No Mark upon Her

Chapter Five

Crowning the Reach is James Wyatt’s wedding-cake folly (1771) on Temple Island, down by the start of the regatta course.

—Rory Ross with Tim Foster

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

Gemma heard Charlotte’s sobs as she came up the path towards the road. She quickened her steps, her chest tightening with a mother’s instinctive reaction to the sound of her child in distress.

When she rounded the corner, she saw Kit standing beside the Escort, holding Charlotte, who was kicking her heels against him as she howled. Toby sat in the car, looking mutinous.

“I’m sorry, Gemma,” called Kit. “I know you wanted me to keep them in the car, but I couldn’t stop her crying.” He bounced Charlotte on his hip, cajoling her. “See, I told you she’d come back. Gemma’s here.”

As Gemma reached them, Charlotte twisted in Kit’s grasp and flung herself at Gemma, arms outstretched. Gemma leapt to catch her before she went into free fall.

“Whoa, lovey. Let’s not have an aerial ballet,” Gemma said, tucking Charlotte’s damp face into her shoulder.

“You went ’way” came Charlotte’s muffled wail.

“Yes, I did. And I came back. See?” She held Charlotte away from her long enough to kiss her cheek, but then the child burrowed her face into Gemma’s neck again.

“I don’t want to stay in the car,” said Toby from the Escort’s half-open window. “Why does she get to come out and I don’t? Maybe I should cry, too.” He scrunched up his face.

“Don’t you dare.” Gemma stabbed a finger at him over Charlotte’s shoulder. “And don’t you dare get out of that car. We’re all going home. Now.”

“Dad, too?” asked Kit.

“No,” she said, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “He’s got to stay here for a bit, but I’m sure he’ll come as soon as he can.” Though truthfully, now that she knew what the suspicious death involved, she wasn’t sure at all.

She saw that there were now more uniformed officers on the scene. Traffic on the Marlow Road had come almost to a standstill as motorists slowed to a crawl, mesmerized by the spectacle of flashing lights and patrol cars. Bystanders were gathering as well, some coming down the side road that led to the nearby car park and Hambleden village. Uniform was going to have its hands full.

“Does that mean you won’t be going back to work?” Kit asked. She glanced at him, unsure if he was pleased or disappointed.

“Let’s not worry about that just yet. We’ll sort something out, okay?”

And she bloody well hoped she was right about that. Her boss, Mark Lamb, was expecting her back at Notting Hill next Monday. Excuses about child-care difficulties, no matter how valid, would not go down well.

Charlotte had stopped snuffling, but Toby was now hanging halfway out the car window and looked in immediate danger of falling on his head. “Toby, back in the car. And buckle up, please.”

She gave a last glance back towards the river, wondering what Duncan and Rashid might find and feeling a flare of frustration at being excluded. But just now she had to deal with the problems at hand.

“Kit, we need to get out of the way. Can you grab your things from the Astra, and the keys? You can ask one of the officers to keep them for your dad.” Still holding Charlotte, she reached in and popped open the Escort’s boot for Kit—she knew better than to put Charlotte in the car until the last possible moment.

As Kit tossed in his bag, then jogged over to the nearest constable, Gemma saw a flash of bright blue as a small car pulled out of the jam and into the only remaining space on the verge. It was a little Renault, a Clio, but it wasn’t until the driver’s-side door swung open that recognition clicked.

“Melody?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Hi, boss.” Melody Talbot grinned. “I’m just playing chauffeur,” she added as the Clio’s passenger door opened and Doug Cullen climbed out.

Gemma’s pleasure at seeing Melody, whose company she’d missed since she’d been away from work, quickly vanished.

“Doug,” she said. “He called you. In fact, he called you first.”

Cullen had the grace to look abashed. “It was just in case this turned out to be something more than a false alarm. In on the ground floor and all that. Sorry if it’s buggered your holiday, Gemma.”

She glared at him, then relented with a reluctant sigh. Kincaid had only done what she’d have done in his place, and it certainly wasn’t Doug’s fault. “I think you’ll find he wants you straightaway.” She gestured towards the path. “I hope you don’t have a problem with water.”

“Not unless I’m in it,” Doug answered, sounding relieved.

