No Mark upon Her

Chapter Fourteen

To fuel the body, each crew member consumed between 6000 and 7000 calories a day, about three times the average intake for an adult . . . Every dish would be three times larger than you’d expect to find at a “normal” dinner table. Foster brought his own special bowl to hold the mountain of pasta he ate at lunch. One oarsman ate out of a dog bowl. Others might use flowerpots.

—Rory Ross with Tim Foster

Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney Coxless Four

Having given his name to one of the women in Leander’s front office and asked to speak to Milo Jachym, Doug took advantage of the few minutes’ wait in the club’s lobby. Hands behind his back, he strolled round the room, trying not to look as if he was gawking at the photos and trophies on display. He’d stopped in front of the gift shop display cabinet, pondering whether he’d buy a French-cuffed shirt just to wear a set of pink hippo cuff links, when a female voice spoke behind him.

“I’d go with the navy baseball cap if I were you.”

Turning with a start, he saw it was Lily Meyberg, the pretty house manager.

“You don’t think the pink would work?” he asked, making a valiant effort to appear nonchalant. He nodded at the violently pink cap in the cabinet.

“I think I’d admire such a brave man,” she said, smiling. “But the color doesn’t suit you. I’d stick with the navy.” Touching his arm lightly, she added, “Mustn’t forget my mission. I’m to take you up to reception. Milo will be along in a few minutes.”

Following her up the staircase, he was torn between watching the way her bum moved in her slim navy skirt and looking at the photos of the Olympic medalists and world champions that lined the stairwell. He’d only glimpsed the photos the other night—he certainly hadn’t wanted to stop and gawp in front of Kincaid, but now he was finding the alternative option more tempting.

“We’re just setting up for lunch,” Lily said when they reached the reception area at the top of the stairs. “But the bar’s open. Can I get you something?”

“Oh, no thanks. Bit early for me.”

“And no drinking on duty, right?”

Not wanting to sound a complete plod, he shrugged and said, “Well, an occasional pint at lunch, maybe.”

Slipping his hands into his pockets, he walked to the balcony doors and looked out across the meadows that would house the Regatta enclosures come June. If he peered to the left, he could just see down into the yard where the boats were racked.

Resisting the urge to glance into the dining rooms on either side of the little foyer, he turned back to Lily, but not before he’d glimpsed the oars mounted on the walls. Olympic oars. Dear God. And Rebecca Meredith’s might one day have joined them.

“Lily, you were here on Tuesday morning, right?” he asked, trying to picture the scene. “Do you remember who was first worried that Rebecca Meredith might be missing? Was it Freddie Atterton or Milo?”

When she frowned, he noticed she had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “I don’t know. Freddie was sitting by the window, there.” She pointed towards the table that directly overlooked the boatshed and the river. “He got up when he saw Milo in reception. But I had to make more coffee, and when I came back from the kitchen, they were both gone. Then Milo came in again from outside and said Freddie was searching for Becca.”

Shaking her head, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “I still can’t believe it. We’re all just gutted.”

“Were you good friends?” he asked.

Shrugging, Lily looked away and tucked a strand of her honey-brown hair behind her ear. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say anyone was good friends with Becca. But she was always”—Lily paused, then went on—“not kind, maybe, but considerate. You’d be surprised how many of the members aren’t. She never took advantage of staff, and if you were a rower, she treated you with respect. She never made a big deal of who she was.”

He saw her eyes flick over his shoulder. Instantly her posture became more erect, her manner once again managerial. She gave him a professional smile. “Here’s Milo now. I’ll leave you two to it, then.”

With regret, Doug watched her slender back as she walked into the dining room. He wondered if he might somehow manage to run into her off duty and ask her for a drink, although he knew he should resist the temptation. It was never a good idea to mix a personal relationship with a case.

Then he turned to shake Milo Jachym’s hand. “Lily said you wanted a word,” said Milo. “But let’s talk somewhere other than the members’ areas.” He led Doug along the corridor to the door marked CREW.

