his muffin and scoured the bag for crumbs.

Kincaid thought about this as he finished his own pastry and sipped gingerly at his coffee. “So you might say her relationship with Jachym was conflicted.”

“A bit, yes.”

“And you might think he’d resent her trying to make a comeback when he’s got his own women’s team he’s grooming for the Olympics now.”

“You might,” Doug agreed.

Having reached their turning for the police station, they paused in natural accord.

“When did she marry Atterton?” Kincaid asked.

“The next year. The same time as she started with the Met.”

“And the divorce?”

“Three years ago. She filed, but there are no details, as he didn’t contest. According to the court record, he was quite generous—he not only gave her the cottage but half his assets. I’d assume he offered the settlement before he realized how badly real estate investments would be hit.”

“Ah.” Kincaid gazed at the unassuming police station down the street, which faced a kebab house and a taxi service, and was glad not to see lurking reporters. Yet.

He thought about Freddie Atterton. “That sounds to me like a man who felt guilty. And possibly now regrets his largesse. Is he in financial trouble?”

“Barely keeping his head above water, according to some sources I rang in the City.”

“Then I’d say Rebecca Meredith’s solicitor is the first order of the day, as soon as we see what progress the forensics teams have made.” They’d got the solicitor’s name and number from Freddie before they left the cottage the previous night.

Cullen looked smug. “I rang her first thing this morning. She goes into work early. A very obliging lady. She said that unless Rebecca made a new will, everything goes to Freddie, and he’s also the executor.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. As much as he missed having Gemma on an investigation, he couldn’t fault Doug Cullen for efficiency. “Convenient.”

“Sweet, yes.” Cullen crumpled his muffin bag. “She also said she believed there were life insurance policies, and she gave me the name of Becca’s insurance broker. I’ve left a message.”

“Small world, this town,” Kincaid said, but he was thinking that Chief Superintendent Childs would be pleased. It looked as though Freddie Atterton had had plenty of motive for killing his ex-wife.

They found Detective Inspector Singla and two detective constables in the small room assigned for their use at Henley Police Station. Singla had set up a whiteboard for notes and a corkboard for the crime-scene photos, and a conference table had begun accumulating the inevitable piles of paper.

Singla already looked harried, his suit more rumpled than the day before, and the constables—one female, one male—looked anxious, as if they’d been on the receiving end of Singla’s ire. The male constable was taking phone calls, and from what Kincaid overheard, it sounded as if he was fielding the press.

“Superintendent,” Singla said, his tone slightly disapproving, as if they were late for a class. “We’ve a preliminary report from the forensics team at the boat. They’ve found a streak of pink paint on the underside of the hull. It looks like transfer from the blade of a Leander oar, but there doesn’t seem to be any damage to the oar remaining with the boat. There’s also some crazing in the hull’s fiberglass that appears to radiate from the paint streak. Possibly point of impact.”

Kincaid glanced at Cullen. “Could she have done that herself?”

“I can’t see how,” Cullen answered, frowning. “Although—if she tipped, and her oar came loose . . .” Walking over to the corkboard, he studied the photos, as if the body snagged below the weir might tell him something. “I suppose if the current was sweeping her away, she could have used the oar to try to capture the shell . . . The first thing rowers are taught is never to leave the boat. A rowing shell floats unless it’s really badly damaged.”

“Any sign of the missing oar?” Kincaid asked.

Singla ran his hand across his scalp, separating the thinning strands of his hair. “Not yet. It could be anywhere. Forensics is working on a paint match from the remaining oar.”

“Anything else? Any evidence of a struggle along the bank?”

“No.” Singla looked pained, as if he took the failure personally.

Turning to Cullen, Kincaid asked, “How hard a blow would it take to shatter a fiberglass hull?”

“These days most hulls are reinforced with Kevlar. But still, they’re fragile, and brittle, and they do get damaged often enough. I rowed into a bridge abutment once at school. It was an old training shell, but the coach was not happy.”

Kincaid couldn’t stifle a grin. “You rowed into a bridge?”

“You are going backwards, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Cullen said, sounding offended. “Some rowers develop a really annoying habit of constantly looking over their shoulder. Slows them down. Others just aim the boat and hope for the best.”

“I take it you belonged to the second group.”

Cullen ignored this quip. “If you know the course well, which Becca Meredith would have done, you learn to navigate by landmarks.”

“What about the cottage?” Kincaid asked Singla. “Anything there?”

“Nothing that seems out of the ordinary. The calls on her home phone seem to correlate with the ex-husband’s account. He left a message at approximately the time Milo Jachym saw her take the boat out, as well as several messages later in the evening and the following morning.”