Gemma thought of the huddled form, pulled from the tangle of flotsam in the river, and shuddered. She must have inadvertently squeezed Charlotte, who said, “Ow,” and wriggled down from Gemma’s arms. “Want to see Melody,” she added, but stayed leaning against Gemma’s leg. Charlotte was very definite about the people she liked, and Melody was one of them, but she still suffered from attacks of shyness.

Melody knelt so that she was on Charlotte’s level. “Hi, sweetheart. Are you having an adventure?”

“I want to see the river,” Charlotte pronounced unexpectedly. “Kit says there’s a river. Is it big?”

Nonplussed, Gemma glanced at Melody, who mouthed, “Sorry.”

“We can’t see the river today, lovey,” Gemma told Charlotte. “It’s getting late, and the dogs must be missing us dreadfully at home.”

Melody stood and gave Charlotte’s curls a ruffle. “You’ll have to visit Doug in Putney.” She gave Cullen a sly glance and got a frown in return, making Gemma wonder what she had missed.

“I’d better get down there,” said Doug. “Thanks for the lift, Melody.” He gave them an awkward little wave and disappeared down the path.

Gemma turned back to Melody. “What—”

“Where’s Doug going?” piped up Charlotte. “Don’t want Doug to go.”

“Mummy,” whined Toby, “I want to get out. Everyone else is out.”

Gemma rolled her eyes at Melody. “We really have got to go. Nuclear meltdown approaching.” Suddenly disheartened by the idea of arriving home on her own with three disappointed children, she added, “Why don’t you come to the house when we get back to London, if you’re not doing anything? We’ll get pizza or something. Have a good natter.”

Melody smiled. “Deal. I’ll bring the wine.”

Kincaid had taken a few moments to fill in Cullen, to have another word with Rashid, and to work out a strategic plan.

When the SAR handler, Kieran, had insisted on going with them to see the rowing shell, his teammate, Tavie, had chimed in that as team leader she was needed on scene as well. It was her job to tell the team watching the boat to stand down, once the police had the area secured.

But the dog handlers had left their cars on the Berks side of the river, halfway between Leander and the weir. With the daylight fading, there wasn’t time for them to walk back, pick up their cars, and drive round through Henley to the site on the Bucks bank where the shell had been found.

DI Singla, however, had looked so horrified at the suggestion that the handlers and dogs ride with him that Kincaid had jumped in. “Ride with me. I’ve plenty of room.”

“Thanks,” replied Tavie. “We’ll get a lift back round the other side once we’re finished.” Leaving Rashid and the SOCOs to deal with the removal of the body to the mortuary van, the others traversed the walkway back across the river, single file. Bringing up the rear, Kincaid felt a bit like the tenth Indian, but he was impressed by the dogs’ easy nonchalance as they crossed over the rushing water of the weir.

When they reached the verge, Cullen looked askance at the Astra. “This is yours? Since when?”

“Shut it,” Kincaid said cheerfully. “It was a gift from my dad. And already useful. You even get to ride in the front.”

Tavie, however, glanced at the car with approval. “Great. We’ll put the dogs in the storage area. This is Tosh, by the way,” she added, reaching down to stroke the German shepherd’s head. “And this is Finn.” She gestured towards the Lab as Kincaid opened the rear hatch. “Kieran, can you—”

“Oh, right.” The dark-haired handler led his dog round to the back of the Astra, and the Lab jumped in on command, as did Tavie’s German shepherd. But the man seemed dazed, and Kincaid had noticed an edge in Tavie’s voice when she spoke to him. There was definitely some tension between the two.

“Just as well you won’t have doggie breath down your necks,” Tavie said as she and Kieran got into the rear seat. “Although it’s not far. Do you know the way?”

“Only that it must be back towards Henley.”

“I’ll direct you, then, but”—she glanced dubiously at Doug in his suit and light overcoat—“it’s a good walk from where we’ll have to leave the car.”

Kincaid suppressed a grin. He’d drawn the lucky straw that day, it seemed, having dressed for sloshing in mud puddles with the children. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

He motioned for Singla to follow them in his own car, then turned left towards Henley when the constable controlling the traffic cleared an opening for them.