As Doug entered behind him, he felt a breathless little bump of anticipation. This was hallowed ground, where the greatest rowers in the country—maybe in the world—had gathered at their leisure.

Reality did not live up to expectation.

For a moment, Doug thought he might have been back at his old school dining hall. There was the same utilitarian furniture, the same smell of eggs and chips and bacon frying. And although the handful of rowers scattered at tables—consuming what Doug guessed was their second breakfast of the day—looked freshly showered, the air held the faint but pervasive scent of sweat and moldering athletic shoes.

“Tea?” asked Milo, gesturing Doug to a seat at one of the tables just inside the dining room door.

Catching sight of the industrial tea urn near the kitchen, Doug had to force enthusiasm into his reply. “Yeah, thanks. That would be great.” He wished he’d taken Lily up on the offer of a drink from the bar.

Milo returned a moment later bearing two mugs of milky fluid and a sugar bowl. “Thanks.” Gingerly, Doug sipped. The tea tasted as if it had come from the inside of a cast-iron boiler. He reached for the sugar bowl and shoveled in a coma-inducing amount.

He could feel the covert glances of the rowers, male and female. The room had gone quiet except for the sound of a race video that was playing on the telly.

Doug loosened his tie. When he’d learned he was going to Leander, he’d been glad he’d worn his best sports jacket and tie that day. It was Leander, after all.

But here, with the casually dressed crew, he felt awkward and overdressed—the odd boy out—while Milo, in his pressed chinos and a navy Leander polo that sported a little pink hippo on the breast, had it just right.

“Baked beans on toast?” offered Milo. “Chef’s special today,” he added with a twinkle. Someone in the room farted, as if on cue, followed by a suppressed snigger. Milo ignored both.

“The rower’s best friend.” Doug managed to suppress a snigger himself. “But no thanks. I had something at the station this morning, and I’m not fit enough to deserve a second breakfast.”

“You’re a rower,” said Milo, eyeing him speculatively. “The other night—you knew your way around. But not varsity, I think. Not tall enough.”

“School eight.”

“Ah. Bow or stroke?”

“Bowside.”

“What school?”

“Eton,” Doug answered with less than his usual reluctance. Here, unlike in the force, he would not be teased for having been a public school boy. He was, however, beginning to feel as if he were the one being interviewed.

Milo nodded. “Good program. Do you row now?”

“I’ve just bought a house in Putney. I thought I’d give the LRC a try.” Doug had rowed out of London Rowing Club at regattas when he was at school, but had not been back as an adult. When he’d been debating whether or not to buy the house, he’d walked down Putney Reach and gazed up at the venerable club. Leander had once been housed there, overlooking the tidal Thames, before its move to Henley, and the two clubs were still closely associated.

Not that the LRC was as exclusive as Leander, but Doug hadn’t quite geared himself up to walking in and applying for a membership. Most of the members would be more experienced rowers, and he had, as always, the hovering fear of appearing a fool.

“Bought a boat?” asked Milo.

The coach was stalling, Doug thought, perhaps to give the rowers a chance to make a graceful exit. But if he hadn’t wanted an audience, why had he picked a common room for their conversation? Surely there were other places in the club where they wouldn’t have disturbed the members or the crew.

“No. I thought I’d get my feet wet, so to speak. A club boat should suit me just fine for the moment.” He took another sip of the tea, tried not to grimace. Determined to get things back on track, he said, “Now, Mr. Jachym, if I could just—”

“Becca. Yes, of course.” Milo sighed, as if accepting the inevitable. His burly shoulders sagged a little. “Terrible business. Everyone is still in shock. And Freddie isn’t returning my calls.”

“We’ll be speaking to him later this morning. I’m afraid this is now officially a murder investigation.”

