No Mark upon Her

Chapter Nineteen

Race day draws inexorably closer and it is not anticipation or even elation that is the key sensation for the first-timer. It is fear—not of the impending battle, but fear of losing face, fear of a personal failure to function properly under stress, despite the endless months of practice; fear of letting down crewmates, friends, family and the whole damned tradition of the century and a half old Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race

.

—Daniel Topolski

Boat Race: The Oxford Revival

“Tell me exactly what happened,” he said.

Bell hesitated. “Everything?”

“Yes, everything.” He tried to master his impatience. “You let me decide whether or not it’s important, okay?”

“Okay,” Bell repeated, still a little uncertainly. “Well, after I spoke to you earlier this afternoon, I put together some lunch with the bits that were in the fridge. I thought he should eat something, you know?”

The question was apparently rhetorical, as she went on. “Then, well, there didn’t seem to be anyone else to do it, so I went with Fred—Mr. Atterton—to the undertaker’s. I helped him make the basic arrangements. It was—it was . . . grim. I’m glad I don’t do that every day.”

“Understandable,” Kincaid said encouragingly. “I’m sure you were a great help. Then what did you do?”

“We went back to the flat. I helped him with the obituary. It needed to go in the Times straightaway. And that was— I didn’t realize all the things she’d done. She was quite special, wasn’t she?” An element of hero worship had crept into Bell’s voice.

“She was that,” Kincaid agreed. “But she was also very human, and I suspect that right now Freddie is not inclined to remember her flaws. But we mustn’t forget that she had them.”

As he spoke, Kincaid watched Gemma, who had stood and was quietly putting plates and cups in the sink as she listened to his side of the conversation.

She could be obstinate, he thought, cataloging his wife’s faults. Impulsive. Quick to judge, quick to speak her mind, quick to care passionately about things and people. Slow to make commitments unless she knew she could keep them.

“And he adored her. He wouldn’t have her any other way.

He wondered if Rebecca Meredith had wanted to be loved for her flaws as much as for her accomplishments—and if she’d realized, too late, that she’d had that and had given it up.

“Right,” said Bell, sounding unconvinced. “When we’d finished, it was getting on for supper, and there was nothing left in the fridge but sour milk and some beer. I said I’d go to the shops. He—Atterton—seemed so . . . lost. He couldn’t even put together a shopping list, so I . . . I went to Sainsbury’s.” Bell paused again.

“And?” Kincaid prompted.

“When I got back, he was gone.”

“Just gone? On foot? By car? You’re certain he wasn’t in the flat?”

“I knocked and rang, then I tried his mobile and the landline. By that time I was getting seriously worried, so I tracked down the building manager and had him let me in. I was afraid . . . I was afraid of what I might find. But he wasn’t there. There was nothing disturbed, no note. His car keys were still on the console table by the door. He seems to have just walked out and not come back.”

“Was he drinking?”

“No. In fact, he poured the remains of a bottle of good scotch down the sink. Said the smell made him feel ill.”

At least it didn’t sound as if Atterton had gone off on a bender, Kincaid thought. To Bell, he said, “Keep trying to reach him. You did the right thing, helping him out this afternoon and ringing me. But Freddie Atterton’s a grown man and we’ve no right to restrict his movements unless we’ve charged him with something.”

“We’re not going to, are we?” asked Bell. “Charge him, I mean.”

“The SOCOs found no evidence linking him to the scene of the murder, so at the moment, I doubt it.” He sounded more certain than he felt. “Was there anything else today?” he asked. “Anything you talked about that was out of the ordinary?”

There was silence while Imogen Bell thought. Then she said, “He kept asking about the boat, wanting to know when he could have it back. I told him I thought the SOCOs were almost finished with it. I hope that was okay.”

Kincaid frowned. “I don’t see why not—although he won’t have any legal right to the boat until the will has been processed.”

When he’d rung off, Gemma sat down across from him again and poured herself a bit of the Bordeaux. “Becca’s ex-husband’s gone missing, I take it?” she asked. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“He doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type,” Kincaid said. “And DC Bell, who was looking after him, said he kept asking about the Filippi, Becca’s racing shell. Why would he want to know when he could have the boat back if he was going to kill himself?”

