No Mark Upon Her (10 page)

“T
ell your constable to keep him there. I’m on my way,” Kincaid told Singla, then rang off and repeated what he’d been told to Milo Jachym. “Did Becca Meredith remarry?”

“No. It must be Freddie. He—they were still very close. I don’t think Freddie ever really came to terms with the divorce. Look, let me go with you. A friend should break the news.”

Kincaid considered, then shook his head. “No. I want to speak to him first.”

“But someone should see he’s all right—he’s got no family nearby—”

“All right. Give me half an hour with him first, then.” He stood, then turned back to Milo with a warning look. “And please, don’t ring him until I’ve had a chance to talk to him.”

K
incaid drove down Remenham Lane, following the directions Milo had given them to Rebecca Meredith’s cottage. The road ran behind Leander, parallel to the river. Although the way was well marked, Kincaid wasn’t used to handling a car as big and heavy as the Astra. The curves in the lane swooped upon them with startling suddenness, and a few times he slowed a bit more drastically than necessary.

“Still breaking it in?” Cullen asked, releasing his grip on the dashboard.

Kincaid cast him an evil glance, then looked back at the road. “And you would do better?”

Cullen had the grace not to reply. In fact, although he didn’t own a car, he was a good driver, and usually drove when they had a pool car from the Yard. But Kincaid was not ready to give up the wheel of his new acquisition.

After a cluster of cottages near the main road, their headlamps caught hedgerows and fields, and to the left, Kincaid glimpsed the occasional dark void that he knew must be the river. When lights began to appear again, he slowed to a crawl and soon saw cottages hard against the road to the left.

Two cars were pulled onto the right-hand verge, one bearing the distinctive blue and yellow livery of the Thames Valley Police, the other a new-model Audi. On the left, a redbrick, gabled cottage stood close behind a fence.

As Kincaid parked and got out of the car, he saw a constable standing inside the gate, and a man sitting on the porch. A faint light shone through the stained glass in the cottage door, but the porch itself was dark.

Kincaid pulled his warrant card from his pocket and raised it to the beam of the constable’s torch. “Scotland Yard. Detective Superintendent Kincaid and Sergeant Cullen.”

“Sir—”

The man on the porch stood as if suddenly animated and charged towards them, his words tumbling out. “Scotland Yard? What are you doing here? Why won’t anyone tell me anything? Have you found Becca?”

The accent was posh, the attire odd. From what Kincaid could see in the light shining from the cottage, he seemed to be wearing an old anorak, and beneath that, a suit and tie. The knot on the tie was pulled loose, as if he had yanked at it, but the shirt was still buttoned at the collar.

“Mr. Atterton?” Kincaid asked.

The man peered at him. “How’d you know my name? What’s happened? Why can’t I go in my wife’s house? I have a bloody key—” He turned for the door, and when the constable reached for him, he swung at the officer, managing to smack his arm.

“Now, sir, let’s calm down, shall we?” said the constable, in the infuriatingly reasonable tone that was the police constable’s first line of defense.

“No, I won’t calm down. I want—” He turned towards Kincaid, his expression suddenly pleading. “I want to see my wife.”

“Mr. Atterton.” Hearing himself echoing the constable, Kincaid made an effort not to sound so patronizing. Nor was this the place to give bad news. “You say you have a key? Why don’t we go inside and have a chat?”

Atterton looked suddenly unsure. “But—”

The constable, a small young man who looked as if he might have had a time subduing the six-foot-plus Atterton, broke in. “Sir, I’ve been told to keep this scene se—”

Kincaid gave a sharp shake of his head, then glanced at Cullen. “Doug, if you could.”

“Right.” Doug led the officer a few yards away, speaking softly, and Kincaid took Atterton by the elbow.

“Where’s that key, then, Mr. Atterton?” The anorak, an old Barbour that must have lost its wax, felt damp and slick beneath Kincaid’s fingers. “You’ve been out in the rain.”

“This morning, when I was looking for Becca. I got soaked and I just never—I never got dry.” Atterton fumbled a key from his pocket. His fingers felt icy as he handed it to Kincaid.

How long had the man been sitting here, wet and in the cold? Kincaid wondered. He turned the key easily in the lock and stepped into the cottage first. A single lamp burned in the tidy sitting room.