Kincaid caught intermittent glimpses of the river, then the road moved away from the water as it ran through a cluster of buildings that Tavie identified as the village of Greenlands. After that there were plowed fields to the right and tree-dotted meadows to the left. Soon, Tavie directed him to turn into what looked like a drive leading to a private estate. Two serviceable utility vehicles were parked just beyond the open gate, as was a Thames Valley panda car. All were unoccupied.

“This is the closest access,” Tavie explained. “We’ll have to cross the meadows on foot.”

Cullen looked down at his shoes and muttered, “Bugger.”

Kieran was out of the car before Kincaid had even popped the hatch on the storage area. Within seconds, he had his dog on the ground and had started across the field at an oblique angle to the river. He looked back at them impatiently. “We’ve got to hurry. The light’s going.”

“Can’t we stay on the track?” asked Cullen.

“No.” Pointing, Tavie added, “We’ve got to cross this field, and the next. You can come in from the other side of Temple Island, but that’s even farther, and wouldn’t be any drier.” She snapped the lead on her dog and started after Kieran.

As soon as Kincaid felt the soft, tussocky grass squish beneath his trainers, he felt some sympathy for Cullen—and for DI Singla, who was no better prepared. But Kieran had been right about the light. The hedgerow in the distance, and the tree line beyond that, were becoming gray-green blurs on a gray horizon.

Although the dogs hadn’t been given a command to search, they were eager, seeming to sense that they were engaged in work of some kind. Tavie and Kieran kept up with them at a steady trot, while the others straggled out at intervals, this time with Singla bringing up the rear.

What had looked like a hedgerow from a distance turned out to be an inlet snaking in from the river, which they crossed by a single-planked footbridge. By the time they’d crossed the second field, Kincaid’s feet were soaked and he was beginning to sweat, despite the chill in the air. Ahead lay the heavy belt of vegetation he had seen from the lane. They’d been following a faint track through the grass, but when the dogs and handlers reached the trees, they veered towards the river and plunged directly into the dense thicket.

Kincaid heard dogs bark, and an answering chorus. Then, as he pushed his way through branches, snagging his anorak, he heard human voices as well. As Cullen and Singla crashed along behind him, he pushed through into a small clearing right on the river’s edge.

Tavie stood with two uniformed constables and a man and a woman who wore dark Thames Valley Search and Rescue uniforms. Tosh, her German shepherd, was nosing greetings with a springer spaniel and a golden retriever, both of whom wore the distinctive orange SAR vests.

Kieran, with Finn, had gone straight to the water’s edge.

Tavie motioned to Kincaid. “Superintendent, this is Scott and Sarah. And Bumps and Meg,” she added, giving the spaniel and the retriever affectionate pats. “They found the boat.”

DI Singla was murmuring to the uniformed officers, but Kincaid looked at Kieran, who had knelt, his body obscuring the object of his attention. Kieran had dropped Finn’s lead, but the dog sat beside him, watching his master with what Kincaid could have sworn was a furrowed brow.

Walking over, Kincaid hunkered down until his shoulder was almost touching Kieran’s.

“It’s not a boat,” said Kieran, his voice trembling. “I told them before. It’s a Filippi. A racing shell.”

Kincaid gazed at the sleek lines of the shell. The Filippi was white, with a fine blue line running its length, and it seemed impossibly long and slender, like a sliver of light. A little water was still pooled beneath the seat and runners. “Sort of like calling a Thoroughbred a pony?” he suggested quietly.

Kieran nodded, and some of the tension seemed to go out of his shoulders.

A light nylon rope stretched from one of the shell’s riggers to a sturdy sapling near the bank. One oar lay nearby.

“We had to turn it over,” said Scott, coming to stand beside them. “The boat. To make sure she wasn’t”—he glanced uneasily at Kieran—“there wasn’t anyone trapped underneath. But we didn’t want to pull it out of the water until the police had seen it.”

“And the other oar? Was it missing when you found the boat?” Kincaid asked, resisting the temptation to examine the underside of the hull. He’d better leave it for forensics.

“Yeah,” said Scott, “it was missing, and I had to unfasten that one in order to flip the bloody thing. Got soaked.”

“How easy is it to flip a single shell like this?”

It was Cullen who answered. “Happens all the time. You catch a crab—”

“Not to her, it didn’t,” Kieran said, his voice fierce. “Not on a calm evening, not here.” He looked at Kincaid for the first time since they had reached the bank. “You don’t understand. She was an elite rower. Not some amateur out for a Sunday paddle.”