“You don’t think—” Now it was Gemma who hesitated. “You don’t think he’s in any danger, do you?”

Kincaid thought of the measures Craig and Gaskill and their shadowy cronies were willing to take to keep secrets. “I hope not,” he said.

Kincaid didn’t sleep well. He lay, feeling the weight of Gemma’s leg against his, inhaling the scent of her lilac bath soap, and worrying about Freddie Atterton—and about Gemma—until well into the wee hours of the morning.

He must have dozed at last, but he woke again when the panes in the bedroom windows began to lighten almost imperceptibly with the coming dawn.

Carefully easing his feet from under Geordie, who slept stretched out across the foot of the bed, Kincaid got up, showered, and dressed. When he was ready, he bent and kissed the corner of Gemma’s mouth. “I’m going to Henley,” he whispered.

“What?” She opened sleepy eyes. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. Shhh. Go back to sleep. I’ll ring you.”

He crept down the stairs, trying not to wake the children, and found that he was suddenly aware of the particular early-morning feel of the house. He imagined it as a quietly slumbering beast, waiting for its heart to wake—its exhalations rich with accumulated scents of tea and toast and dogs and the faint mist of children’s breath.

He was quite pleased with his fancy, and himself, when he reached the front door undetected. But then he heard the click of toenails on the floor tiles.

Turning, he saw that Geordie had followed him downstairs. The dog looked up at him, his tail wagging, his eyes filled with the soulful reproach only a cocker spaniel can achieve.

Kincaid squatted and rubbed his ears. “I can’t take you out just now,” he whispered. “Go back to bed.”

Geordie cocked his head, his tail wagging harder. Kincaid gave his head a last pat. “Nothing gets past you, does it, sport? Keep an eye on Gemma for me, that’s a good—”

He stood, staring at the dog. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

It was fully light by the time Kincaid reached Henley. As he passed over the bridge, he saw the rowing eights going out from Leander, like a many-legged flotilla. The morning was cold, clear, and still—perfect rowing weather, he assumed. But it wasn’t rowers he wanted to speak to at the moment.

His first stop was the incident room at Henley Police Station.

DI Singla was there, as was the unfortunately named DC Bean, but the industry of the past few days seemed to have dissipated and the room had a sleepy air. There was little new information for the team to work with, and nothing he could add. Yet.

He was about to ask for DC Bell when she came in, looking rumpled and bleary-eyed.

“Sir.” She nodded at him as she sank into a chair, cradling a plastic cup of coffee in her hands as if she needed its transitory warmth.

“Rough night?” he asked.

Imogen Bell blushed. “I was concerned about Mr. Atterton, sir. I watched the flat.”

Kincaid stared at her. “All night?”

“Yes, sir. From my car. I parked by the main gate.”

No wonder she looked as though she’d slept in her clothes—she had, or at least had spent the night in them. Kincaid was impressed, although he wasn’t sure if she had demonstrated the makings of a very good police officer or a very big crush. Possibly both.

“Commendable,” he said. “Did he come home?”

“No, sir.” She looked utterly dejected. “And he’s still not answering his mobile.”

DI Singla broke in. “We’ve confirmed Atterton’s overseas phone call to Mrs. Meredith on Wednesday evening, both from the phone records and by speaking to Mrs. Meredith. They talked for forty-two minutes. Atterton could not possibly have burned Kieran Connolly’s boatshed unless he has the ability to be in two places at once. Or he and his former mother-in-law are in cahoots,” Singla added thoughtfully. “I suppose he could have answered her call, then left the phone off the hook—”

“While he walked or drove to the place where he borrowed or stole a single scull, rowed to the island, tossed the Molotov cocktail, returned the boat, and made it back to the flat to hang up the phone, all in forty-two minutes?”

“I’ll admit it’s unlikely,” agreed Singla. “And I can’t imagine why Rebecca Meredith’s mother would have agreed to such a thing, unless she and Atterton knew the disposition of Rebecca’s will and planned to share the estate. As far as we’ve been able to ascertain, however, Mrs. Meredith has no need of her daughter’s money or property.”

“Not to mention that such a scenario is based on Freddie Atterton having killed Becca, and we know forensics found no corroborating evidence at the scene.”