Milo’s face went still. For an instant, Doug had a glimpse of the man beneath the jovial exterior—the man who drove his rowers beyond their endurance and expected even more of them. You didn’t coach athletes of Leander’s caliber without being tough and cagey—a strategist of the first order. And Doug had the feeling Milo had been expecting the next move in the game.

The remaining rowers seemed to have read a signal in Milo’s body language, or in the change in his voice. They abandoned the remains of their meals, and one by one trickled out—not, however, without casting more curious glances in Doug’s direction.

When the room was empty, Milo nodded, his expression once again inscrutable. “So. Where do you go from here, Sergeant?”

“You’re not surprised by the idea that Becca Meredith was murdered?” asked Doug.

“I’m shocked, yes,” Milo answered. “But I think I would be even more so if you’d determined that Becca had drowned in a stupid or careless accident.”

“You trained her,” said Doug, taking his measure. “Stupidity or carelessness would have reflected badly on you.”

“That’s part of it.” Milo shrugged, giving Doug a challenging glance. “Now you seem shocked, Mr. Cullen. That’s human nature. We always think of ourselves first, and only a liar doesn’t admit to it.

“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t grieve for Becca,” he went on, his voice suddenly hard. “And for Freddie, and for what Becca might have done or might have become. Or that I wouldn’t murder whoever did this to her.”

“Perhaps not the best thing to admit to a police officer, Mr. Jachym,” suggested Doug mildly.

“Then let’s hope you catch your man before I have a chance to lay hands on him.”

Doug gazed at him consideringly. “Would you still feel that way if it were your friend who was responsible?”

“My friend?” Milo looked startled, then drew his bushy brows together as realization struck. “If by that, you mean Freddie, you can’t be serious. He would never have harmed Becca. He adored her.”

It was Doug’s turn to shrug. He wondered if Jachym’s disbelief were a bit manufactured. Surely it must have occurred to him that Freddie would be a suspect. “Human nature, as you said,” he answered. “Sometimes there’s a fine line between love and hate. No one else can be sure how they really got on.”

“I knew them,” said Milo, his jaw set in an obstinate line. “And I don’t believe it.”

Doug conceded for the moment. “Then have you any idea who might have wanted Becca Meredith dead?”

“No.” Milo shook his head. “I can’t imagine. Do you know—how did she—”

“That’s still under investigation. As is last night’s attack on one of the members of the search and rescue team that found her body.”

“What?” If Milo had not been surprised that they’d determined Becca’s death a homicide, he seemed genuinely shocked at this. “What sort of attack? On whom?”

“His name is Kieran Connolly. He and his partner were the team at the weir. Someone tried to burn down his boatshed last night—with him in it. Do you know him?”

Milo thought for a moment. “Quiet guy? Repairs boats? I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s done work for some of the crew as well as the members. Does a good job,” he added approvingly. “Is he all right?”

“I think so, yes. Were you aware that Connolly had a relationship with Becca Meredith?”

“A relationship? What do you mean by a relationship?” Milo looked disconcerted.

“What people usually mean, Mr. Jachym. They were sleeping together.”

Milo frowned, considering. “I did see them out on the river together often enough, during the summer,” he said slowly. “But they were both single scullers, and it never occurred to me that there was anything more to it. Are you certain? Did Freddie—” He stopped, and Doug saw by the sudden wariness in his eyes where the thought had taken him.

“Did Freddie know?” Doug finished for him. “If he had, would he have been jealous?”

“I— No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Milo looked into his mug as if the sludge at the bottom might yield an answer. “Becca and Freddie—they were comfortable together. Sometimes they seemed more like siblings. And it was Freddie, after all, who strayed from the marital fold, not Becca.”

“But she left him?”

“After that, yes. Or maybe I should say, after them.”

“Freddie had more than one affair?”

“Freddie can’t help being charming,” Milo said, with an indulgence that made Doug wonder if everyone gave Freddie Atterton free passes for bad behavior. “And to be fair,” Milo went on, “with her job, Becca hadn’t much time for him.”