“He could have rung from anywhere,” Kincaid said thoughtfully. “He could have been checking to see if she’d taken the boat out. What about her mobile? Was it in the house?”

“In her handbag.” Singla nodded towards a polyethylene bag among the papers on the table. “I had the duty constable bring her personal effects. But we don’t know her voice mail password.”

“Maybe Mr. Atterton will be able to enlighten us. But meanwhile . . .” Kincaid pulled a chair out from the table, sat, opened the bag, and took out the phone. It was a sophisticated model, one he’d expect a senior officer to carry. But when he touched the screen, the wallpaper that appeared was a service provider’s stock picture.

Intrigued, he checked the phone’s photo files and found nothing. “Odd. She had no pictures stored on her phone.” He tried another application. “Nor did she use her calendar.”

Quickly, he scrolled through her e-mails and text messages, but they all seemed to be work-related, except for a text message from Freddie Atterton sent at approximately the time she’d gone out in the boat, saying, Ring me!!!! I talked to Milo. The phone also showed two voice mails, but he couldn’t retrieve them. There was no visual voice mail.

He checked her contact list—short, which by now didn’t surprise him. Going through it would be a job for Doug, but at the moment he was pleased to see that she’d listed her own mobile number. He took out his phone and called it.

The ringtone, like the wallpaper, was standard, a double tone.

He was beginning to form a very curious picture of Rebecca Meredith. “She didn’t by any chance have another phone?” he asked Singla.

“Not that we found, no.”

Kincaid rifled through the rest of the contents in the bag. “A pen,” he said, cataloging the contents aloud. “Black, fairly expensive, rollerball. No artistic, leaky fountain pens here. A wallet, black leather. And in that we have a driving license, forty pounds in notes and some change, a debit card, a credit card, a Selfridge’s store card.” Going back to the license, he studied the picture. Although her face was long, Rebecca Meredith’s features were good, and in other circumstances she might have been pretty. But in this photo she stared sternly into the camera, as if someone had dared her to smile and she was determined to win the bet.

Closing the wallet, he went on to the next thing. “Oyster card, standard issue folder. A packet of tissues.” He unzipped a small makeup kit and dumped out the contents. “Compact. Lipstick. Lip balm. Tin of aspirin. A pack of tampons.” Moving those items to one side, he shook out the polyethylene bag, then glanced at Doug. “And that’s it. No crumpled gum or sweet wrappers. No scribbled phone numbers. No pizza-chain loyalty cards. No cologne samples carried for a quick touch-up before a date.”

“Nothing not practical or essential,” agreed Doug. “And absolutely nothing personal.”

“Sir,” said Singla, “I really don’t see the importance of what this woman did or didn’t carry in her handbag. Surely—”

“Think about it for a moment,” Kincaid interrupted. “Are you married, DI Singla?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Do you know what your wife keeps in her handbag?” Kincaid thought of Gemma, who now carried a tote bag the size of a small suitcase, filled with Charlotte’s favorite books and biscuits and invariably, Bob, the green stuffed elephant that Charlotte refused to leave home without. He wondered how he was going to lug all that kit around and still look remotely manly.

Singla shook his head, looking horrified. “The kitchen sink, if she could fit it in.” He closed his eyes, thinking. “The kids’ school reports, old shopping lists, grocery receipts, sample packets of biscuits. Even tea bags, just in case a café doesn’t have the kind she likes. An umbrella, because you never know when it might rain. And always a book—she’s a great reader, my wife. She likes the sort with the book club questions in the back.”

Nodding, Kincaid asked, “What sort of biscuits?”

“Hob Nobs.”

“What color is her umbrella?”

Singla considered. He’d lost his impatient expression. “Pink with yellow polka dots. She says if it rains you should carry something cheerful to compensate.”

“What type of tea?”

“Chai. And she always asks for hot milk in a café. It’s embarrassing to me, but no one else seems to mind.”

“You see?” Kincaid smiled. “I now know a good bit about your wife.” He didn’t add that he liked Singla the better for it. “I’d wager she’s intelligent, perhaps slightly plump, and of a cheerful and optimistic disposition. A woman who knows what she likes and usually gets it.”

Singla rolled his eyes. “You can say that again. And that is a fair description. But what does my wife, or my wife’s handbag, have to do with Rebecca Meredith?”

The young female constable, who’d been listening intently, spoke up. “It’s not your wife’s handbag that’s important, sir. It’s Rebecca Meredith’s. And I’d say it tells us that she was a woman with something to hide.”