“But what about Mr. Atterton?” said Bell. “Should we report him missing?”

Kincaid considered. He wished he had Cullen as a sounding board, but he’d asked Doug to stay behind in London in case Melody—and Gemma—needed backup. “Let’s give it a bit longer,” he told Bell. “Have you tried Leander?”

“Not since yesterday evening.”

“Why don’t you check with them again? I’ve someone I want to have a word with, then we’ll reconvene.” He started to turn away, but something was puzzling him. “DC Bell, did Freddie give you any reason why he’s so anxious to get the Filippi back?”

“He said . . .” She frowned, as if trying to recall the exact words. “He said it was the only thing he could fix.”

Having left Notting Hill without breakfast, Kincaid briefly considered picking up a cup of coffee from the station vending machine. But only briefly. He’d be walking right by Starbucks—not his favorite brew, but a huge improvement over brown slop in a polystyrene cup.

A few minutes later, armed with a paper cup from Starbucks, and having downed a muffin in two bites, he rang Tavie Larssen’s bell.

There was a chorus of wild barking, a man’s answering shout, then Kieran Connolly swung open the door. His forehead, which had just begun to bruise on Wednesday night, was now purple, but he’d removed the dressing, and Kincaid saw that he was indeed going to have a rakish Harry Potter scar slanting down to his eyebrow.

But his face brightened when he saw it was Kincaid. “Have you come about the shed?” he asked, blocking the still-barking German shepherd and Labrador with his body.

“Partly,” Kincaid said. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Kieran turned to the dogs. “Finn. Tosh. Quiet. Go lie down.”

The dogs obeyed the first command but not the second. They had to sniff Kincaid thoroughly as he entered the room, their doggy breath warm against his trouser legs. “You smell other pups, don’t you?” he said, giving them both rubs round the ears. To Kieran, he added, “You forgot the biscuits.”

“Oh, so I did.” Kieran opened the tin on the table by the door, and the dogs sat immediately. “You have dogs?” Kieran asked, looking at him for the first time as if he might be a person as well as a policeman.

“A cocker spaniel. And our son has a terrier.”

“Good dogs, cockers,” said Kieran. “Great at drugs and explosives work. Amazing energy, those little guys.”

“Tell me about it.”

Having finished their biscuits, the dogs went to their beds, now side by side in front of the fire. Tavie’s sitting room, Kincaid saw, no longer looked as though it belonged in a doll’s house. Aside from the two large dogs and one large man, the floor was scattered with dog toys, the tables held empty cups and scattered papers, and several articles of male clothing were draped haphazardly over the sofa and chairs.

Kieran removed a pair of jeans from the sofa back and gestured Kincaid to a seat. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “Tavie’s dryer’s on the blink. She’s borrowed a few things for me from her mates at work, but all my stuff needed washing.”

“Is she here?”

“No. She’s on rota today.” Kieran sat on the chair, his large hands clasped on his knees. “About the shed. Is it—can I—I’d like to go home.”

It seemed to Kincaid that in spite of his assertion, Kieran seemed less anxious about the shed than he had been after the fire on Wednesday night. Understandable, certainly, as he’d been shocked, injured, and frightened. But today he also seemed to be moving round Tavie’s little house more easily, as if he was beginning to feel comfortable in the space.

“I see you two haven’t killed each other yet,” Kincaid said.

“Not yet. Although it’s been a near thing.” There was a glint of wry humor in Kieran’s eyes. “But still, I need to see if—if there’s anything left—”

“DI Singla said the arson team has cleared your boatshed as of this morning. They’ve finished gathering evidence, and they’ve pronounced the shed messy but safe.”

“Oh.” Having been granted his wish, Kieran seemed at a loss. “Great.”

“I went through it yesterday. It’s not as bad as you might think, but you’ll have a job in store.”

Nodding, Kieran reached up as if to scratch his forehead, then appeared to think better of it and dropped his hand back to his lap. “Tavie keeps telling me that things are replaceable, that I should be thankful I’m alive. And I suppose I know that, but everything I owned was in that shed. I could—” He shook his head, as if debating the wisdom of finishing his thought aloud. “Do you know who did this to me?” he asked instead. “Or why? Was it the man I saw by the river?”