“What about the rowing? She must have been very focused on that, as well.”

“Not until this last year. I thought she’d given it up for good, to tell you the truth, although she kept her membership here for social reasons. Then, in the spring, she bought a boat. But she was secretive about her training. She kept the shell here, but she didn’t go out with the crew. Oh, she rowed the occasional piece on the weekend, but I could see she was holding back, coasting. I think, now, that she was just checking out the competition.”

“So when did you decide she was serious?” Doug asked.

“Couple of weeks ago.” Milo looked out at the view over the river, and Doug thought that he was uncomfortable, even a little embarrassed. “I timed her.”

“Without her knowledge?”

“It’s not illegal, Sergeant,” said Milo with a hint of sharpness. He seemed to have recovered his composure quickly enough. “It was just a small conspiracy with one of the rowers. This was after one of the boys let slip she’d bribed a few of them to help her move weights and an erg into the cottage. I was . . . curious. It is my job, after all, to see what my crew is up against.”

“And?”

“She was better.” He met Doug’s eyes again.

“Would she have rowed for you?”

“Maybe. But Becca was never exactly a team player. And the other women wouldn’t have been happy with her coming in and riding roughshod over their positions.”

“Tricky, then,” Doug said.

“Not really. If Becca had wanted to race on her own, and had the means to do it, she wouldn’t have worried about hurting anyone’s feelings, including mine.”

“Disappointing for you, after all the work you’ve put in with your own crew,” suggested Doug, in his best attempt at Kincaid-style casualness.

“What?” Milo gave a bark of laughter. “You think I might have killed Becca to advance the chances of my own team?” When Doug merely looked blandly noncommittal, Milo’s amusement turned to irritation. “That’s ludicrous. I have a couple of good possibilities for the single scull. Not topflight, but we’ll see. And if not, there will be others.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me where you were on Monday evening,” said Doug.

“Here, of course. I was just doing my evening lockup when I saw Becca taking out the Filippi. After we spoke, I came back to the gym to oversee the evening workout. Then I ate supper with the crew.”

Doug didn’t see any conceivable way Milo could have spoken to Becca as she left Leander, then made his way to a hiding spot on the far side of the river by the time Becca had rowed round Temple Island and started back upstream. Of course, that was assuming Milo was telling the truth about speaking to Becca, as well as about the time he saw her leave Leander.

But Doug doubted that Milo would lie about his movements when his schedule was so easily verifiable. And if Kieran Connolly’s story bore out, the man on the other side of the river had been lying in wait for two evenings just when Milo would have had coaching duties.

He gave the idea up as a bad prospect for the moment and moved on to Kieran. “Last night, Mr. Jachym, do you know if any singles were taken out, or might have been missing, around eight o’clock?”

“A single? Why?”

“Kieran Connolly’s boatshed is on the island across from the Rowing Museum. So unless his attacker just happened to live there, too, I suspect he used a boat. And why not a racing shell?”

“True enough,” Milo agreed. “Well, if it was a boat, it didn’t come from Leander. There are only a few singles racked in the yard, and we’ve all been keeping a close eye on things here.” The look he gave Doug was pitying. “But, Sergeant, if you’re trying to account for every single scull along this stretch of the Thames, I wish you the best of luck.”

Kincaid stood in New Street, waiting for Cullen in front of the Malthouse, a complex of upscale renovated flats in part of the old Brakspear Brewery. On the other side of the street, the Hotel du Vin occupied another of the brewery’s buildings, and Kincaid thought he could summon more enthusiasm for a nice lunch in the hotel bar than for the upcoming interview.

The cards were certainly stacking against Freddie Atterton. Kincaid had given a brief and noncommittal report to the press gathered at Henley Police Station. Then he’d rung Chief Superintendent Childs, who had jumped on the news of Becca Meredith’s life insurance policy with all the glee of a terrier after a rat. For Childs the demonstration of such enthusiasm consisted of a slight raising of his voice, accompanied, Kincaid imagined, by a slight but corresponding rise of the brows.