“You were in the cottage earlier today?” he asked Atterton, who had come in behind him. The house was cold and smelled of soap—or perhaps perfume—and coffee. He felt the wall for a switch, and two more lamps sprang into life.

“I came in this morning when Becca hadn’t answered her phone or turned up for work and I thought—” Atterton stopped, swallowing. “I was worried.”

“And when you didn’t find her, you rang the police. Did you come back again?”

“To let the search and rescue people in. The blond woman and her dog went through the house. She had a constable with her. I wanted to go with them when they left, but she said I would only slow them down. So I went back to Leander to wait.

“But no one came, and no one told me anything. And when I came back to the cottage that plod wouldn’t let me in.” Atterton’s derogatory reference to the constable was made casually, with the sort of unthinking snobbery that set Kincaid’s teeth on edge.

“This morning—did you turn on the lamp?” he asked.

Atterton looked surprised. “No. It was on when I came in. I never thought—”

“Would your ex-wife have left a lamp turned on deliberately during the day?”

“Becca? No, I doubt it. She’s very green. Always telling me I’m a drain on the planet. She—” Atterton’s smile faded before it reached his eyes.

In the better light, Kincaid could see that Freddie Atterton was a handsome man, fair-skinned, with thick brown hair worn long enough to sweep back from his brow and over the tops of his ears. Now, however, his blue eyes were shadowed, his face creased with worry and fatigue.

“Let’s get you out of that anorak,” Kincaid said. When he took the jacket from Atterton, he could see that the suit beneath it was also damp. It looked like a very expensive cut and fabric, and it smelled faintly of wet sheep. “Why don’t we sit down?”

But Atterton didn’t sit. Instead, he said, “You don’t look like a policeman, much less Scotland Yard.”

“I was on holiday with my family. Mr. Atterton—”

“Who called you? Was it Peter Gaskill?”

“I don’t know Peter Gaskill.”

“He’s Becca’s boss. Superintendent Gaskill. Why didn’t he come himself? Unless—” Atterton stared at him, his blue eyes going darker. “You’re homicide, aren’t you? That’s why they sent you. She’s dead.” He nodded once, as if affirming something he had already known. “Becca’s dead.”

Then he swayed, and when Kincaid guided him to a chair, he sat heavily, gracelessly.

“I’m sorry.” Kincaid pulled over an ottoman and sat as near Atterton as he could. He thought he might have to catch him. Quietly he went on. “The search team found her body this afternoon, below the weir.”

“Becca. But how— Was she— The shell— Becca couldn’t have—” Atterton stopped, shivering. His teeth began to chatter, but he made no move to warm himself.

Satisfied that Atterton wasn’t in immediate danger of fainting, Kincaid moved to the brown leather sofa that matched the armchair. The furniture was a bit worn and reminded him of his parents’ old Chesterfield.

It was a masculine room, he thought, glancing round. Unadorned, a study in whites and browns. The only splash of color came from the spines of the books in the simple bookcases and a few framed photographs. “The boat was snagged just below Temple Island,” he said. “We don’t yet know what caused Rebecca’s death.” He heard the click of the door as Cullen came in. “Doug,” he called, “do you think you could rustle up something hot to drink?”

As Cullen disappeared into the kitchen, Freddie Atterton looked up at Kincaid. “You’re sure? You’re sure it was Becca? There could be some mistake—”

“One of the searchers is a rower. He recognized her. But we will need you to make a formal identification, when you feel up to it. Unless there’s someone else—”

“No, no. Becca’s parents are divorced and she isn’t—she wasn’t—close to either. Her mother’s in South Africa and Becca hadn’t had contact with her dad for years. Oh, God, I’ll have to tell her mum.”

Cullen came back from the kitchen bearing a glass and a bottle of whisky. “I’ve put the kettle on, but in the meantime . . .” As he uncorked the bottle and poured a neat finger for Atterton, Kincaid saw that it was fifteen-year-old Balvenie. Rebecca Meredith had had good taste in scotch, it seemed, but the bottle had hardly been touched.

Atterton bumped the glass against his teeth as he took a swallow. “It’s my scotch,” he said, and started to laugh. “Becca hated scotch. She kept it for me. How appropriate. She’d have thought this was too bloody funny for words.”

Then his face contorted and he gave a gulp of a sob. The glass slipped from his fingers, bouncing soundlessly on the carpet, and the smell of whisky rose in the air like a wave of sorrow.