“We don’t know yet. But about that place by the river,” Kincaid said, seeing his opening. “You were right. There was someone there, and he left physical evidence.” Kincaid sat forward, glancing at the dogs, both now stretched out on their sides and seemingly oblivious to the world. “It occurred to me—is it possible that the dogs could associate scent left in that spot with a particular person?”

Kieran frowned. “It’s been what, five days? And I’ve been there, not to mention your forensics team have been over it with a fine-tooth comb. Tavie’s the expert, but I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”

As if he knew they were talking about him, Finn gave a whuffled groan and raised his head.

“The dogs might react if they had some sort of emotional connection to the scent”—Kieran went on, without meeting Kincaid’s eyes—“like, um, a significant event, or if they recognized a person they already knew.”

Finn stood, yawning, then came over and settled at Kieran’s feet. “But they could just as easily be interested because that person had sausages for breakfast,” Kieran continued. “You’re fickle beasties, aren’t you?” he said to Finn, leaning over to stroke the dog’s head.

“Okay, thanks,” Kincaid said, disappointed. “It was a long shot, anyway.”

Kieran met his eyes then, his gaze clear and direct. “You think you know who did it.”

“I have no evidence,” Kincaid answered.

What he’d hoped was that if Melody and Gemma got an ID on Craig in the Jenny Hart case, the dogs might provide a strong enough link between Becca Meredith’s murder scene and Craig to justify a search warrant for Craig’s car and belongings.

He wanted Craig for Jenny Hart, but he wanted him for Becca Meredith even more.

“Look, Kieran,” he said, standing. “He’s still out there, and you’re still the only person who might have seen him on the river. Stay here for a while longer. And don’t go out on your own at night.”

When Kincaid reached the door, he turned back. “Oh, and by the way, that boat you were building? The one you were worried about? We had your next-door neighbor lock it in his shed.”

He said good-bye, without much assurance that Kieran would take his advice, but he couldn’t put everyone who’d been connected to Becca Meredith under lock and key for their own safety.

The day was warming as he walked back into Market Place. He stopped, checking his watch. It was only ten o’clock. It would be at least another two hours before he could expect to hear from Gemma. And he had no doubt that her report would be firsthand. In spite of his cautions, she was just as much a police officer as he was, and she would want to hear the witness statement herself.

In the meantime, he was bloody well going to find Freddie Atterton.

He tried the bar at the Hotel du Vin, even though it was early, just in case Freddie’s no-alcohol resolution had been short-lived, but without success.

Then he walked across the bridge to Leander. Not that he didn’t trust DC Bell’s thoroughness, but it was possible that she and Freddie could have come and gone at cross-purposes. Still no joy, however, although he spoke to the lovely Lily in reception, then checked the dining room, the bars, and the crew quarters.

After returning to reception and thanking Lily, an impulse led him to walk out the French doors and onto the small balcony that overlooked the river and the regatta meadows. The fields were empty now, the green sweep of grass marred only by the concrete stanchions that would support the enclosures come June.

Kincaid had never been to Henley Royal Regatta, but he’d seen photos and videos. He imagined the crowds, the marquees, the sun sparkling on the water, and all the rowers and racing shells going out from the starting rafts, a symphony of color and motion.

Would Becca have been among next year’s rowers, racing to prove she had what it took for the Olympics?

He heard the creak of the door behind him and turned to see Milo Jachym.

“Lily said you were looking for Freddie,” said Milo. “Is he all right?”

“He walked out of his flat last night and hasn’t come back. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“He rang me last night but I was in the gym. He didn’t leave a message, and he didn’t answer when I tried ringing back.” Milo frowned. “He didn’t take his car?”

“No.”

“He won’t have gone to his parents, then.” Milo shook his head and, like Kincaid, gazed out across the meadows. “I’d never have thought he’d take it so hard, Becca’s death. Freddie always seemed like one of those blessed few who would slide through life without a hiccough. He had everything—looks, connections, talent. But the charm’s grown thinner the last few years. It’s as if he’s had to make an effort to hold everything together.”