He was just as glad not to be there to see it.

Ending the conversation on a sour note, he reluctantly assured his guv’nor that he would pull out all the stops to establish whether or not Freddie Atterton had an alibi for the time in question.

Then, just as he rang off, DC Imogen Bell came in to tell him that the SOCOs had found a partial footprint at the spot that Kieran had indicated on the riverbank, as well as fibers caught on a twig and evidence of disturbance at the water’s edge. They were still engaged in a fingertip search of the area.

So it looked as though Kieran Connolly had been right about the spot where Becca had been killed, and Childs would be jubilant if either footprint or fiber could be tied to Atterton.

But while Kincaid knew his remit was to catch Becca Meredith’s killer, he felt he was being pushed in Atterton’s direction, and by an agenda that had nothing to do with the serving of justice.

He didn’t like it.

Maybe he was just being stubborn, he thought, like the children when they wanted their own way and refused to see reason.

Or maybe he was sympathizing too much with a man who was grieving for a woman he’d loved, no matter how complicated the relationship. He’d accused Gemma often enough of being too ready to put herself in a suspect’s shoes—now perhaps he was guilty of the same sin.

Fidgeting, he watched the passersby, all of whom seemed to be enjoying the sunshine and the prospect of lunch. The redbrick frontage of the hotel contrasted cheerfully with its white trim, and on the wall of a cottage across the street, late pink roses were blooming with a profusion that seemed to shout last chance. It felt like a day for last chances.

He was just about to pull out his phone and ring Cullen again when he saw him rounding the corner at the bottom of the street.

Cullen looked jaunty, as if a little of Leander’s glamour had rubbed off on him.

“Any luck?” Kincaid asked when Cullen reached him.

“I didn’t find a conveniently missing single scull, no,” said Doug. “Milo Jachym says they’ve been particularly careful to check the boats at night.”

“Well, that would have been a bit much to hope for. I’ve got DC Bell going round the other two clubs, just in case. Anything else?”

“I don’t think Milo Jachym is a likely suspect. I do think he would protect Freddie Atterton unless he knew without a doubt that Atterton was guilty. But a funny thing,” Doug added. He pulled off his wire-framed glasses and rubbed the lenses with his tie. “He seemed quite happy to admit that it was Atterton who broke up the marriage, by cheating. Serial affairs, apparently. Becca was Milo Jachym’s rower, and his friend. You’d think he’d have been a bit more incensed on her behalf.”

“Divided loyalties? Or just macho sympathies?” Kincaid speculated. “ ‘Boys will be boys.’ ”

“It certainly seems as though Atterton felt guilty enough about his behavior,” said Doug as he slipped his glasses on again. “We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”

The Malthouse flats were protected from the street by an impressive iron gate, but placed discreetly to one side of it was a panel with separate bell pushes for each residence. Kincaid checked the slip of paper he’d tucked into his jacket pocket, then rang the number for Atterton’s flat.

Kincaid’s first thought was that Freddie Atterton looked like hell.

His second was that Freddie Atterton’s flat was enough to make anyone feel like hell. It was black on gray on spare, and not even the good lighting and the architectural details preserved by the renovation made much dent in livening the place up.

And that was if you ignored the mess. Rumpled clothes were scattered across the sitting room. An empty bottle of scotch sat on the coffee table. Beside it, what looked like a cereal bowl held cigarette ends, and an unpleasant whiff of spoiled food drifted from the open-plan kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” said Atterton, and he seemed to be apologizing for more than the state of the flat. He wore only a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and his hair was uncombed and flattened on one side as if he’d just got out of bed. “I’m—things have got away from me a bit. Let me just find a shirt—” He looked round as if one might materialize out of thin air, then spotted a dress shirt hanging on the back of a dining chair. Slipping it on, he buttoned two buttons, both misaligned, then asked, “Can I make you some coffee?”