“You knew her,” Kincaid said with sudden realization. Behind him, Tavie shifted uncomfortably.

“Everyone knew her,” Kieran went on. “Rowers, I mean. She was—she could have been—one of the best in the world. And she trained on the reach every day.”

Kincaid gazed out at the Thames, its surface a silvery shimmer. Scattered lights had begun to twinkle in the dusk, but they were distant, and this spot felt as isolated as the moon. Mist rose from the water like wraiths.

“So,” he said slowly, “what if she fell ill? Fainted, even? There’d have been no one to help her.”

“Sudden death.” The reply, unexpectedly, was Cullen’s. “It happens to rowers sometimes. It’s called sudden death.”

As they trudged back across the meadows, Kincaid realized he’d forgotten how long light lingered in the sky once one was out of the city. But while shreds of violet stained the deep blue canopy above, the ground beneath their feet was nigh on invisible, and much stumbling and swearing accompanied the progress of all the police officers.

The dog handlers, however, seemed to be as sure-footed as their canine companions and periodically stopped to wait for the others.

There was no possibility of getting forensics to the scene until first light. The uniformed officers had set about trying to get the boat out of the water when Kieran had motioned them back. Taking off his boots, he’d slipped into the river and lifted the shell onto the bank as gently as if it were a child. Climbing out, he’d laid the single oar beside the shell and stood for a moment, his expression unfathomable in the gloom.

When the constables had finished cordoning off the small clearing with scene-of-crime tape, they had all gone out the way they’d come in, single file. DI Singla had another team of officers waiting at the cars; they would be led back to guard the scene overnight.

“I want to talk to the coach at Leander Club,” Kincaid said quietly to Cullen, when they’d crossed the single-plank bridge into the first meadow, and he thought he could see the shapes of the cars in the distance. “Wasn’t he the last person to have seen her?”

“The ex-husband reported her missing,” said Singla, from behind them.

“Him, too. But first the coach, I think. And we’ll need somewhere to stay—”

“All in hand.” Cullen sounded pleased with himself. “I rang the Red Lion on the way down. It’s just across the river from Leander.”

Kincaid glanced at him and saw only the glint of his glasses in the darkness. “How did you get here so quickly anyway? Levitate?”

Cullen’s reply came reluctantly. “Um, Melody gave me a lift.”

“What were you doing with Melody?” Kincaid asked, surprised.

“Buying her lunch. In Putney.” Cullen had begun to sound a bit defensive. “She came round to have a look at the house.”

“Ah.” Kincaid processed this. He’d been aware of Doug’s venture into homeownership, but as far as he knew, Doug and Melody barely tolerated each other. This, however, was not the time or place to inquire further. “Well, good. It’s official, then, the house?”

“As of this morning.”

Kincaid patted him on the shoulder, a little clumsily as his right foot twisted in a hollow. “We’ll have a drink on it later.”

He grimaced as he took another step, but it had less to do with the twinge in his ankle and more with the thought of staying here in Henley, leaving Gemma home alone with the children. This was not what they’d planned for this week.

As if sensing his train of thought, Cullen said very softly as they approached the cars, “Guv, I know you’ve got leave coming up. This case—do you think there’s anything to it?”

And Kincaid could have sworn there was a note of hope in his voice.

“You’ve been here before, I take it?” Kincaid asked.

Cullen had directed him over the Henley Bridge, then into the first turning. There was a dark mass of a building on his left, a gated car park on his right, and no obvious place to put the car.

They had left DI Singla to begin setting up an incident room at Henley Police Station, Cullen murmuring, “He’s a bit taciturn, wouldn’t you say?”

“No more than you or I would be under the circumstances, I suspect,” Kincaid had answered. “Would you want a Met officer dead on your patch?”

Cullen had shaken his head. “I wouldn’t be jumping for joy over the prospect, no.”

Now Cullen said, “Pull up to the dead end. The field beyond is where they put up the regatta enclosures, but it won’t be in use now. The club’s on the left.”

When Kincaid had duly parked and climbed out of the Astra, he saw that the building had appeared dark because it was flanked by a high brick wall, a visual moat. Above the wall, he saw red-tiled gables atop white-framed panels of pebbledash, and on the upper floors light glinted from a multitude of windows. There was an arched doorway in the wall that opened onto an inner courtyard.