Studying the man beside him, Kincaid wondered if Milo Jachym had been jealous. He had the sense that nothing had come easily to Milo—this man had had to grab opportunities and hang on to them with a coxswain’s tenaciousness. And it was certainly possible that his relationship with Becca Meredith had been more complicated than that of coach and crew member. “You knew Freddie and Becca for a long time,” he said.

“Since they were both still at university. They had such promise, both of them. But there was a worm in it somewhere.” Milo sounded infinitely sad.

Shrugging, he straightened, the briskness back in full force. “And I’ve got a crew to get on the river for a second session. When you find Freddie, tell him to ring me.” He started down the stairs to the boatyard, then turned back to Kincaid. “Have you tried the cottage? That’s the one place Freddie might see as a last refuge.”

Kincaid considered going back for his car, which he’d left in the Greys Road car park near the police station. But he suspected that if he did, the incident room would suck him in like a magnet, and he still felt that invisibility was the better part of valor until he knew what they had on Craig.

He would walk to Remenham. He’d driven the distance, after all, and it hadn’t seemed that far.

He soon discovered that although the lane looked idyllic, the hamlet was considerably farther than he’d remembered. By the time he reached Becca Meredith’s cottage, he was warm, even in the lightweight leather jacket he’d worn that day, and he’d have given a king’s ransom for his trainers.

The cottage looked less tidy by daylight, the lack of routine maintenance more evident. The hedges needed trimming, the lawn needed cutting, and the paint round the front porch was beginning to peel.

The front gate was off the latch, and as Kincaid stepped through it, he realized the cottage’s front door was standing ajar. A dozen scenarios ran through his head in an instant, none of them pleasant.

He stopped, his heart pounding, examining what he could see of the house and the garden. After lecturing Gemma about being careful, he didn’t need to be the one who carelessly walked into a dangerous situation.

There was no sound, no movement. Then he saw the footprints. There had been heavy dew that morning, and the overlong grass in the front garden, which had been shaded by the hedge, was still damp. A distinct single line of footprints led from the front porch into the grass, and around the side of the cottage.

Kincaid followed cautiously. When he rounded the corner of the house, he saw Freddie Atterton standing at the far end of the garden, looking out over the river. He wore jeans and a faded Oxford-blue T-shirt, and his feet were bare.

“Freddie,” Kincaid said quietly, and Atterton turned.

“Oh. It’s you.” The smile Freddie gave Kincaid was tentative, and he seemed a little disoriented.

“Are you all right?” Kincaid asked, going closer. He saw that the Oxford-blue T-shirt really was Oxford blue—it bore the Oxford University Boat Club emblem on the front. “You’ve had us all a bit worried. Especially DC Bell.”

“Imogen. Nice name. Pretty girl.” The smile was a little stronger this time, then Freddie’s brow creased in a frown. “She was looking for me?”

“You haven’t checked your messages.”

“No. Turned the bloody phone off. Press.”

“You’ve been here since last night?”

Freddie nodded.

“What are you doing out here in the garden?” Kincaid asked, as gently as he would have asked one of his children.

“I wanted—I just wanted to see—” Freddie stopped, his teeth chattering. Kincaid saw that the legs of his jeans were soaked halfway to the knees from the damp grass, as were his own trousers. “You can’t quite make it out from here,” Freddie went on. “Temple Island. But she was so close.”

“Yes,” Kincaid agreed. “She was.” Just as matter-of-factly, he added, “You seem to have lost your shoes.”

“Oh.” Freddie looked down, and seemed surprised to see that he was barefoot. He touched the front of his shirt. “I found these. My things from uni. In the wardrobe. She’d saved them.” There were tears in his eyes.

“I think,” Kincaid said reasonably, “that we should go inside, have a cup of tea, and get warm. Then we can talk about it. All right?”

It was obvious from the rumpled duvet on the sofa that Freddie had slept there, and not upstairs in the bedroom. Kincaid couldn’t blame him. Sleeping in one’s dead ex-wife’s bed would be bad enough. Sleeping in the bed you now knew your dead ex-wife had shared with another man would be even worse.

“You should change,” he suggested as he followed Freddie into the room.

“I’ll dry. I’m a rower, remember? Or I was, anyway. Wet is a fact of life for rowers.”

The sitting room was cold in spite of the bright day, as it had been the first time Kincaid had come to the cottage. “Why don’t you light the fire, then? I’m not quite as hardy as you. I’ll make us something hot.”