Picking up the bowl-ashtray, he looked round, apparently searching for somewhere else to put it. He settled on the mantel, above which hung two dark blue Oxford oars, the only spot of color in the room. “Sorry,” he said again, coming back to the sofa. “I’d given up the fags, but after—it seemed the only thing—”

“Mr. Atterton,” Kincaid interrupted. “We need to talk. Can we sit down?”

Freddie Atterton’s already pale face went ashen. He groped for the edge of the sofa, then sank down, unmindful, or unaware, of the suit jacket that had been left on the cushion. “Oh, God, what’s happened?”

Kincaid nodded to Cullen and they both sat, Doug in the armchair, while Kincaid dragged over one of the massively carved gray dining chairs so he could sit close to Freddie. Who the hell had picked out such hideous furniture? he wondered. The damned stuff might have escaped from the French Reign of Terror.

“Mr. Atterton. Freddie. About your ex-wife. We now have reason to believe she was murdered.”

“Murdered.” The dark hollows beneath Atterton’s eyes looked soot-smudged. “So it’s true—” He stopped, swallowed. “I thought, when they called in the Yard, that it was just because Becca was one of you. Not something like that. Never something like that. Why would someone kill Becca?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out. And we were called in initially because the circumstances of Becca’s disappearance were unexplained,” Kincaid agreed. “But there have been some . . . developments.”

“You know what happened to her, don’t you?” Freddie’s voice was a thread. “You know how she died. Why didn’t someone—” He shook his head, seemed to make an effort to collect himself. “Okay. I’m sorry. I know you probably can’t say.” He took a breath. “What can I do to help you?”

“I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Atterton. You can start by telling us where you were on Monday evening.”

“Monday?”

Kincaid had the distinct sense that some of Freddie’s surprise at the question was feigned. “The evening your wife died. You can’t have forgotten.”

“No. No, of course not. It’s just—with everything that’s happened, I don’t—let me think . . .” He patted the front pocket of his shirt, seemed to realize it was empty, then dropped his hand back to his lap. The Benson & Hedges packet on the coffee table was crumpled and empty.

“Let’s say between four and six,” Kincaid added helpfully.

Freddie blinked once, twice, lifted his hand towards his pocket again. “I—I was here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Any verification? Neighbor that might have seen you, something like that?”

“No. No, I can’t remember seeing anyone. I’d been to the club for lunch. That’s when Milo told me about Becca—I mean told me that she was training seriously. I knew she was rowing again, of course, but she’d said she was just trying to get back into shape, relieve some stress from work.”

“But you knew she’d bought a boat, the Filippi,” Kincaid said.

“Yes, well, you wouldn’t have expected Becca to row in a club boat.”

“That’s an expensive boat,” put in Doug. “Top class.”

“She could afford it.”

Had there been just the slightest trace of bitterness in Freddie’s reply? wondered Kincaid. Well, he’d get back to that. “What exactly did Milo tell you that day?”

“That she’d had some lads in the crew help her turn my—her—spare room in the cottage into a training room. She’d moved in weights and an erg. And Milo had clocked her. She was blazing.”

“Timed her without her knowledge,” Doug interjected.

“Well, yeah.” Freddie looked sheepish. “But she could be bloody secretive, and I can’t blame Milo for wanting to know.”

“Because she was better than his own crew?” Kincaid asked.

“No. Because if she’d been willing to row for him, he might have had a champion. And there’s nothing the media love more than a comeback story. It would have been good press for the whole team.”

Kincaid thought about this. “When we first interviewed Milo, he said you were ‘furious’ when you found out about Becca’s training. And on the message you left on her home phone, you sounded angry with her. Why, if you thought she had a chance to be that good?”

“I—” Freddie rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks with his palms. “I suppose I was worried about what would happen if she failed. The last time—she was never really the same afterwards. She never forgave herself.”

“But she broke her arm, didn’t she?” Kincaid asked. “Surely that wasn’t her fault.”