“B
astard,” said Tavie.

The German shepherd cocked her head and raised a dark inquiring eyebrow.

“Not you, Tosh.” Tavie stopped pacing the confines of her small sitting room and looked down at her dog, smiling in spite of herself. She knelt and rubbed Tosh’s head. “And not your doggie buddy either. He was a good boy.”

Encouraged by her tone, Tosh got up from her spot before the fire and ran to her toy basket. Pushing her nose into the jumble of toys, she came up with a squeaky tennis ball and pranced back to Tavie with the ball in her mouth, looking inordinately pleased with herself.

“Okay, just the once,” said Tavie, making an effort to sound firm. She tossed the ball into the kitchen and Tosh scrambled after it. Shrill squeaks signaled a successful retrieval. But the dog seemed to sense her mistress’s mood because when she returned with the ball, she went back to her place by the fire, squeaking her treasure but not begging for another throw.

But the play session reminded Tavie that she’d had to reward Finn that afternoon, after they’d made the find, taking his ball from Kieran’s pocket and giving the Lab a good romp and much praise. The first and foremost rule of search and rescue was that the handler must reward the dog after a find, and show just as much enthusiasm for a deceased find as a live one. The dogs must feel they had done their jobs well, no matter the outcome.

But Kieran . . . Kieran had stood, white and speechless, as she radioed Control.

Kieran had not looked after his own dog.

And Kieran had lied. Kieran had known the victim, and he hadn’t admitted it to her.

“Bastard,” she said again, but she knew it was just as much her fault as his. She’d thought he was ready for anything a search might bring. She’d thought, in her self-satisfied righteousness, that by training Kieran and bringing him into the team she’d given him purpose, and a cure-all for whatever demons drove him. Worst of all, she’d thought she knew him. And that she could trust him.

But she could see now that he’d lied to her from the call-out, or at least from the briefing at Leander when he’d learned the victim’s name.

Making another circuit round the room, she glanced at the reports stacked and carefully restacked on her small dining table. She’d debriefed the team and written up the log. There was nothing more she could do tonight, and she was on early rota at work tomorrow. She should heat up the single portion of vegetable curry she’d bought from Cook, the shop near the police station, and have an early night.

She had every reason to stay in. It was turning cold, and the sitting room in her higgledy-piggledy house near the fire station was as welcoming as she could make it. She’d bought the little two-up, two-down terraced house after the divorce. It might have been a comedown from the suburban life she’d led with Beatty, but it was what she’d been able to afford, and it had given her a fresh start. Then, when she’d been assigned to the fast-response car out of Henley Fire Station, which meant she only had to walk across the street to work, she’d begun to think that the house was a charm, and that the rest of her life would fall just as neatly into place.

Looking round the cozy room, with its hand-painted furniture and crewel-worked rugs, the windows curtained in cheery red and white, the mantel and picture rail adorned with carefully placed treasures, she thought of the woman whose house she had searched that day. A woman who, like her, had dealt with trauma on a daily basis. But Rebecca Meredith seemed to have felt no need to insulate herself from the stress of her job by making her home a place of solace.

Rebecca Meredith must have found that solace—if she had found it at all—on the river. Or through something else, Tavie thought. Not food, not alcohol, if she’d been a serious rower. Sex, then?

But that thought made Tavie’s face feel hot. The one thing she’d left out of her report was the dogs’ response to the panties she’d chosen as a scent article. And Kieran hadn’t given her a chance to talk to him about it.

It had been fully dark by the time they’d returned to their cars after looking at Rebecca Meredith’s boat. While Tavie had been speaking to the Scotland Yard detective, Kieran had cadged a ride with Scott and disappeared, leaving Tavie to ask Sarah for a lift back to her own car below Remenham. When she got there, Kieran’s old Land Rover had been gone, and he hadn’t appeared for the team debriefing in the Leander Club car park.

Although Tavie hadn’t wanted to field questions from curious club members or from the ex-husband, if he was still around, she’d drawn the meeting out, hoping that Kieran might turn up. While the other team members laughed and chatted, stowed gear, and played with the dogs, she’d waited, until at last she stood alone in the car park, feeling idiotic.

She’d rung him then, and again when she got home. After the third try, she stopped leaving messages.