He found tea bags in the kitchen—Tetley’s. Apparently Becca’s taste had run to down-to-earth. A plastic jug in the fridge was half full of milk that was just skating its use-by date. When he had the kettle on, Kincaid glanced back into the sitting room and asked, “Milk and sugar?”

Freddie nodded. “Lots of both. Another old rower’s habit. Never let a good calorie pass you by.” Having lit the gas fire, he pushed the duvet aside and sat on the sofa, then began to shuffle what looked like old photos that were spread out on the small coffee table.

When Kincaid had filled two mugs, skipping the sugar in his, and deciding at the last minute to pass on the milk as well, he carried them into the sitting room and took the chair nearest Freddie. “What are you looking at?” he asked, handing over Freddie’s mug.

“She saved these, too. I’d no idea. I was looking for a pen and I found them stuffed in the drawer of the writing desk.” He began to turn the photos so that they faced Kincaid.

In every one, Kincaid saw a much younger Freddie, in Oxford rowing kit. In several, he was at stroke in an eight, his face contorted with a grimace of effort. Several seemed to be at parties or after races. In one, a much younger Becca was pouring a bottle of champagne over his head, and they were both laughing.

Freddie picked that one up and ran a finger over its surface. “It was the second year I was in the Blue Boat,” he said. “We’d just got engaged. No surprise it was Ross who put Becca up to the champagne.”

“Ross?”

“My mate who took me to—” He faltered, drank a sip of his tea. “To the mortuary,” he went on. “We were all at uni together, Becca and me, and Ross and his wife, Chris.”

Freddie nodded at a framed photo of the same Boat Race crew on Becca’s bookshelf. “See, there he is. That one was taken right before the race. Ross was a last-minute substitution from Isis, the second boat.”

Kincaid saw a stocky young man, smiling, as were all the crew, with what looked like a mixture of pride and nerves. “I thought maybe the champagne was a Boat Race celebration.”

“Not for the losing crew. We were nearly swamped that year. Could have bloody drowned. I think Becca—I don’t know. Things were never quite the same after that. Maybe that marked me as a failure in her eyes.”

“It was just a race,” Kincaid said.

Freddie stared at him as if he’d gone utterly daft. “It was the Boat Race. Nothing afterwards ever quite lives up to that, whether you win or lose. But Becca, she wanted me to win, even more than I did.”

“Was she jealous of you, of your opportunity?” Kincaid asked, thinking of everything he’d learned about Becca Meredith. “That was the one thing she could never do, row in the Boat Race.”

Freddie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Maybe. It never occurred to me. Maybe that was why it mattered so much.”

“Your loss was her loss.”

“She took it hard. Not just angry. Not just disappointed. She was . . . bitter.” He shrugged. “We went on, got married, as if things were the same. But they weren’t. Then—well, you know what happened then.”

“The Olympic trials. Her injury. Her failure.”

Freddie nodded. “I didn’t think we would get through that. But then she went into the job, and for a while, things got better. She put all that ferocious energy into work. But there was always a distance between us, a wall, and I could never break through it.”

“And, eventually, you sought solace.” Kincaid said it without censure.

Freddie’s smile twisted. “I suppose you could call it that. But it never helped. Now I keep wondering if there was anything I could have done that would have made a difference. And I’ll never know.”

It was true. There was nothing Kincaid could say that would change it. And now he knew that the things he would have to say at some point would only increase the burden of Freddie’s guilt, at least in Freddie’s eyes.

If Freddie and Becca had stayed married, Angus Craig might never have had the opportunity to rape Becca. And Becca might not be dead.

Kincaid looked round the cottage, realizing that when he’d been here the first time, on Tuesday evening, he’d had no knowledge of what had happened here.

Now, in his mind’s eye, he saw again the crime-scene photos from Jenny Hart’s flat, and imagined this room, and Becca, violated. He felt sick.

“What is it?” asked Freddie. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Kincaid met his eyes, and in that instant he made a decision. Freddie would have to know what had happened to Becca.

But not yet. Because with knowledge would come rage, and if Freddie sought out Angus Craig, Kincaid had no way to protect him from the consequences.