Kincaid touched his fingers to the brick as they passed through. “A chastity belt for an Edwardian dowager?” he suggested.

“It’s Leander,” Doug protested, as if Kincaid had just insulted the holy of holies. “And it’s not dowdy. The building was completely refurbished in the late nineties.”

That didn’t make it an architectural gem, Kincaid thought, but he kept his opinion to himself. “So you rowed here?”

“Oh, no.” Doug sounded shocked. “I mean, I never rowed from Leander, as a member. But I rowed in regattas here in Henley, when I was at school.” The casually mentioned school had been, in Doug’s case, Eton—a fact that he rarely admitted in police environs.

“And at university?” Kincaid asked.

“No.” Doug shook his head as they reached glass doors sheltered by a fluted iron canopy. “Wasn’t good enough. Too big for a cox, too small for a really powerful oarsman.”

Kincaid opened the door, and they stepped into a lobby that was more elegant than the building’s exterior. The decor centered round a glass-topped coffee table with a sculpted bronze hippo as its base.

Lights still burned in a glass-fronted but very business-like office area on the lobby’s right. A young woman sitting at one of the desks saw them, stood, and came out, looking at them inquiringly. She wore a pale pink blouse and a navy skirt, and Kincaid was suddenly aware that he had been tromping across rain-sodden fields in the clothes he’d been wearing since he’d begun the day playing with the children—he certainly didn’t look the most reputable of policemen.

“Can I help you?” she said.

He ran his fingers through his hair, pulled his warrant card case from his pocket, and smiled. “Duncan Kincaid. Detective superintendent, Scotland Yard. And this is Sergeant Cullen. There was an incident today—”

“Becca?” the young woman said. She lifted her hand, her fingers brushing her collarbone in an instinctive gesture of shock. “Is she all right? The police were here, and the people with the dogs, but no one’s told us anything.”

“I’d like to speak to the coach who saw her going out on the river yesterday,” Kincaid said, avoiding the question as gently as he could. Rumors would be flying around, but he wanted to break the news first to the people Rebecca Meredith had known best. “Mr.—”

“Jachym. Milo Jachym,” Cullen contributed. He didn’t have to consult his notes.

“I—I think he’s in the Member’s Bar,” the young woman said. “I’ll take you up.” She started towards a flight of stairs that appeared to lead up to a mezzanine, then turned back. “I’m Lily Meyberg, by the way, the house manager.” She held out a slender hand, and when Kincaid took it, he felt the calluses on her palms and the strength of her grip. A rower? he wondered. And if so, possibly more than a casual acquaintance of the victim?

He followed her, noticing as he passed a glass-fronted case displaying mugs and teacups decorated with the dancing pink hippos that seemed to be the Leander mascot, along with caps and ties in the infamous Leander cerise.

As he climbed, he saw that the walls of the stairwell were lined with photos of groups of muscular men and women in rowing singlets, sporting gaudy medals.

“Redgrave, Pinsent, Williams, Foster, Cracknell . . .” Doug’s whisper was reverent, and he looked as if he was resisting the temptation to touch the photos as he passed. These, Kincaid knew, were the gold-medal winners, rowing’s gods.

At the top of the stairs they reached a reception area, but the desk and the dining room beyond were empty. Back to the right, however, Kincaid heard the murmur of voices and the clink of china and cutlery.

He peered round the corner into another dining area—a pleasant, casual room with a bar at its end that must overlook the building’s front. The few diners at the white-clothed tables looked up at him curiously, implements frozen. As he turned back to reception, he sensed the tension of whispers beginning to build behind him.

“I’ll take you back,” Lily was saying. She led them not through the dining room that he had seen, but along a corridor that ran parallel to it, towards the front of the building.

“It seems there’s not much custom tonight,” he said. In spite of the sparseness of diners, delicious odors were wafting from somewhere nearby, and Kincaid realized he was starving. Their breakfast in Glastonbury that morning seemed a world away. They’d meant to have a late lunch once they reached home, so he had missed the meal altogether.

“It’s usually quiet on a Tuesday night, unless we have a function on,” said Lily. “But the chef has the crew to cook for, three meals a day, so it’s always busy in the kitchen.”