“Oh, but it was,” said Freddie. “And mine, too, because I let her talk me into it. It was the Christmas before the Olympics, and the team was in strict training. Milo didn’t want anyone taking the chance of an injury, but Becca wanted a skiing holiday in Switzerland. She thought she was invincible. But she wasn’t. She fell on the slopes and broke her wrist, badly.

“Milo was the one who was furious. And afterwards, even though Becca worked really hard at rehab, hoping to get her position back, he didn’t believe the break had healed enough to take the strain of serious training.” Freddie sighed. “They were both stubborn, and they both felt justified in their grudges. Maybe they were, I don’t know. But it took them a long time to become friends again.”

“I can see why she might have been a bit reluctant to let him know she was training,” said Doug. “She had something to prove, and she wanted to be sure of herself.”

“Exactly.” Freddie gave Doug a grateful look.

“So you were worried about her?” Kincaid asked. “That’s all?”

Freddie must have heard the skepticism in his voice, because he colored. “What other reason would I have had?”

“Maybe you were worried she would lose her job.” Kincaid stood and began to wander round the room, so that Freddie had to turn his head to follow him. “Or quit,” he went on. “Maybe you were worried she would come to you for a handout, and you thought you’d been generous enough already—although rumor has it she deserved a generous settlement.”

“What—who told you that?”

“Milo Jachym, for one. And Becca’s lawyer. And Becca’s insurance broker.” Kincaid knew he was stretching it a bit, but he was going for impact.

Freddie had lost the quick flush of a moment before. “That’s not true. I mean, yes, she deserved the settlement. Of course she did. But I never wanted anything back.”

“Rumor also has it that you’re in deep financial shit,” said Doug, taking Kincaid’s place on the dining chair and leaning in close to Freddie. “It would only be natural to regret turning over so much to Becca. Even with the recession, the cottage in Remenham must be worth a pretty penny.”

“But Becca appreciated what you’d done for her, didn’t she?” Kincaid ambled round to stand beside Doug, so that they boxed Freddie in. “That was only fair. And she was fair, wasn’t she? Prickly, competitive, not always easy to get on with. But fair.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Freddie pushed against the back of the sofa, as if he’d like to disappear through it.

“She made sure you would be taken care of if anything happened to her,” said Doug. He gave Kincaid a quick questioning glance and Kincaid nodded affirmation.

“She not only made you the beneficiary and the executor of her estate,” Doug went on, “but she named you as the recipient of a half-a-million-pound life insurance policy.”

In the silence that followed, Kincaid heard the sharp rasp of Freddie’s breath, then the faint sound of voices from the slightly open window that faced New Street. He watched Atterton’s face for the tick that would betray foreknowledge, for the quick involuntary shift of the eyes that signaled deceit.

But Freddie Atterton’s face twisted and he put a shaking hand to his mouth. “Oh, no,” he whispered. “No, please tell me she didn’t.”

“I’m afraid she did.” Kincaid felt a stirring of pity.

“But I can’t—I don’t—” Freddie shook his head wildly, like a man drowning. “I can’t tell her to take it back.”

And in that moment, Kincaid believed him. If Becca Meredith had ever wanted revenge on her erring ex-husband, she had it now. She had given him a gift that might be beyond bearing.

“Well, it should certainly solve your financial difficulties,” said Doug matter-of-factly, apparently unmoved. “Unless, of course, you’re convicted of murder.”

“No. No. I would have been okay,” protested Freddie. He twisted the tail of his shirt in his hands. “I’ve got this project, an upscale development below Remenham. And I had a new investor. That’s what I was doing at Leander on Tuesday morning. I was supposed to have breakfast with him, but he didn’t show. That’s one reason I kept ringing Becca. I wanted to ask her if he was for real.”

“Why would she have known that?” Kincaid asked, wondering if he’d missed a beat.

“Because he’s a cop. Or an ex-cop, I should say. His name is Angus Craig.”