“That’s a job,” said Cullen, sounding impressed.

Lily gave him a quick smile. “They do eat a good bit.”

As they reached the end of the corridor, two young men carrying kit bags came out of a door marked CREW. They made Kincaid, who was a bit over six feet, feel suddenly dwarfed. Like the diners, the young men glanced curiously at the newcomers, giving them the slightest of nods.

“Rowers in training need about six thousand calories a day,” Lily added, glancing back at the oarsmen as they disappeared round the corner. As Kincaid tried to calculate what six thousand calories meant in terms of portions, he saw that they had reached a T-junction of sorts, with the bar he’d seen at the end of the dining room to the left, a small service area straight ahead, and to the right, a smaller, more intimate bar, its walls covered with rowing memorabilia and anchored by a large flat-screen television.

A petite blonde in the service kitchen was making coffee. She wore the same pale pink blouse and navy skirt as Lily, and Kincaid surmised it must be the Leander staff uniform.

“Milo?” asked Lily, and the pretty blonde nodded towards the small bar.

“He’s been ringing the police, but he can’t find out any—” The blonde stopped at Lily’s fractional head shake, and her eyes widened as she looked at Kincaid and Cullen.

“I’ll take them in,” said Lily, and they followed her into the bar.

A small, balding man sat alone, an empty coffee cup on the table before him. He stood when he saw them, his lined face apprehensive.

“Mr. Jachym?” Kincaid asked before Lily could introduce him. “If we could have a word. We’re from the police.”

Lily left them then, but he was sure that anything they said could be heard from the service kitchen on the other side of the bar. The news would be all over the club in no time.

“I’ve been trying—”

“I know,” Kincaid interrupted. “Mr. Jachym, I understand you were the last person to see Rebecca Meredith?”

“I—” Jachym swallowed visibly. “As far as I know, yes. I told the other policeman, the Asian one.”

“You were Rebecca Meredith’s coach?”

“Not officially, no. Although I was once, many years ago. Please, what’s happened?”

“Mr. Jachym, sit down,” said Kincaid. Milo Jachym, who didn’t appear to be a man accustomed to taking orders, sat.

“May we?” Kincaid asked, and at Jachym’s nod, he and Cullen pulled up the nearest chairs. “Rebecca Meredith’s body was found this afternoon, below Hambleden Weir,” he said, knowing it was best to get it over quickly.

Jachym stared at them. “You’re certain?”

“One of the SAR team identified her. But we’ll need an official ID. Do you know who would be her next of kin?”

“Oh, God.” Jachym made a convulsive movement towards his empty coffee cup, but didn’t touch it. “No one’s told Freddie? He’s been frantic.”

“Freddie?” Kincaid asked, although he remembered the name from the initial missing persons report.

“Freddie Atterton. Becca’s ex-husband.”

“He was the one who reported her missing?”

“I—we—he came to me, this morning. He was worried about her, and I realized I hadn’t seen her shell on the rack in the yard. Look—can you tell me what happened?”

Cullen responded. “The SAR team found her Filippi caught on the Buckinghamshire bank, not far below Temple Island. It was overturned, and one oar was missing.”

“But—if she went in the water there, surely she could have swum to shore. Not that she’d have willingly left the boat . . .” Milo Jachym shook his head and scrubbed impatiently at the graying stubble on his chin. “I’ve been in this sport long enough to know that any rower can have an accident. But I never thought Becca—Freddie was right. I should have stopped her.”

“He didn’t want her to go out?”

“No. I was the one who told him she was training and he was furious. He thought it was foolish.”

“And was it?”

“No. At least I didn’t think so. She was a gold-medal contender when I first worked with her, after she finished university. But she was reckless. Age seemed to have tempered her a bit. I told her last night, before she went out, that I thought she had a chance if she was serious.”

“A chance?” Kincaid asked. “A chance at what?”

Jachym looked at him as if he were mentally deficient. “The Olympics, of course. In the women’s single scull.”

Kincaid stared back. Bloody hell, he thought. When Rebecca Meredith had been described as an “elite rower,” he’d assumed she rowed in the occasional local regatta.

But an Olympic contender and a senior officer in the Met?

No wonder the brass had wanted their own man on the scene. The press were going to have a feeding frenzy.

And he was not going to get home anytime soon.